#have seen some TRULY uncomfortable images today. but its fine.

[tillman]

I think I like legally need to post this. Here is testaments height.

And here is johnnys.

Ok? Are we all caught up?

[yandere-sins]

Good evening or morning (wherever you are).... My request for today is Kaeya from genshin impact. What if he were to confess his love to a timid reader but *gasps* she reveals she has a boyfriend already. Smut is fine if you want.

Thank you so much 🦋

Thank you for requesting!! ♥ Part 2 of my trying to get back into smut OTL

Rated Lemon/Explicit!

»»———————— ♡ ————————««   

Even after everything that happened, you weren't able to forget the look on Kaeya's face as you broke the news.

True, you and your boyfriend had wanted to keep your relationship on the low, but not because you tried to deceive your friends, just so you two could have some peace while finding out more about each other and developing your feelings. But you never meant for anyone to look at you so... disappointed. Even if you were happy with your choice of partner, having to reject someone dear to you still hurt.

"Oh, [Name]," Kaeya sighed, shaking his head. Of course, he wouldn't be happy to hear the person he just asked out confess that they had a boyfriend. Perhaps especially because you two had always been relatively close, even more so lately where you were out almost every day after work. You felt a tinge of regret not telling him earlier. Save him the embarrassment you assumed he must feel. Then again, how could you have known that the charismatic Kaeya had feelings for you? He could have any woman in town, so why had it to be you? Of all people, you wouldn't have expected Kaeya to confess his love to you. Even if you two always got along fine, you thought yourself to look rather gray next to the shining knight that Kaeya was. Someone who wasn't fit to be anything more than friends with him.

"W-We can still continue being friends?" was the best and stupidest comfort you could come up with on the spot. You saw his grimace of disapproval, and it took him a second to collect himself, taking a deep breath before pushing himself away from the wall he had leaned on after learning the truth. Kaeya truly appeared devastated by the realization that you were taken already, and part of you could understand him. Certainly, you had just ruined his night and whatever companionship you two had, just because you couldn't have been more open from the beginning. It would have at least saved him some heartache, if any.

"Friends?" Kaeya mumbled, unfolding his crossed arms as he walked back to your side, leaning on the backrest of your chair. Feeling uncomfortably cornered, you stood up, looking around you. The outside of the tavern was lonely, and Kaeya had chosen this place for his confession surely to avoid any curious listeners. There were still voices coming from inside Angel's Share, but the streets of Mondstadt were quiet at this time of the night, with only his smooth voice reaching out to you. "With all due respect..."

Wrapping his fingers around your chin, you were forced to look up, staring right back into the mocking expression of your 'friend', the mood suddenly shifting. You had regretted having to reject Kaeya's feelings before, Kaeya always having been a good friend to you and hurting him felt wrong. But you would come to regret it much more that you went outside with him, away from the safety of the masses.

"I'd rather be anything else than your 'friend'."

»»————————

"Come on, Dove! Say it! I'm better than him, aren't I?"

"N-No--"

Your attempt to refuse this assumption was meekly interrupted by your loud gasps as Kaeya pushed forward. The curve on his cock was so perfectly aligned inside of you, constantly hitting the good spots whenever he plowed it inside. A cocky grin was on his face as he showed you off in the reflection of the mirror before you, spread over his legs and hanging in his grip on you. It was the biggest taunt he could think of, constantly reminding you how good you were feeling despite your initial refusal of him.

The image inside of the mirror wasn't one you had ever seen of yourself. That sweaty, drooling mess of a human, eyes unfocused and yet filled with pleasure, was nothing you could relate to. And yet, except for the occasional blue strands of hair falling over your skin and peeking out from behind your shoulder, your brain recognized the sight as you. Still, it was hard to accept this side of yourself, especially with his marks and hands. All. Over. It.

Kaeya only laughed as you tried to refute him, smirking a cocky grin from behind you. "Oh? Did Mr. Boyfriend not touch you yet? Even though you're such a little slut?"

His hand falling between your legs, Kaeya first brushed up your thighs, causing you to squirm from the sensation. His hands were trained and roughed up from handling swords, but the way he used them showed how skilled he was. Settling at your clit, he slowed down the rocking of his hips for a moment to get his fingers wet with your juices before picking up the pace again. There was no way you could deny how you were feeling after riding him for the better portion of time ever since he brought you to this city apartment of his, your body shivering and moving on its own with his hand teasing your clit, the additional pleasure riling you up.

"Look at your cunt gaping open for me~" he purred, opening your lower lips wide for the mirror to reflect your exposed entrance. Seeing how his shaft disappeared inside you clearly, you only felt hotter from embarrassment, turning your head which was quickly caught by his free hand, Kaeya turning it forward again - painfully so. His grip wasn't even close to how he had touched you before when you two had still been 'only' drinking buddies. You weren't sure how long he had feelings for you, but you wagered that these feelings must have changed much in the last hour, just like his touch. It once had been so gentle, kind. But now, it was rough and demanding, leaving no room for how you felt.

"Let go!" you said firmly, tearing yourself from his grip to avoid looking at this strange self in the reflection. You felt ashamed and embarrassed. Kaeya made a fool out of you, now that he had you in this peculiar situation. It's not like you wanted to cheat on your boyfriend and betray him in any kind. But your body reacted positively to it, making Kaeya chuckle as you tightened around him after seeing yourself, "You are enjoying it a lot, aren't you?"

It brought tears to your eyes, knowing it was Kaeya deeply lodged inside of you, but your sobs were just another incentive for him to continue. You couldn't even blame him for that - they did sound a lot like sounds of pleasure that overtook their place. Soon you were back to gasping and moaning, glad you at least weren't begging him for more with how shameful you behaved.

"You can still leave him," Kaeya suggested. Though a smile still played around his lips before he hid them behind your shoulder, kissing it tenderly, he sounded very serious. "Leave him and stay with me. No one needs to know what kind of slut you are, going behind his back."

"But I didn't!" you sobbed. "You forced me too-- You forced yourself on me!"

Without hearing the sigh falling off Kaeya's lips, you found yourself breathing in sharply as he made a sudden push, burying his cock even deeper inside of you, the base of it touching your body. The gasp was followed by a long moan, tears streaming down your face after he exploited your sensitivity so much. It was a regrettable, disgusting moan signaling how much you enjoyed him hitting these sweet spots of yours.

Your gaze fell back to the mirror, showing the pleasure-stricken expression on your face. Even though you knew you shouldn't feel this way, Kaeya simply seemed to know all the right things to do, and he used all of them. It was bitter, but he did make you feel... erotic. Made you feel like something you never saw yourself as. Something your boyfriend couldn't make you feel.

With him, it was sugary-sweet puppy love, but with Kaeya, there was so much more. Desire, carnal at that. Love, demands, obsession. No matter how either of you moved your body, it was exciting, making your heart race. Every glance at yourself in the mirror made your body tingle, and every one of his pushes sent waves of excitement up your spine. You wished to have experienced these things with the person you truly loved instead of the hawk watching you from behind.

"I know," he mumbled, his hands driving up from your pussy to your chest, giving your breasts an equal squeeze. Taking in a sharp breath, you held back, instead having Kaeya be the one to groan lowly into your shoulder as you tightened around him. "I'll take so much better care of you than that boy. I can make you your true self, don't you think? You're wasted on everyone but me."

"Just finish it," you breathed heavily, and Kaeya sighed.

"As you wish."

Picking you up by the legs, Kaeya hoisted you up into the air, taking a few steps forward to stand right in front of the mirror. It was a breathtaking sensation to feel his cock carving you out from the dynamic motions, your walls gladly welcoming every inch before confining his member inside. You really could do without a closer look at how his cock slid in and out of you, sloppy sounds and tingling sensations running through you, but it almost made you wonder if you'd be able to experience the same sensations that Kaeya put you through, ever again once this was over.

"Hope you're ready for what you wished for," he reminded you, and you instantly began to realize alarming innuendos in his choice of words and the teasing tone of his voice, struggling in his hold.

"N-Not inside!" you yelled at him, slinging one arm over his head to be the one to tightly grip his face this time. "You can't cum inside!"

"Oh, really?" he taunted you. You squeezing his cheeks together didn't change the fact that he could grin like a Cheshire cat out of fairytales. "Give me one good reason not to."

"I can't bear your baby! I just can't!"

Grinning even wider, Kaeya let you drop a few inches to kiss your nose. "You'll need to do better than that."

Biting your lip, you thought about what he could want to hear from you, eventually realizing the level you'd have to stoop to. A baby would ruin everything, especially if it was Kaeya's baby. Even if things wouldn't turn out the worst way possible, it would still be a lifelong reminder of this ordeal he put you through. Your pride was worth nothing in exchange for the future you always wanted to have.

"P-Please..." you mumbled, the quick pace with which he was ramming into you making it hard to speak. At the same time, it urged you to hurry, as it wouldn't be long now before he'd fulfill the deed inside of you.

"I can't hear you~"

"Please don't cum inside me!"

Halting abruptly, Kaeya looked at the mirror image of you two, thinking for a split second before he resumed the pounding--this time, determined to finish. It was almost like you were hit by thunder, every movement releasing more shocks through you. You were a panting mess, but Kaeya wasn't far from it either. His eye would close halfway as he sunk into pleasure with you, both of you falling deeper and deeper into this hole.

Until it was finally over, your body curving and stretching, Kaeya's grip tightening to hold you throughout your orgasm, fingers digging into your supple thighs. Closing your eyes, you felt like flying, carried by a cloud, away from all the bad things and surrounded by the comforts and excitement that only intimacy could cause. You were almost lost in the orgasm before a part of you recalled the danger that was Kaeya, but much to your relief, when you opened your eyes again, he pushed in deep for the last time before suddenly lifting your up and off his cock.

Spurts of white semen shot through the air, landing on your reflection's stomach almost exactly where it would have landed inside of you. Both of you huffing, exhausted and spent, you watched as it dripped off the slick surface, leaving its stains there rather than inside of you.

Kaeya finally dropped you down, your legs unsteady, but his hold never ceased and kept you up. "Thank you..." you muttered, finding it hard to believe that after all he did, you were still thanking him for not cumming inside. Finding yourself in his arms rather than the ground, you refused the kiss he wanted to plant on your lips, instead turning your cheek, but Kaeya didn't seem to mind.

"I think you owe me something," he whispered into your ear before you felt his teeth bit into your lobe, making you flinch. "I did pull out like you asked me to."

"I owe you nothing, you... you bastard! You fiend! You...!" Your feelings took the upper hand as you heard what he demanded from you now. It was hard not to raise your voice when he dared to tell you about what you owed him after taking you against your will.

Laughing out loud, Kaeya quickly composed himself again, pretending to be hurt. "Ouch. I didn't know you knew these kinds of words."

A sudden rough pull in your hair yanked your head back, your body arching under the force and pressing against his while Kaeya towered over you, never letting his gaze stray from you. "Call me what you want. I don't care what you think, I'm not your friend, remember? I am anything but your stupid, little friend."

This time he took your mouth as he pleased, ramming his lips into yours and slipping his tongue down your throat. When he finally spoke again, his words were nothing but threatening to you, an anxious knot building in your stomach.

"That's why you'll break up with that asshole, you understand?"

"Why would I! Just leave me alone! You had what you wanted!"

"You still don't understand it," Kaeya sighed, releasing your hair briefly before tangling it around his fingers again, pulling you back even further and making you fear your spine would snap. "You are what I want! You belong to me! I was nice this time, but I will change if I must. Break up with him and make it easy for both of you. And then you'll come back to warm my bed, understand?"

Gulping, you put on a brave face, trying to face his stare head-on. This was getting out of control; you couldn't let him win with all his endeavors! No matter how you thought about Kaeya before, this wasn't the man you had come to like and appreciate in the past. He was something, but you could only hope it was still a human.

"And what if I don't?" you asked, using all the courage left inside of you.

"Oh darling, believe me," he laughed, unexpectedly pulling away all of his hands, your body unable to keep itself up and plummeting to the floor. Instant waves of shock and pain hit you, but when he stepped between your legs, you couldn't help but look up to him. How could you have been so wrong about a person you spent so much time with? Who was this man claiming to love you?

"You will do as I say, or everyone will know what kind of slut you really are. Especially your fine boyfriend. Who do you think the people will believe - their charming cavalry captain or some random chick that was seen laughing and hanging around him a lot?"

You opened your mouth to protest, wanting to prove him wrong, wanting to tell him Mondstadt cared about you as much as they did about him. But... was this wrong to assume? Would they really believe your word against his? With a reputation like Kaeya had, would you stand a chance to win against him? You couldn't imagine living a different life than you had so far, so would you be able to deal with the branding of a cheater? Realizing these questions, you closed your mouth again, scrambling to get up and collect your clothes from the ground. You were ready to storm out of the room, just go home and forget about everything that happened but reaching for the doorknob, Kaeya approached you from behind, holding the door shut with his hand.

"Don't hate me too much, okay? I really, really love you, [Name]."

He sounded anxious as he whispered these words against your head, leaving a trail of kisses. How could you believe this? How could you believe any of what he was saying? Just now, he had forced you into a level of intimacy you hadn't been ready for, threatened you, and made demands. And now he came to you, showing these rare moments of vulnerability and insecurity that made you special before all of this went down. What could you still believe about Kaeya?

"This isn't love," you mumbled, twisting and turning the knob to leave, deciding you couldn't listen to his voice anymore.

"You'll come to understand that this is love," Kaeya chuckled. You could hear the bittersweet smile on his lips as he planted one more kiss on top of your shoulder before he pushed himself away, letting you escape into the night.

Only when the cold, fresh air engulfed your heated body could you finally collect your thoughts. Your body ached, and yet, it tingled with every step, remembering you of the pleasure you had experienced through him. Disgusted and appalled by yourself, you made your way back home, crying the whole time, wondering what went wrong.

It was all Kaeya's fault, right? He went mad and did these unspeakable things to you. He was jealous because you had a boyfriend already and rejected him. None of this was your fault... right? But at the same time, would he make these threats come true? Was there really no other way than to break up with your boyfriend? Could you do nothing but obey his demands if you wanted to keep living your life? Was the love he had for you really love?

These questions kept you up all night.

All while Kaeya sipped on his drink, satisfied with himself, studying the image of you he had in his mind and the cum stains on his mirror. Stains he only planned to add to but never get rid of.

Just like you'd never get rid of him.

[mieohmy]

𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖨 𝖲𝖺𝗐 𝖸𝗈𝗎 | 𝖧𝗎𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝖱𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗎𝗇

PAIRING: huang renjun x temp blind! reader

GENRE: angst (with a happy ending), fluff, humor, strangers-to-lovers, shared dreams! au, soulmate! au, college au

WC: 7.6k

NOTES: reader is temporarily blind, cursing, mentions of a car accident, trauma, slight anxiety and depression, mentions of injuries/hospitals

SUMMARY: dreams are your place where you feel alive -feel like yourself. the only place you can still see. which means you don’t want to share them. not with this random guy who keeps appearing in them, and especially not since he seems so real -almost like he actually exists in the real world outside of your dreams, but that couldn’t be possible... right?

oof this is late- anyways, it’s this beautiful soul’s birthday today <3 

hbd to our fairy renjunnie ! 

Three months. Three months stuck in that space.  

And all because of a reckless driver. Like they all say, it happened so fast. A single glance of the road. It seemed clear, the pedestrian sign flashing even. 

Then was the rush of a car engine coming closer. 

You suppose it was also your fault. Whoever it was that caused a notification to ping on your phone. It was an almost natural instinct to take it out and check.

But you were never able to find out. 

One of the scariest things in the world is to wake up and wonder why the world is an empty canvas. 

Why you have so many questions that can’t be answered.  

Why you can’t see the spring anymore.

The doctors said it was temporary. Some kind of head trauma from the accident caused whatever nerves to swell in your eyes. 

And that’s why you could no longer see the day. or night. anything. 

“It’ll eventually return to normal, and you’ll be able to see again. Just give it time.”

So why has it been three months and nothing except dark moving shadows and pain?

“I’m sorry, we’re not sure how long it’s gonna last. Let’s just wait and see.”

But how much time did you have to give? 

You were sent home in the end. The other injuries were much more minor, and you were just prolonging your stay. 

Only because you wanted to know. You wanted to know it would all go away. That it would be okay.

You just so desperately wanted to see once more.

They only gave you ambiguous answers. Answers that only made the scratchy and uncomfortable sensation inside you grow bigger. 

And here you were now. Four months after the incident and barely living on your own. Sight not improving in the slightest bit.

You lived separately from your parents, far away because of college. They helped you with all the hospital and stupid complicated health stuff, but there wasn’t much else they could do. There was no choice for them but to work hard and earn money instead of assisting you since bills were shit expensive.

You assured them it was fine, you would learn how to deal with everything. 

Friends were a different issue. The thing was, you didn’t have very many considering you just moved to a new school, but the few you did were kind and understanding. 

Except you never told them about the incident. Maybe because you were in denial. Maybe cause you were ashamed of yourself for ignoring them and cutting them out of your life. Because they got to see and experience everything they wanted while you were stuck behind.

And then you were truly alone. Alone with the faint light and shadows you were still sort of able to see. 

Siri basically became your best friend. You never realized how helpful it could be. Just ask, and it would tell you everything you needed to know.

To be honest, there wasn’t much to do. You weren’t able to attend your classes for the time being, and there wasn’t much you could to do without seeing. 

It was hard to adjust to life without your sight. There were a lot of things you couldn’t do without your sight. A lot of things were knocked over. A lot of bruises on your body from bumping into obstacles. That’s probably why you barely went out, only ever leaving your place for necessary resources to live.

This is not permanent. It’ll all go away soon.

You constantly told yourself that, repeating it in the morning. At night before you went to bed. But deep inside, you knew the real reason for everything. The denial, stubbornness.

The answer was clear. 

Fear. 

The fear of a permanent life without being able to fully experience the world. 

The fear of what your life would become without having the chance to achieve all your dreams and goals. 

You knew you should be grateful. For being able to see from birth until now.  You survived your accident with mostly minor injuries. Occasionally, you would get intense migraines- one where you could barely move- but you truly didn’t want to go back to that place to get it checked. You didn’t even want to leave your home.

At least you could still move and function properly for the most part. 

But it didn’t mean it still didn’t hurt. 

There was one thing. When your eyes closed for the day- when everything was okay. 

Because there was no need to feel any emotions asleep. 

But also because of the dreams. Mainly because of the dreams.

It wasn’t every day. You would absolutely love to dream every night, but if you did, then something must not be right. 

The power to dream and be able to recall everything in the world before you lost it all would be your one wish if anyone asked. 

Sure, you could just close your eyes and remember whatever you wanted, but it wasn’t the same. 

Dreams were like a story. A story you wanted to read. And you could only do it because of your memories. 

Thank the universe for memories. Ones that allowed you to still remember and see again in dreams. 

They were the one thing connecting you to the real world. 

The weird thing is, sometimes you would dream and be able to choose what you wanted to say and do. It was just like playing a fun game where you could do whatever you wished.

But it didn’t always happen. it only occurred on occasion. Why? You had no clue. 

But even so, you’ve never had a stranger appear in one of your dreams before.

ꔫ

You couldn’t recall everything that happened in last night’s dream, but when you woke up, a strange face was the only image stuck in your brain. 

You’re sure you’ve never seen him before. 

Can brains make up random faces? Or maybe you just made up a fictional character because of loneliness? 

Either way, he’s the only thing you can clearly remember.

Your eyes flick open, and it’s the same nothingness.

But his face lingers. Pretty and delicate eyes. Brown hair that flutters in the wind and a gentle smile that sucks you in. 

Who are you? 

Whoever this person was, you hope to dream about him again. 

ꔫ

And he does show up a few weeks later. Or has it been a month? You were really losing track of the days, especially now more than ever.

This time, the image of him is stronger in your head, burning into your skull. 

And you curse yourself for not remembering any more than his face. 

You rack your brain, trying your best to just think. 

Why do some people forget their dreams immediately when they wake up? When it feels like you’re just in one, but your mind starts up again for the day, and the dream vanishes just like that?  

You so desperately want to know. 

You can faintly remember images of a grassy meadow? Flowers? You don't recall any field that you’ve been to, but maybe it’s just somewhere you’ve forgotten about... Perhaps your mind just made your dream to be located there. 

As you get up for the day, you still wish to dream about him. A dream where you can fully control yourself and find this imaginary character you created in your head. Whoever he is.

ꔫ

And the world grants you that one wish. 

It’s been a while since you last dreamed. But of course, you never forgot him. 

The setting sun is the first thing that catches your attention. 

Immediately, you smile, standing up and brushing yourself off. 

The place is faintly familiar, a beach. You know which one. The one your parents used to take you when you were little. 

It looks exactly the same as you remember, but this was the first time you’ve ever dreamed about this specific place before. 

Then sounds of footsteps approaching make you look up.

It’s him.

The fictional character somehow procured from basically nowhere. 

What’s strange is that you didn’t even notice how the two of you were now sitting by the shore, watching the waves flow in and out. 

What’s even stranger is that you don’t question it, and neither does he. 

But you do take the chance to look at him, admiring his face.

“What’s your name?”

He looks startled like he never expected you to speak.

“Oh. Uh, R-Renjun.”

“Renjun,” you pronounce. The name feels unfamiliar on your tongue. 

Now how did your mind come up with a unique name like that?

You shrug, letting the dream continue on its own. 

But wait, you realize, if you were able to ask and think your own thoughts not according to the dream’s... that means you can control this-

Your eyes snap open. You can see nothing. And feel an oncoming headache.

Damn it.

ꔫ

You want to know why you’re so curious about this ‘character’. Why you want to see him over and over again without ever getting bored.

It’s just a dream. Or, several dreams that he’s appeared in by now. 

That could be it, you suppose.

You usually didn’t have about the same person, or in your case, the same ‘character’ appear in your dream three times in a row. 

But for some reason, you appreciated having your own imaginary friend in your dreams. 

 He wasn’t a real person. He wasn’t someone you had to watch out for. You could act however you wanted to him and he probably wouldn’t care. 

Wait-no, you correct yourself. He has a name. A name that seems so far but so close at the same time. 

Renjun. 

You go to sleep chanting his name in your head over and over again. 

ꔫ

“Wait... Renjun!” 

A satisfied grin appears on your face from having remembered his name. 

You stroll along the forest path, an unfamiliar one that you don’t particularly remember ever going to, but you shrug it off and continue towards him.

It’s been a while since you’ve last seen him, not having dreamed for a while. 

His eyes widen, taking you in. “Whoa. You’re here again?” 

You frown. “Um... yes? It’s nice to see you.”

Renjun nods hesitantly. “You too, uh....”

“Y/n!” you beam. You’re not sure why you’re so happy to see him, but any company is still company, so no complaining.

Since you figured you were able to control yourself in this dream, might as well take the opportunity. 

If your brain was able to give him a name and a *cough* pretty *cough* face, he must have a personality. And what better than to get to know ‘renjun’ while you still had dreams about him?

“Do you want to walk together?”

He shrugs. 

And since it’s your dream, right? you start on the path, knowing he’s gonna follow you anyways.

You reach an opening overlooking some city. It’s unfamiliar, but the sight is too pretty you don’t think much of it.

You can’t take your eyes away, the view one you’ve never seen before. One that wasn’t from your memories, and it almost blinds you. Especially since you haven’t been able to experience anything new in a while because of... everything at the moment. 

“It’s beautiful,” you breathe.

“It is,” Renjun agrees. 

Why is it so natural for you to sit next to him, get along with him?

“I haven’t been able to go out like this for a while, so it’s a lot to take in at once.”

He glances at you.

“Really? Why?”

Suddenly the air feels tightening. 

“Um. Health stuff. I guess.”

Renjun nods. “That’s understandable. But going out might be good for you. It’s nice to get a little fresh air every once in a while.”

His words hit differently. It rings inside of you, making you sit up. 

“You’re right, Renjun. I should go out more.” Your voice is quiet but smooth. 

Suddenly, he laughs. It’s a beautiful sound flowing out in a beautiful place. 

“I say that, but honestly, I’m also holed up inside all day. I need to go out more too.”

You don’t get what he means by that- why does it matter to a non-existent person how often they go outside?- but the feeling of just being here is incredible. You can’t waste your time in this dream pondering on pointless thoughts. 

“You should take advantage of it. You never know what could happen one day. Never take things for granted.” You finish, voice suddenly serious.

He looks surprised. “Oh. I suppose you’re right. Thanks, y/n.” 

Instead of responding, you sit back on the ground, looking at the dream -but still beautiful- sky.

Your hand pats around for a second before landing on its target. Your fingers wrap around renjun's, pulling him back so he plops down next to you with a grunt. 

“Geez, could’ve given a warning.”

“There’s no need for warnings here,” you sigh. 

Sure, the clouds aren’t real, but you’ll take any chance to see something you can’t in reality anymore. 

“Y/n,” he starts.

And when you turn to look at him, his face is a lot closer than you thought.

There’s a pause. 

The last things you remember are his long fluttering eyelashes and alluring brown eyes- ones that look so realistic and strangely familiar? 

That morning, you wake up with the scent of the woods still lingering in the air and a little more ease in your heart.

ꔫ

Over the next couple of months, Renjun keeps appearing. And you’re completely fine, even delighted with that. 

Now you’re always excited to go to bed, hoping each night that you’ll dream about him. 

Even as the days get hotter and your a/c is definitely getting overused, you find yourself thinking about him and imagining if he was next to you. 

You had to keep reminding yourself that Renjun wasn’t real. No matter how much you wished he was. 

But you still considered Renjun your friend. Technically, your only friend.

And each time you met in your dreams, you felt happier and more content. You felt alive next to him, your heart that always beat faster around him only confirming it. 

Sometimes you’d spot Renjun in a place from your memories, and sometimes he would appear in a completely unfamiliar area to you. 

You didn’t care enough to think twice. A new place with new sights was a highlight to your encounters. 

And today, it was no different. A colorful park. You know you’ve never been here before, but it feels like you’ve seen it somewhere..... perhaps somewhere online? 

Ever since the second time you met him, you noticed a theme with the unknown places you sometimes ended up in. 

Mostly in nature, surrounded by fresh air and plentiful green. You were confused, but I mean, who cares? They were beautiful, peaceful. Places that made you forget everything. 

You find Renjun sitting down at a nearby bench, messing with his hands.

“Hi.”

He looks up, attempting to smile, but it falls short. “Hello, y/n.”

That’s interesting. Renjun always seemed happy to see you. At this point, you can tell when he’s acting strange or not.

You decide to play along. “What’s up?”

“Oh. It’s nothing. Just really stressed about upcoming school stuff.” You cock an eyebrow, amused. This isn’t the first time you’ve felt weird when he says something like that.

“You know, for being an imaginary character, you sure act like a real person.”

“What did you just say?” Renjun stands up.

You follow, getting up and looking at him, confused. “What?”

“What the hell do you mean by imaginary?”

“Imaginary? You don’t exist -like you’re not real?”

“No way.”

Your eyebrows raise. Why was he getting so defensive over this?

“I’m not an imaginary character- you are.”

A scoff escapes your lips. What the fuck?

“Stop talking nonsense.” Even though you’re trying to stand your ground, you can’t help but reevaluate everything. You look at him, panicked but still staring straight into his eyes as if to say, stop the joking right now.

Renjun only stares at you, fighting back with a headstrong expression. “I’m not. So you should stop too.”

You place your hand on his arm, inhaling.

Renjun tries to pull away, bewildered, but you keep your grip.

His arm feels warm, veins partially showing through. Almost like a real.....no way. But there’s even a faint scar on his wrist. Your brain couldn’t possibly be so meticulous as to add such details to a fictional person.

Your eyes flick to Renjun, studying him, memorizing everything you can about him.

Your breathing is heavy as you step closer to him, almost in a daze. “If you’re not just an imaginary person I created in my dreams,” you whisper, watching as he swallows and his adam’s apple bobs up and down-

“Then who are you?”

But before he can say anything, the world fades to black. 

You wake up with an immense urge to scream in frustration but also hide away to just think everything over.

You lay in bed for what feels like hours. Contemplating. Panicking. 

This was a joke, wasn’t it? 

He’s lying. 

Just a dream? 

But this time, you can’t say that it was “just a dream..”

Your hand punches the bed in defeat.  

You don’t understand. How are you able to see another living and breathing human in your dreams? 

All the things and places you were able to dream about were because of your memories. But Renjun... Renjun was a complete stranger. 

So how are you able to see him perfectly fine?

You think back to all the previous times you met him. 

If he truly was real, then he must’ve been dreaming too? Since he believed you weren’t real either? 

And all the unrecognizable places you saw -they must exist in real life? 

That means.... you and Renjun must be sharing dreams.

There were a lot of questions. All that were making your brain pound. 

More importantly, how the fuck are you even able to share dreams with another person? 

ꔫ

You spend every night praying that you’ll fall asleep and see Renjun again. 

Renjun? Is that even his real name?

Oh my god, you don’t know anything about him. 

But for some reason, it isn’t hard for you to wrap your head around the fact that he exists. 

His reaction seemed so real -he couldn’t possibly be faking right? 

You smack your head on the pillow. Many times. Repeating, “Go to sleep. Dream. Go to sleep,” over and over again. 

Until eventually, you do. 

And when you find yourself at your old middle school- gross- you immediately start. 

Getting up, you navigate throughout the old place. Everywhere’s blurry and hazy though, you suppose it’s because you haven’t been here in a while and forgot.  

Where is he? You know he has to be here somewhere. 

You spot his familiar silhouette. Target acquired. 

He must’ve felt your presence too, since he turns around to face you. 

You’re about to say his name, but then you remember the whole ‘he’s actually a real person thing’ and then you can only splutter out an accusing “you!” with an accompanying point of a finger. 

“Me?” His eyes widen. “No-you’re not supposed to be a real person. So who are you?”

“I’m y/n.” You repeat yourself again with more force. 

“This is my dream, and you’re in it. Look,” you gesture around. “This is my old school. If I wasn’t real, could we be here at a place like this?”

Renjun falters, and you exhale. “I’m not joking. I swear. My name is y/l/n y/n.”

He holds his hands out. “B-but how? How can you-?”

You shake your head wearily. “I don’t know. I don’t even know you!” 

He sighs in defeat. “My name is Renjun. Huang Renjun. And I promise I’m not joking either. I truly thought you were just a figment of my imagination.” 

You nod, fidgeting before holding out a hand. “Well then, I believe you. Nice to meet you,” you look into his glittering eyes, “Huang Renjun.” 

When his hand touches yours, you feel a rush of emotions. 

You think he does too, judging by his tightening grip on yours. 

He quickly takes his hand away, making you frown. “And just to prove it, you know the forest we were at once?”

You nod, recalling the pretty leaves. You haven’t seen leaves in a while.....

“It’s near my city in the real world. And that mountain too.”

Then it hits you. You glance up at Renjun, surprised. 

“No way. I know where you’re talking about. You live like, a couple of hours away from me.” 

“Wait, really? Where do you-“

You sit up, feeling the familiar sensation of a blanket around your legs. 

And then let out a loud screech of frustration - while also internally apologizing to your neighbors.

ꔫ

When you meet Renjun in the next dream, you pick off where you left off, and move into telling each other about your actual lives.

“You study plants? That explains why we’re always near grass in your dreams.”

“Hey!”

“I’m joking. It’s really nice. I like it more than you may think..”

“Seriously,” you look up from your position on his lap, “savor it while you can.”

He nods dutifully. To others, it may seem annoying or strange that you’re constantly telling him to enjoy when he still has the time, but Renjun appreciates it. 

It’s always a nice reminder.

He assumes something must’ve happened to you before, but nevertheless, he doesn’t pry. 

“What about you? What are you studying?”

Suddenly, you can’t look at him. You're unable to tell him that you don’t even attend school anymore. 

“Um, I’m still deciding... it’s hard, you know?”

“I get it. Comfortably take your time. You don’t have to rush, do what you want.”

Your heart warms. 

“Can you cook?”

“Eh.”

“What about roller skating?”

“I’m a pro.”

“Bet I could beat you.” 

“Oh yeah? Just wait, one day we’ll go together in person, and I’ll kill you at it.” 

“What about aliens?”

Your eyebrows raise. “What about aliens?”

“What- what do you think of them?”

“Oh. Aliens are cool.” 

“Do you think they’re real?

“Sure. I mean, if we’re able to share dreams like this, then why can’t aliens exist too?”

You miss the growing smile on renjun’s face. 

“.... is this what you really look like in real life?”

“What- yes! Why would I look like someone else in my dream?”

“I dunno, you’re a lot more handsome than most guys I can remember..” you trail off, hoping he doesn’t catch the rest of the sentence. He does. 

That goes on for a while, asking each other random questions. But while you’re still here in the dream, you should take advantage of it. 

Standing up, you brush yourself off. 

“Huh, what’s up y/n?”

“The sky.”

Renjun scowls. 

“Okay, okay, I’ll tell you.”

And then you sprint off, yelling, “first one to the tree gets bragging rights!!”

Renjun falls halfway, and you have to help him and his dramatic ass. 

ꔫ

When Renjun brings up the prospect of possibly meeting each other in real life, you’re both really excited at first. 

But then it hits you. That’s right. You’re kinda blind at the moment. 

You never once told him about your... sight problems, probably because you first thought he wasn’t even a real person, and it never seemed important. 

As Renjun sits there, excitedly listing off ways to find each other that actually while you’re awake, you can only absentmindedly nod, a storm brewing inside you. 

It makes your insides churn. Should you tell him? 

You hated lying, but there was that growing insecurity rising up. 

What if he finds out everything and doesn’t want anything to do with you anymore?

What if Renjun doesn’t want to be your friend? 

What if... 

He leaves you?

“Y/n???” He waves a hand in front of you. 

You blink. “Yes?”

“I was just talking about how it’ll take around 3 hours to take the subway to your city or, yours to mine. When we both have a free day, we should meet up!”

He looks so excited and cute, but you still cringe. When was the last time you took the subway? 

You nod uneasily. Renjun must notice your expression because he turns concerned, “Are you alright?”

You hastily smile. “Fine. Just really stressed about upcoming school stuff,” you joke. 

That answer must be good enough because he drops the subject. 

What have you gotten yourself into?

ꔫ

And for the first time, you’re scared to dream. 

Scared to see Renjun. 

Stress and anxiety gnaw at your head, swirling thoughts constantly floating in and out. 

Renjun won’t like you anymore. 

He doesn’t want to be with a liar.

And after he excitedly mentions that he obtained an internship near your city in the spring, your guilt and frustration grow more.

Since that one conversation, you’ve been having more and more headaches, most likely because of the lack of sleep from stress.

Renjun’s probably sleeping peacefully hours away from you as you stay up, plagued with concerns.

You shake your head, wanting to get rid of bad thoughts so the pain doesn’t overtake your brain again. 

Think of happy things. Happy memories when you were young and carefree. 

Like.... the one water park you went to with your friends years ago. That was a good memory.

You rack your brain.

Wait a second -what did it look like again?

ꔫ

As the air turns colder, you have to bust out the old heater that hasn’t been used in years-the dust floating in the air lingered for days. 

Overtaking your breathing, your brain. 

Just like your thoughts. 

You’re still constantly worrying about Renjun.  Because of Renjun.

And yourself. 

You and Renjun. 

Renjun and you. 

All those thoughts weren’t good for you. Why you may ask?

More thoughts lead to overthinking. 

Overthinking leads to stress. 

Stress causes the agonizing headaches. 

And those headaches are the bane of your existence.

Because it makes you unable to recall. 

The headaches weren’t a big deal at first. After the car accident, the doctors said your brain seemed clear for the most part. 

But obviously- it wasn’t- since you were here now with daily migraines- the pain multiplied from anxiety. 

And that caused your memory loss.

It was simple things at first, just like what you ate for the day and where you put your stuff. (It was already difficult since you couldn’t see, and the forgetful memory was making it so much worse) 

And then it was the more important recollections. 

Like what your parents' birthdays were. Your favorite restaurant. What schools you attended.

You don’t want to admit that the only thing left perfectly clear in your brain is yours truly, Huang Renjun. 

This isn’t happening. 

Pigs can’t fly and.... you can’t remember. 

Why? Every time you try to think of something, your brain pounds like crazy.

You really don’t want to believe it’s an effect of the accident. And the stress. 

You don’t want to think about it at all. 

But sadly, you were still human and had to sleep. 

Which meant eventually dreaming sooner or later...

“Y/n!” 

Wait. What?

“What’s going on?”

No. What’s happening?

“I know people don’t dream that often, but three months and nothing from you? I went to bed, happy at the thought that we might meet again, but it’s like you’re purposely not sleeping and avoiding me or something-!” 

There’s no way you heard everything he just said, even his irritated tone that you’ve never heard before didn’t faze you. 

Due to the fact that everything except Renjun himself was a blur.

Basically- you couldn’t see shit. 

Your heart rate begins to pick up. You swirl around, squinting and rubbing your eyes like crazy. 

Why? Why is this happening? Why can’t you see the dream world around you?

But you know the reason- it’s quite obvious. 

Since your memory disappeared just like that. And without your memories, everything has crumbled to nothing. 

Ironically, you forgot about Renjun who was still standing there, perfectly fine.  

“Y/n? What wrong?”

He snaps a finger in front of you, and you barely react.

“No, nothing’s wrong.” Your voice has been reduced to a whisper.

“Listen-I-why are you lying? I thought we were friends. I thought we trusted each other enough to talk honestly.”

It’s too much. Renjun’s growing anger plus everything you’re experiencing at the moment is overwhelming. 

“Just stop-!” You screech, arms held out in front to protect yourself from everything. 

He freezes. 

And you collapse on the ground, hands shaking as you look around. Look for anything you can clearly see. 

There’s nothing.

The worst pain ever runs through your brain- the feeling to curl up in a ball and stop everything is strong. 

“Y/n- please. Please talk to me.”

He leans in front of you. 

“I- see-“ you splutter, collecting your thoughts.

Your mouth forms the words but immediately comes to a halt.

He doesn’t know. 

You stare at him, helpless. Your eyes flicking all over the place, pupils dilated. 

Renjun does the only thing he can think of at the moment. 

He places his lips on yours, and your eyes automatically close. 

Your heart steadies, adrenaline slowly fading. 

He just feels... right. 

And then his hand brings your body closer to his, making- 

You sit up in bed, breathing heavily. 

All you can think is, 

what a dream. 

And as much as you still feel the ghost of his soft lips on yours, you can’t get over the fact that everything else was blurry. 

You could only see faint lights and shadows. 

You couldn’t remember. 

ꔫ

No. 

What does the sky look like again? 

No.

Why can’t you remember the day anymore?

You spend days- weeks maybe even- trying to recall as much as possible. And spend less time attempting to sleep for the chance that you’ll have to see Renjun again. 

Your mind is in shambles. One part of you is yearning to see him -find Renjun in the dreams again and explain everything. 

But the other part is scared. Extremely terrified at his reaction. His feelings. 

Will he still- you dare to say- like you? 

I mean, that kiss had to mean something, right? 

Right?

You smack the nearest object in exasperation.

I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. 

Can everything just stop? 

Your poor pillow has been punched into oblivion by now. 

Either way, you fall into what could be considered a slump. 

A slump in life. 

The uncomfortable sensation grows bigger and bigger each day since the only thing you can do is stay at home and dwell on the fact that your life is basically over now.

There's no recovery in sight -ha- of your future. 

Each night is spent exerting your aching brain to recall. 

The only thing that comes back is Huang Renjun.

But once again, you’re only human. A human that occasionally passes out from the lack of sleep.

Renjun would be nagging at you. Your heart automatically drops at the thought of him. How long has it been since you last seen him?

More importantly- how long has it been since you last properly slept? 

You can’t even see yourself but you know the eye bags you’re carrying are bigger and brighter than your future. 

You call out for Siri. 

“It’s currently 3:21 AM.“ 

You sigh, so desperately wanting to chuck your phone across the room even though you know finding where you threw it would take hours. 

Pathetic. 

And then you figured you must’ve fallen asleep. 

Because you open your eyes. And at first, it just seems like another day of barely making it through life, but no- this is different. 

You’re not in your bed. You’re on a blank, hard surface.  

You realize where you are right as a familiar voice calls out your name. 

The fear that courses through you is a feeling to laugh at.

“What the fuck, y/n.”

There’s no way you’re getting out of this. 

“What’s going on? I just wanna know why. You ghost me for months without saying anything. I deserve an explanation.” Renjun’s fists are clenched at his side, anger barely seeping through. 

You sigh wearily, partly from him and partly from the fact that you still can’t see anything else except his face. 

“I know. I’m sorry. I’ve been going through stuff, okay?” You hope your tone is enough to tell him that you don’t want to talk about this anymore.

But it isn’t. 

“What things? You can tell me, y/n. I thought we were close enough for that. I thought we trusted each other.”

As much as your heart clenches at his words, it isn’t enough to suppress the frustration building inside you. 

“This isn’t about trust, Renjun. It doesn’t matter if I trust you or not. What does it have to do with me telling you about my life? It’s my privacy.”

His eyes burn into yours. 

“So you don’t trust me?”

“What- of course, I do! Why are you so stuck up on that?”

“Cause I care about you,” he groans, running his hands through his hair. “I care about you- a lot- but clearly, you don’t seem to return the feelings!” 

“What? What makes you think that!?” 

“Because you act like this!” He forcefully gestures. “Because you push me away without any explanation and don’t show any sign of your feelings! Don’t seem affected like I am when I haven’t seen you in months and miss you, okay?”

You pinch your nose bridge, annoyed. “Well, I’m different. If you cared about me that much, wouldn’t you have noticed?”

You know your words mean nothing. They’re just randomly produced from the deepest, darkest insecurities that are pent up inside and need to escape. 

“What’s so different about you? As far as I’ve known and seen you, you’re just another human like me-“

“-Because I can’t see fucking anything, okay?” You yell, forcing yourself to take a breath. 

“I’ve been blind for what seems like forever, and at first it was all okay, but now I can’t remember anything except you, which means I can’t see shit. Is that a good enough answer for you?”

You feel your body trembling, barely able to look at him. 

A good silence lasts for a couple of minutes. 

You turn around, anywhere away so you don’t have to look at his face anymore- since he’s stupidly the only thing you can even see. 

You don’t know what to feel. Perhaps relief for finally saying it? Exhaustion from keeping everything pent up and finally letting it all out? 

Then you recognize the sensation. 

You’re waking up. 

You think Renjun calls your name at the exact moment. But it’s too late. You’re already gone at that point. 

And now you don’t know what to do. 

ꔫ

After that, you get the best sleep in your life.  There’s surprisingly no more stress about lying to Renjun, you already spilled everything. 

On the other hand, there is his whole response. But you bury those worries deep inside. 

Maybe it’s for the better, you think. After the fight, you couldn’t the guilt go. The angered lies that slipped from your lips won’t leave. 

Renjun doesn’t deserve someone like you. 

But for once, you decide to go out. To get some needed fresh air like someone once advised you to, and also because you’re running out of food to eat. 

Before you leave, you grab the sunglasses on the counter and put them on. Most people would just think you’re avoiding the spring sun, which is exactly what you wanted.

You didn’t want them to see your blank stare and then realize that you had lost your sight. It was simply more comfortable for you and others. 

It was always a challenge to go out. Strange how normal people would never think twice before closing the door behind them and entering the outside world, but it became something you had to prepare yourself for. 

Taking a deep breath, you close the door behind you and navigate as best as you can to the nearby cafe. 

Sure, you barely left your place, but it didn’t mean you couldn’t enjoy a refreshing drink outside every once in a while. 

Two people bump into your side, and you barely spare them a second, continuing on. 

An apology is given, but you brush it off, hiding your face and quickly continuing on. 

That’s strange. One of the voices sounded really familiar, but it was too quick, and you barely heard the voice enough to pinpoint it. 

It happened all the time- if not always- running into another person. But this time, it was different. After touching the stranger's shoulder by accident, it felt like a flame burst inside of you. Intense enough to make your head spin a little and set your body alight. 

And the sun wasn’t making it better. 

Gosh, why is the sun so bright today? 

You brush it off, opening the door to the cafe and taking your sunglasses off to be polite and not seem weird or suspicious. 

You squint at the board, cautiously walking to the register and ordering. 

After they confirm your order, you find a nice spot alone in the corner. 

It’s not too busy or slow today, you note. But soon boredom overcomes you, and eventually, you find yourself staring at the entrance door whenever someone new enters for no reason in particular. 

The entrance bell rings, and your eyes subconsciously flick to see who it is. 

Wait. 

No fucking way. 

It can’t be. 

Huang Renjun?

 in your city?

Entering the same cafe you were currently at? 

You suddenly remember. One dream, a long time ago when he excitedly rambled on about that internship he got. Located where you lived. That’s right, he said it was in the springtime. And here he was now. 

A string of curses run through your brain, your heart beginning to pick up its pace in panic. 

You debate just leaving. But your order..... oh god, what if he sees you? 

Will he recognize you? Stupid, obviously Renjun would recognize you. 

What if he comes up to you? 

Shit, you have no clue what to do. 

Maybe if you just look away and hide your face when he passes, then he won’t see you. 

You look down, pretending to be occupied with your shirt and shuddering when you hear his voice get closer.

You let out a tiny sigh of relief when he passes with someone else, you suppose a friend. But it’s not over. 

“Order for y/n!”

You unleash more curses internally. Of course, they had to call your name. Of fucking course. 

You desperately hope Renjun isn’t paying attention.  

Exhaling, you try to act as normal as possible walking up to get your drink. But before you even make it there, you can feel eyes on you. It burns the back of your head. 

You scream into your mouth, teeth gritting to barely muffle the sound. 

It’s okay, just pretend you can’t see him -you already yelled at him confessing that you were blind anyway, so maybe he thinks that you can’t see him. 

It’s fine. 

Act normal. 

You obtain your order and take one step carefully at a time. 

Oh no. 

Oh no- he’s coming towards you. You can just barely see in your peripheral view Renjun approaching and getting closer. 

“Y/n.” 

You try not to stiffen at his voice. Just act like you’re blind and can’t see him. 

Turning around, you pretend to act blank. “Yes? Who’s talking to me?”

“Y/n,” Renjun says more insistently. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t recognize you. Who are you?”

And then his hand reaches out to yours.

You panic, swatting it away. 

You hear renjun's breath hitch. “Wait- how did you do that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Y-you,” he stutters, “you blocked my hand. B-but how? I don’t-“

You frown. “Cause I saw it?”

Your hand raises up to cover your mouth. 

You saw his hand. 

You can see. 

What- when did this happen? 

How did this happen?

Why didn’t you notice? 

There are so many things swirling in your mind, but Renjun calls your name again. 

You look back at him, truly look at him, and suddenly it’s like all the puzzle pieces fit together. 

He’s breathtaking. It’s so different seeing him in person and not in your dreams. If anything, you’re jealous of how much prettier he seems in real life. 

You’re not sure how long you stare at each other. Seeing those eyes that once captivated your soul right in front of you. 

“The last time I saw you was in my dream,” you breathe, “but it feels like the first time I’m meeting you.” 

Renjun doesn’t say anything, and abruptly you find yourself in his arms. 

You don’t care that you’re hugging in the middle of a public place, it just feels so right. 

You bury your face in his shoulder, unable to speak.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that I didn’t tell you. I was just so afraid at what you'd say, and I just liked you too much and I’m sorry-“

Renjun pulls back, staring at you like he hasn’t seen anything more magnificent before. 

“It doesn’t matter. You can tell me everything you want now.” 

ꔫ

“I’m happy to report that the swelling in your optic nerves has gone down. It’s like a miracle occurred,” the doctor remarks.

Luckily, renjun’s internship lasted for a couple weeks, and you were able to spend as much time as possible with him. The only time you weren’t next to his side was when he was working or you were at the doctor's to check up on your condition. 

There was no more blankness. There were no more headaches. It’s like Renjun brought a breath of fresh air into your life. It’s almost like he was meant for you. 

You simply smile and laugh at the doctor as you think, 

Yes, a miracle did happen. One where I met the person who seemed only like a dream and learned the most important lesson in my life. 

That dreams really can come true.

Bonus : 

“Renjun, you’re going the wrong way.”

“Well excuse me for not having ever been to this place before.”

“Okay, you’re excused.”

Renjun rolls his eyes, and you grin cheekily before taking his hand. 

“C’mon, we still have to get to the top.” 

“Did you get the blankets?���

“Yep.”

“And the snacks?”

“Yeah, yeah. I got your favorite.” 

It’s been so long since you came here. Your favorite spot to stargaze. The one you went to all the time before the accident. The one you were going to when the car accident happened. 

But this time it was different. You had Renjun next to you. 

After ten minutes of hiking and Renjun complaining, you finally make it to the top of the secluded hill, the night sky seeming so close and yet so far. 

Renjun takes everything in with a breath. “Wow. I can see why you love this place.”

You feel a rush of emotions. How long has it been since you were able to come here and see the stars? 

You two set up the blankets and sit back, embracing the sight. 

He sits down on the blanket, and you automatically lie down next to him, placing your head in his lap. 

“Doesn’t this remind of you that one dream where we saw your city from above?”

Renjun grins. “I remember that. I still thought that you were just a fake simulation or whatever. And now look, we’re together in real life.”

You hum thoughtfully. 

“Thank you, Renjun.”

He looks down at you. “For what?”

Suddenly you can’t look him in the eye. “For everything. For being my friend and never leaving,” you gulp, nervous. 

“I... I love you.” 

Renjun jerks a little, eyes wide. “What did you just say?”

You breathe in, out. “I love you, huang renjun.”

He starts laughing for some reason, leaning down to kiss your forehead. 

“I love you too.”

After that, you enjoy the peaceful silence and the buzz of the insects. 

“...don’t you think this would be a hotspot for aliens to come to? This field is so vast and secluded -if I were an alien, I would come here a lot.”

You shrug. “I don’t know. But I guess I would too.”

Renjun suddenly looks at you with an accusing glare. And you catch on, smacking his side. 

“Don’t even think about it.”

He feigns ignorance. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Okay sure. You totally weren’t gonna say something about how I could be an extraterrestrial creature from another planet since I come here so often.” 

“Well-”

You stuff food in his mouth to shut him up. 

He chews for a minute or two before talking again. 

“.... what if we get abducted by them?”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t be dramatic. I’ve been here so many times, and nothing happened to me.”

“Maybe that’s because you are a-“

“Oh my gosh. Just stop. And trust me, if I were one, you would already be abducted with that face,” you joke.

You look up from your spot on his lap, staring up at the twinkling lights in the dark sky. 

“It doesn't matter, I’m not scared.”

Renjun looks down at you with a curious smile. “Why?” 

“Because everything got a little better when I saw you.” 

And the stars seem to agree, twinkling in the background when your lips reach up to meet his.

You had so many questions that couldn’t be answered. 

But maybe it would all be okay.  

Because you could suddenly see the spring again.

a/n: if you made it to the end, thank you for reading :) 

also i tried my best to research as much as i could on all related topics to this work yadaddaa but if there are errors and inaccuracies, i apologize! 

taglist: @elcie-chxn @dearseungie​ 

unable to tag: @flower-lise  

[whatareyousearchingfordean]

Come As You Are

Summary: Dean takes Y/n dress shopping for a hunt, both of them blissfully unaware of where it will lead. 

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Plus Size Reader

Word Count: 3.9K+

Warnings: Language, self-esteem and body image struggles, public intercourse, unprotected intercourse (wrap it before you tap it)

Author’s Note: This was written for an anonymous request, 

“Hey babe I don’t know if your taking requests but I had a groovy idea dean x shy plus reader where they have to get the reader nice sexy clothes but she feels really uncomfortable in them and refuses to leave the dressing room and dean confess how he feels and they have sex in the dressing room ? Fluff and smut” 

I truly enjoyed writing it so I hope it lives up to your expectations anon. Remember, feedback is like crack to writers, and we always love to hear what you thought xoxo Alex

Consider checking out a book from Alexandra’s Library!

A frown etched itself on her face as she ran her hand over the fabrics hanging from the racks. All of it felt foreign underneath her fingertips. Satin, chiffon, and everything else that was far more expensive than she was used to. Y/n’s wardrobe mostly consisted of denim and polyester blends that tended to fray after two washes. It was all that a hunter could afford, after all. 

“How in the hell are we gonna afford any of this crap?” She whispered to Dean, who was eyeing the rack behind her, the gowns in front of him all a deep shade of red. 

“Charlie’s miracle card, remember? There is no limit,” Dean raised his brow at her, a grin etched across his perfect face. 

“Fine,” she groaned. “I still don’t see why I even need to go dress shopping, I’m sure I could find something in my closet.” 

“I’ve seen your closet, and none of it is right for this case. You’ve got to distract the coroner for the night and you can’t do that in baggy jeans and flannel.” Dean huffed as he picked a dress off the rack. Y/n’s eyes went wide as she took it in, the hem was short for anyone’s standards, then add in the plunging neckline and this dress left nothing to the imagination. 

“That is so not happening,” Y/n pointed at the offensive garment, her stomach fluttering at the simple idea of even trying to slip into it. Every spot on her body that she hated would be on full display in that thing. Her thick thighs, the roll that sat on her bra just under her arms, and don’t get her started on her abdomen. 

“Come on, just try it. You never know ‘till you try it on.” 

“Ugh,” Y/n snatched the dress from his hand before stalking off to look at more dresses. There were a couple more options that she grabbed to try on that were closer to her comfortability level. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t be caught dead in any of the items in her arms. But Dean had this way about him, always able to convince her to do anything without question. Maybe it was the way his skin crinkled around his eyes or the brightness that always seemed to live behind those deliciously green eyes? Who was she kidding, it was all of that and then some. The huntress had fallen hard for him from that first meeting. Sometimes she wondered why she chose to torture herself. 

Dean Winchester was the cream of the crop when it came to hunters, as was his baby brother, Sam. The whole world knew who they were, including heaven and hell, so how could she be expected to resist him when he smiled at her the way he does. Or even when he made her coffee in the mornings just how she liked it and picked up chocolate and pain killers for her when he knew it was that time of the month. He was exceedingly attentive to her, something that she was sure he only directed at Sam. It was just another thing that surprised her about the legend of a man. 

Yeah, like an idiot she fell for the eldest Winchester. There was no stopping it even though she was certain that her feelings would never be reciprocated. Y/n wasn’t like the other woman that Dean went for when he was on the prowl at bars. It’s not that she was ugly, it was that she was plain at best. People didn’t turn their heads when she walked in the room, men’s gazes didn’t linger on her from across the bar, no, Y/n was merely average. That’s how she knew that Dean would never see her as more than a friend because he had never looked at her in any form of want. 

“Are you ready to try those on?” A sales woman’s voice broke her out of her unrelenting train of thought. Dean answered for her before she could process the woman’s words. 

“Yes, please.” He smiled brightly and Y/n watched as the woman’s face flushed under his gaze. Y/n almost felt bad for the woman who was now just another victim to his charm. The saleswoman at least would be able to relish in his attention, wondering about what could have been had Y/n not been there with him. Y/n on the other hand already knew her fate. But mostly, if she was being honest, she was jealous. 

Dean put his hands on her shoulders and guided her along behind the boutique worker who took them into the back of the store where the dressing rooms were located. The area was mostly quiet, just the music from the speakers could be heard in the space. Three large mirrors sat in front of a stage on the far wall, the rooms spaning out on either side of it. In the center of the room were three plush chairs for those waiting for others to sit in. 

The worker unlocked a door for her as Dean plopped down in one of the chairs. Y/n slipped behind the door, letting out a deep breath as it closed behind her. If there was one thing she hated it was trying on clothes. Nothing ever seemed to fit her right or look anything like what it did on the hanger. It made the task a constant battle with her self-consciousness. 

Y/n had always carried extra weight on her body. It wasn’t that she didn’t live an active lifestyle, she was a hunter, after all, it was the diet that hunters were accustomed to. It was fast food and dives in every small town in America. Not many mom and pop places tended to offer an egg white omelet, and it wasn’t her inclination to eat them either. So, she had always been bigger than most, and if she was being honest she had grown used to that. Maybe she used it as a shield to protect herself. Making connections with people as a hunter only tended to end in heartbreak, so this was easier. 

The hunter hid the scary red thing Dean had selected behind all the rest of her haul, hoping she would find something before she ever even got to the thing. Y/n stripped from her flannel and jeans tossing them on the bench in the corner. She also added her bra to the pile, knowing all of these garments necessitated that she did not wear one. That left her in her favorite pair of panties. They weren’t anything special, but they made her butt looked its best.

The first dress in the line up was a straight black dress that hit just above her knee. The neckline wasn’t anything too crazy but the sleeves rolled off the shoulders a strip of fabric wrapping around her bust. Y/n was able to slip it on and tug up the zipper on the side. With a slide of her hands against the fabric, she frowned at her reflection. Not that it would flatter any figure, in her opinion. 

“What’s taking so long in there?” Dean called out from his spot in front of the mirrors.

“I’m not coming out in this thing,” she called back as she began to take the dress back off. 

“Oh, come on sweetheart,” 

“Nope, next,�� Y/n heard him huff even through the door and she imagined he rolled his eyes as well. 

The next dress was a deep blue color. It had a wrap and pencil skirt, with an asymmetrical shape between the hem and the neckline. She supposed it was pretty but it also kind of looked like she had wrapped herself in a towel. Mostly, she felt like the point in the neckline was going to stab her in the throat, and she was not sure how to be sexy when she was trying not to die. It was another pass for her. 

There was only one dress left, and at that moment she was wishing to whoever was listening that she had picked out a few more choices. Dean was whistling now, some Zeppelin tune she couldn’t exactly identify and she knew he was getting impatient. Y/n swapped the fabrics on her body, pulling the thin straps of the red satin piece up onto her shoulders. The dress clung to her skin, the fabric lightweight. 

“Y/n/n,” Dean’s voice was just outside the door, the new proximity of it startling her. “Come on, you have to show me at least one. I know you and you’ll just try vetoing them all.” Y/n swore under her breath because he was right and it pissed her off that he knew her that well. The zipper was out of her reach on her back and she supposed she wouldn’t be able to truly see what it looked like on her unless she zipped it up. 

“Fine, I need help with this zipper anyway,” she sighed and held the fabric against her naked chest while opening the door with her other. Dean was beaming when he came into view on the other side of the door. He snuck inside faster than a flea, the slamming of the door startling her again. 

Get it together woman, you kill monsters for a living, Y/n cursed herself. 

“Turn,” Dean instructed her with his fingers, and the woman obliged as she faced the mirror. Dean brushed her hair off her shoulder with his fingertips, the action barely distinguishable but it sent the hairs on the back of her neck standing to attention. With one hand holding the bottom stop, he used the other to tug on the pull tab, sliding together the teeth in one fluid motion. 

“Thanks,” Y/n’s words were soft as she made eye contact with the green-eyed hunter in the mirror. He ran his tongue of his bottom lip, pulling the plump flesh between his teeth as his eyes wandered over her exposed skin. 

Y/n visibly cringed as she looked at herself. Unfortunately, this was her favorite out of the three, but that didn’t mean she felt like she could venture anywhere in public in the thing. “Sweetheart, if that coroner hadn’t already been eyeing you up today, he would not know where to start when he sees you in this.” 

“Shut up,” Y/n scrunched her nose as she spun around to whack Dean’s shoulder. “You are so full of it.”

“Am not,” Dean scoffed, his eye softening before he continued. “Y/n, why don’t you see how beautiful you are?”

Y/n whipped around to stare at him, her arms crossing over her chest, not believing that those words come out of his mouth. Surely, he was playing with her…

“Have you looked at me, Dean?” Y/n slapped her hands against her thighs, emphasizing their jiggle upon impact. “I’m nothing special.” 

“I have looked at you,” His gaze traveled down her body again, his breath hitching slightly as he did so. “I’ve been looking at you for a while now.” The drop in Dean’s voice sent heat rushing through her body, the gravel undertone making her shiver. 

“Dean--” words escaped her as the hunter stepped into her personal space, pushing her back against the mirror. Dean’s left hand came to rest against the reflective surface just beside her head as he chewed on his lip. 

“I don’t think you know how hard it is for me to keep my eyes off of you,” he leaned into her, his nose brushing alongside hers. “And now, seeing you in this dress, I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep my hands off you.” 

A rush of confidence coursed through her blood as his hot breath fanned over her face and Y/n slipped her hands behind his neck, pulling his lips down to meet hers. The movement was anything but smooth, though the action sent both of the hunters into action. Dean growled as he nipped her lower lip and she opened up to him, allowing his tongue to invade her mouth. 

A moan involuntarily came from her as his hands moved to her hips, the heat of his skin seeping through the thin material where his finger pressed into her flesh. He stepped back, pulling her after him as he backed up and dropped to sit on the plush bench. Dean bunched up the material to her hips as he urged her to straddle his lap. Y/n used her hands on his shoulders to steady herself, the new bulge in his pants a surprise to her as she settled in his lap. 

“Yeah, and you thought I was kidding,” Dean took in the slight rise in her brow, leaning forward to run his lips across her jaw, taking note of the places that made her shiver. Her eyes were squeezed shut as she allowed Dean to explore her body and let herself just feel him. Dean raked his teeth along with the shell of her ear, causing her to buck her hips and both of them to groan.  

“Fuck,” her words were a breath on her lips as she repeated the action, the roughness of his jeans just enough friction on her aching sex. 

“That’s it, beautiful, take what you need,” Dean sat back and used his hands to keep her body moving against his own, watching the way her brows scrunched together in the center of her forehead. With a shift of his hips, he had her pushed back and straddling his left thigh, his hands still in their place on her hips. “Can you come like this, sweetheart?”

“I don’t--” a jolt of electricity had her halting her denial, instead she chose to just nod and place her hands against his chest to balance her movement. She could feel Dean’s heart hammering in his chest under her palm and the quick rise and fall of his breath. Even at this moment, she was disbelieving that he was that turned on watching her get herself off on his thigh, but she had the proof hammering under her fingertips. Y/n was biting her lip to keep quiet in the small room. “Dean, I’m so close.” 

“I’ve got you, come for me, Y/n,” he husked as his grip tightened, though she wasn’t sure how that was even possible, seeing as there was already gonna be bruises there later, that she was sure of. The sound of his voice reverberating in her head had the coil snapping inside of her, heat flooding her body as every nerve sparked and faded out. A rush of air left her lungs, her body slumping as her muscles relaxed post-orgasm. 

“Oh my god.” As her arousal ebbed from her body and the reality of what just happened came to her sense, Y/n clammed up and she tried to climb from his lap. Blood rushed to her face and her hands flew to her cheeks to hide the heat settling there.

“Woah, where are you going?” Dean stopped her from making a hasty exit, his eyes searching hers in question. 

“Dean, what the hell just happened?” 

A smirk replaced the confusion on his face as he leaned forward and nuzzled his face in her neck, tracing his tongue up her pulse. “You just got yourself off on my thigh while I tried not to cream my jeans,” he breathed in her ear. It was like he already knew every button to push on her body, his dirty talk doing everything she needed it to for her body to already be aching for him again. 

“I--”

“Shh, sweetheart. That was hot as fuck, and all I want now is to be buried deep inside that pretty pussy of yours.” 

“Jesus,” her eyes shifted to his, taking in the mischievous glint shining behind his iris. “You aren’t kidding.”

“Nope,” he popped the ‘p’ at the end of his word and Y/n nodded as she climbed off him. She turned her back to him so he could undo the zipper, and it took a second for Dean to catch on to her silent action. He jumped to the edge of the bench and tugged down the zipper before sliding the material down her shoulders. Dean hooked his fingers into the edge of her panties, placing a kiss on the dip in her lower back before pulling the soaked material to pool at her feet along with the dress. He stood then as she turned back to him and pushed his jacket and flannel down his arms, adding it to the pile of discarded clothes in the room. 

“Come, on we don’t have a lot of time before someone gets suspicious.” There was a quiver in her voice as she lifted the hem of his tee and tugged open his belt. It was taking everything in her to quell the shaking in her hands. Dean’s fingers came down to wrap around her wrists, halting her movement and she looked up at him. 

“Y/n we don’t have to,” he was trying to read her mind as he examined her face. The trepidation was seeping through her pores, but not because she didn’t want this. Hell, the painful ache between her legs told her how much she wanted this, but her brain couldn’t help to race through the million thoughts about what it all meant. 

“No, I-- God do I want this,” Y/n began chewing on the inside of her cheek as she tried to come up with the words to explain to him what she was thinking. But the longer the time passed the more nervous she grew, standing there stark naked and he’s still basically fully dressed. “I think I’ve wanted this for a long time now, but I’m just scared.”

“Of?” He urged her to continue.

“That this doesn’t mean the same thing to you,” Y/n cast her glance down, her eyes fixated on the way the fluorescent light glinted in the metal of his belt. 

“You think that this is about getting my dick wet for me.” It wasn’t a question, because she had all but spelled it out for him. “Y/n,” He put his fingers under her chin and turned her head back up to his, brushing his lips against hers, the action soft and unhurried. “I told you, I’ve been watching you for a while now, trying to learn everything I could about you. I would have done this the first night I met you if I hadn’t thought about what it would do to you. But I’m done being scared because I think I fell for you a long time ago and no amount of whiskey or other women could make me forget that. So I’m done fighting it.” 

“Yeah?” Her eyes were swimming with unshed tears now, and Dean answered her with another kiss, pulling her body flush against his own as he invaded her mouth. The pair only pulled apart when they could no longer fight the need for air. “Dean--”

“Yeah,” he breathed, dropping his grip on her to finish what she started with his belt. Y/n watched his movements, her breath getting caught in her throat as she watched him pull his length from its cotton confines. Dean signaled for her to turn with one hand as he stroked himself with the other. She obliged, of course, and Dean pushed her gently between her shoulder blades until her hands were pressed against the mirror. He nudged her legs to open a tad wider, meeting her gaze in the mirror. 

“Do we--” 

“I’m good if you’re good,” she told him, knowing where he was going with his question. He nodded to her before lining himself up with her entrance. Dean held her gaze as he entered her from behind, both of them sighing together as he became fully seated. Y/n closed her eyes as she tried to compose herself, her head falling between her arms. 

“Fuck, open your eyes, look at yourself,” Dean was biting his tongue as he swatted her ass to get her to lift her head again. She indulged him, looking at herself in the mirror before turning her eyes back to his in the mirror. “There you go,” he praised her, the words like music to her ears as he pulled back out and slammed into her hips. 

Dean set up a steady rhythm, careful to not shake the walls of the dressing too much with his movement. The couple kept their eyes on each other in the mirror, the moment the most erotic thing she could ever remember doing, but for the life of her, she couldn’t be bothered by it. Even from her vantage point, she could see how blown his pupils were, the black of his iris’ all but drowning out the green that she loved so much. To be honest, she wasn’t sure which she liked more now. All she did know was the feeling of him moving inside her and the way her muscles were shaking. 

A small knock had Dean stilling his movements, and Y/n stood up, pressing her back against his chest. He slipped an arm around her chest as she signaled for him to be silent. “You doing alright in there?” 

Y/n swallowed the lump in her throat and let out a breath, “Yeah,” she called back, afraid her voice would be too wrecked if she said anything else. 

“Is there anything else I can get you? Maybe some different sizes?” The saleswoman tried again. 

“Nope, I’m all set, thank you.” 

“Okay, just let me know.” The sound of her footsteps could be heard retreating from the dressing room, and Dean pressed his face into her neck, the pair of them chuckling. 

“Come on, sweetheart,” he adjusted their position, resuming the movement of his hips as he snaked his free hand down to rub against her clit. Y/n jolted in his arms at the contact, this time closing her eyes as he built her back up. “I’m right behind you. Can you come for me again?” Y/n nodded against him, her hands flying to his forearm as she felt herself jumping over the cliff, her mouth open in a silent scream. Her knees buckled and Dean had to adjust himself to keep her from falling, still fucking her from behind as her fluttering walls milked him to his own orgasm. He bit into her shoulder to keep himself from groaning out loud. 

“Sweet Jesus,” her body went limp in his arms as the pair of them caught their breath in the now muggy space. 

“Yeah, you are so not going out with that coroner tonight. We will find a different way.” Dean admitted as he pulled his now softening cock from her. Y/n flinched at the feeling and the subsequent rush of his release inside her. 

“What?” She turned to him as he began righting himself, not understanding why he didn’t want her to do her job.

“‘Cause you are all mine now,” Dean tugged her into his chest, his fingers around one of her biceps. “And I want to spend all night making sure you can’t walk tomorrow.” 

“Oh,” Dean laughed as she blinked at him, clearly lost for any sort of coherent answer to what he just told her. 

“Get dressed so we can get out of here and kick Sammy out of our motel room.” Dean tapped her ass again and she pushed him away from her, a stupid grin on both of their faces.

Forevers: @22sarah08​ @akshi8278​ @anathewierdo​ @atc74​ @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce​​ @callmekda​ @dawnie1988​ @deanwanddamons​ @ellewritesfix05​ @emoryhemsworth​ @flamencodiva​​ @foxyjwls007​ @hobby27​ @janicho88​ @jensengirl83​ @katehuntington​ @lyarr24​ @malfoysqueen14​ @mrsjenniferwinchester​ @msmarvelouswinchester​ @polina-93​​ @sleepylunarwolf​ @stiles-stilinski-24-dylan​ @smol-and-grumpy​ @superfanficnatural​ @supraveng​ @talesmaniac89​ @tranquility-or-chaos​​ @waywardbeanie​ @winchest09​

[duskandstarlight]

Embers & Light (Chapter 25)

Notes: Hi lovely readers,Thank you for everybody who commented on last weeks chapter and for those of you who fed back to say you would keep on reading E&L after ACOSF. It's great to know I can continue at my own pace, especially as work is about to pick up for me so it would be hard to write more than I have been already.

Let me know what you think of this chapter :) And as usual, apologies for my typos!

Chapter Twenty-Five Nesta

Nesta barely heard the sound of the door opening and shutting as Feyre left. Neither did she truly register the murmur of voices or the sensation of power vacuuming into nothing as Rhys and Feyre winnowed back to Velaris.

Feyre’s words had cracked her open again, and all Nesta wanted was to sleep so she didn’t have to think about her sister or the errors of her own past. Of the forgiveness her sister had granted her which she did not think she deserved. How her sister had offered a slate wiped clean, something that Nesta had secretly hungered for so long she couldn’t even pinpoint when it had started.

It was a chance to begin again, if Nesta wanted it. Or the chance to draw a line under everything and leave entirely.

A choice, either way.

Everything Feyre had said had been true. Nesta had felt her sister’s honesty in her stomach laced with her sister’s scent — pear and lilac. But was Nesta ready to forgive her sister? Seeing her sister curled up in the armchair — stationary rather than moving, the world still — made everything hurt. But when they had been in the midst of action, when together they had fought side-by side, a team rather than two opposing forces, Nesta had felt whole.

Another wave of tiredness washed over Nesta. She was too drained to contemplate it further, so she allowed the exhaustion to tug her down, down, down with both of its strong hands. She allowed her body to mould into the mattress, surrendering to the comforting weight of the midnight blue duvet and the woollen blankets.

Nesta dipped in and out of a sleep infused with pine and musk. Her pointed ears picked up the sounds of someone moving about the house, the bedroom door as it opened. She felt large hands on her forehead. The dip of the mattress. Heard the rustle of wings.

At one point, she had cracked open an eye to see a tent of red umber. Felt the ghosting warmth of a body and soft, even breathing before she slipped back under.

She had nightmares and vivid dreams. At first it was lifeless eyes, cracked wings, screams and blood. But then she saw her mother at the breakfast table, pouring herself a cup of tea. Her father returning from a long absence, his hair smelling of sea salt as he picked Nesta up in a hug. Nesta saw a younger Feyre, her face full of innocence and youth as Nesta read to her, a book of fairytales lying across her skirts. And Elain, brushing Nesta’s hair in front of a cracked mirror, the strands a dull, brittle brown in the weak firelight…

When she woke the next morning, Nesta was still tired but the pain in her abdomen had been dialled back, gnawing quietly rather than roaring.

Cassian was not there.

Wincing, Nesta eased herself into a sitting position just as Mas bustled into the room with Roksana in tow, the latter carrying some dusky blue snowdrops in her chubby hands.

Setting down the tray she had been carrying on the bed, Mas moved to open the curtains. Beyond the deep-set window was a stretch of luminescent white snow and a sliver of startling blue sky, the colour you usually saw in paintings rather than in real life. The Illyrian sky still took Nesta’s breath away, the colours brushed across its canvas so vibrant that Nesta knew that anywhere else would seem dull in comparison.

Roksana started to clamber onto the bed, her small wings stretching as they prepared to launch her into flight, but Mas caught her before her feet could leave the ground. “No you don’t, little youngling,” Mas tutted, placing Roksana firmly back on her feet. “Tuck those wings back in and show Lady Nesta what you have brought her.”

Shyly, Roksana stuck out her hand to show Nesta the flowers and said in Illyrian, “Ecce.”

Nesta did not allow her eyes to widen as Roksana spoke, but she allowed a her lips to tug upwards. She had picked up enough Illyrian to understand the youngling: Here.

“Thank you,” Nesta told the little girl sincerely as she took them from her clenched fist. “Pulchra.”

Nesta darted a look at Mas to check she had said the word ‘beautiful’ correctly and Mas nodded as she kissed Roksana on the cheek and tickled her belly.

“What do you say, sinta?” she asked the youngling.

But that seemed to be the limit of Roksana’s conversation. A shy blush stained her tan cheeks and she stubbornly shook her head, her tangled hair moving.

Mas shot Nesta an apologetic smile but Nesta shrugged it off with a small smile of her own. One word had been enough to make the whole of Illyria that little bit brighter. She longed to give the girl a hug, but she had yet to test the range of her movement given yesterday’s injuries.

“How are you feeling?” Mas asked, bending to kiss Nesta’s cheek before she rubbed it away with her thumb. Nesta wished she wouldn’t. Wished she could let the mark of love sink deep into her skin.

“A little sore,” Nesta conceded as Mas handed her a steaming mug of Frawyley’s tea. Then she admitted, “I’m desperate for a bath.”

Whilst Nesta had woken with no blood on her, she still felt the grime coating her skin like a thick oil. She longed to scrub off the residue of blood and screams, the images of limbs and dead bodies. Durkhanai’s green unseeing eyes floated across Nesta’s vision, and she closed her eyes tightly in a bid to shut out the image.

Sweet, kind Durkhanai. A female, who like so many others, had deserve more than her harsh, miserable life. A female who had decided to fight but had been cut down before she’d been properly able to wield a blade.

Nesta swallowed and Mas cupped Nesta’s face in her hands. “We will remember them all,” Mas said quietly. “Today we will burn their bodies on the pyre and let their souls go. Then they will be free.”

When Nesta opened her eyes, Mas was staring at Nesta with a determination Nesta had not seen on her before.

Mas sat down on the mattress and took Nesta’s hands. She stared at them for a long moment.

“I think I am done, Lady Nesta.”

Nesta froze, scared somehow, at the words. Her heart thumped. “What do you mean?”

Mas’s hands squeezed Nesta’s fingers, and then she looked directly at Nesta. “What I mean, is that I am done,” Mas repeated quietly, but there was a fervent way in which she spoke. Her dark hazel irises burnt with a deliberate intent that Nesta had felt raging in her own on many occasions. A steely resolution. “I am done being ruled by males. I am done being inferior. I have been given a new life and I do not intend to waste it.”

Mas smiled tightly at her and then kissed Nesta’s cheek again. It was a loving gesture and Nesta’s heart swelled. This time she did not rub it away. “General Cassian said someone might have been behind the attacks. That us widows might have been targeted somehow.” The housekeeper huffed angrily. “As if we deserve more suffering than we have already endured, most at the hands of males. Well, I will not stand for it any longer, and neither will the fellow females in my camp.” Mas let go of Nesta’s hands and straightened up, as if that was the end of the conversation — black and white. Obvious. “I will run you a bath.”

She handed Nesta a spoon loaded with liquid. “Take this for the pain and drink the tea for your magic whilst I get it ready,” she told Nesta, “General Cassian told me to let you know that your sister will be arriving soon. There is a consul for the lords. He asked if you’d like to attend.”

Swallowing her medicine, Nesta gingerly eased herself out of bed and wrapped her fingers around her mug. She had been in too much pain the day before to be eased into different clothing and her leathers creaked and cracked as she moved. Nesta winced at the dull throb that twisted through her side. It was nothing like the pain that knocked the breath from her lungs yesterday, but it was enough to be uncomfortable.

Mas shot Nesta an admonishing look as Nesta stiffly followed the housekeeper to the bathroom, but she did not reach out to help her. Nesta appreciated it; she was fed up of being mollycoddled. Only Roksana came to Nesta’s side, her arms wrapping around Nesta’s right leg.

“Hi sinta,” Nesta said, running a palm over Roksana’s messy hair. Hi darling. Mas’s favourite phrase, but one Nesta had adopted for herself when she spoke to Roksana. “Once I’ve had a bath, shall I do your hair?”

Roksana nodded, slipping her hand into Nesta’s.

“How are you?” Nesta asked the housekeeper once she was fully submerged into the deliciously hot water. Mas had slipped in the same oils Cassian had used when he’d drawn her a bath all that time ago, and already Nesta could feel all of her muscles relax. Roksana was sitting on the carpet, drawing patterns into the thick plush of the bath mat with a stubby finger, her little wings trailing on the floor.

“I am fine,” Mas replied, lathering up Nesta’s hair. Normally Nesta would have refused to let anyone bathe her, but it hurt to lift her arms. For the first time that morning, it made Nesta glad that Cassian had not been there when she woke. Had not had to bathe her himself. The thought of Cassian having to bathe her — his hands in her hair — sent a shiver through her, goosebumps littering her skin.

“You’re cold?” Mas asked, raising an eyebrow as goosebumps littered Nesta’s skin.

“No,” Nesta replied, sinking a little lower into the steaming heat of the bath. “I don’t know if I would be fine if I had experienced what you had.”

I wasn’t fine, Nesta thought. I wasn’t fine for a very long time. It’s ok for you not to be fine, too. But she didn’t say that. Couldn’t, even now.

Mas eyed Nesta for a moment, before she continued to rub shampoo into the ends of Nesta’s hair.

“When the life bled out of me, it was not the pain or the injustice that plagued me, but the regret that I had not fought,” Mas admitted quietly. “And when you gifted me with a new chance, I realised that I had a choice; I could let my experiences consume me, or I could use them to fuel something else.”

“So I am not fine,” Mas continued, “but I will let that feeling motivate me into doing something good. I will try to do my bit.”

Nesta craned her neck to look up at the housekeeper. She had dipped a jug into the water ready to wash the suds from Nesta’s hair.

“What are you going to do?” Nesta asked, after Mas had gently poured the water over her head. Suds ran down the length of Nesta’s hair and Mas submerged the jug into the water again.

“You’ll see,” Mas said, her expression tight but promising as she carefully poured more water over Nesta’s head.

And that was that — conversation over. Nesta did not press the housekeeper. Mas had not pushed her when Nesta had first come to Illyria, when she had been a tangle of hollowed out grief and anger. Mas had not raised an eyebrow as Nesta was tapered off the alcohol, her clothes stained with vomit and her body relentlessly shaking. Mas had not forced her to eat when her cheeks were sunken and her figure skeletal. She was like Cassian in that way. Choice after choice after choice. An endless presence. Silent support.

So, Nesta would do the same. Because that’s what you did for those you loved.

  Nesta was braiding Roksana’s hair when Feyre arrived. To her surprise, her sister did not winnow directly into the living room but to the front door. When she knocked, Roksana jumped. Nesta dropped her hands to the youngling’s shoulders in reassurance.

When Mas opened the door, Feyre smiled tentatively. “I don’t think we were properly introduced,” her sister said to the housekeeper as she stepped inside in a waft of pear and lilac. “I’m Feyre.”

Blushing, Mas kept her eyes downcast as she bobbed into a curtsey. “I know who you are, High Lady.”

“Feyre,” her sister insisted. “Please. How are you today?”

“I’m well,” Mas said, a blush staining her tan cheeks.

Nesta bit down on the inside of her cheek to stop in place of rolling her eyes. She was sitting in her usual spot at the corner of the U-shaped couch with Roksana sitting on the floor between her legs. When Feyre approached them, Roksana began to scrabble, her small wings flaring as if she were ready to take flight.

Nesta managed to run a hand over the little girl’s head without losing hold of the end of the plait she had been finishing. “You’re ok, Roksana,” Nesta assured the youngling. “This is Feyre, my sister.”

Roksana’s wary eyes followed Feyre as she walked to the hearth and held her hands out to the flames, but she settled back into her previous position so Nesta could finish weave the last few twists to her hair.

“How are you feeling?” Feyre asked tentatively, her softened expression moving from Roksana to Nesta’s midriff, before finally settling on her face. No doubt taking in the colour in her sister’s cheeks that was absent the day before.

“Sore,” Nesta said, because it was the truth. Then she turned her attention back to Roksana. “Now,” she said to the youngling, “what colour ribbon are we going to choose today?”

Roksana pointed silently to a ribbon the colour of pine.

“And what letter does the word ‘green’ start with?” Nesta urged.

Roksana twisted to look up at Nesta. For a moment, she thought Roksana would refuse to speak, but then she mumbled, “Guh.”

“Very good,” Nesta praised with a nod. “Perhaps we can ask Feyre to pass the ribbon.”

Eyes sparkling, Feyre picked up a red ribbon from the collection littering the pine coffee table and asked Roksana, “This one?”

Roksana shook her head.

“Silly Feyre,” Nesta chided. She tickled her finger across Roksana’s chubby cheek as if she were erasing the little girl’s somber expression. To Nesta’s relief, the beginning of a smile promised to bloom across the youngling’s face at the touch. Nesta was thankful to Feyre for playing. Roksana’s eyes weren’t as haunted as they had been yesterday and Nesta was determined to keep it that way. “She doesn’t know the difference between green and red, does she, Roksana?”

No giggle but that small, secret smile widened slightly as Feyre passed Nesta the right ribbon.

“You look lovely,” Nesta told Roksana, her heart twisting as the little girl glowed. “Why don’t you go and show Mas your new hair?”

Feyre smiled as Roksana scampered off, her wings bobbing behind her. Then she turned back to Nesta and produced a letter from the folds of her cloak.

“From Elain,” Feyre said, handing the envelope to Nesta. “She sends her well wishes. She wanted to see you today, but there’s a consul meeting with the lords. Will you attend with me?”

“Yes, I’ll come,” Nesta replied, easing her body off the couch in a movement that she knew to be stiff.

Feyre eyed her as Nesta eased her headband over her head with a wince. She had opted for leathers again today, and although it had been a trial for both Mas and Nesta to get her into her them, Nesta was thankful for it. She was wearing her favourite pair, the material stretched from hours of fighting so that it moulded her body like a second skin. She fastened a midnight blue cloak around her body, the edging lined with soft, dappled fur, and tried not to notice how similar she looked to her sister.

Feyre was also wearing leathers, the close-fitting material complimenting her long limbs and the elegant shape of her body. Around her neck, she had fastened the black leather clasps of a thick silver cloak lined with white fur.

Her hair was the only difference to Nesta. Whereas Mas had braided Nesta’s hair into a bun held in place by a woven plait that ran from the right of her hairline, Feyre’s golden strands were weaved into a tight braid that ran from her crown to the very ends.

Even so, there was no mistaking that they were sister’s.

Thankful that she hadn’t tried to thread her arms through her coat, Nesta reached stiffly for the door handle.

“I can winnow us, if you like,” Feyre said carefully, before Nesta had the chance to bear the house to the elements. No doubt her sister had clocked her grimace.

The old Nesta — the girl angry beyond measure — would have turned her sister down, merely because conceding that someone had dissected how she was feeling made her feel too vulnerable. But Nesta needed to change. Wanted to… to a point.

So, she nodded shortly. “I don’t think I can walk that far.”

Then Nesta turned to Mas, who had emerged by the alcove to see them off. Roksana peeked from behind Mas’s legs, a ring of chocolate around her mouth.

“I’ll come and meet you at the camp later,” Nesta told the housekeeper. “Shall I bring anything? Blankets and warm clothes?”

But Mas only shook her head. “We have plenty. Emerie — the shopkeeper — bought armfuls of blankets and clothes for the widows last night. Durkhanai used-“

“I know,” Nesta interrupted, not able to hear about Durkhanai when the wound was so fresh.

Mas did not scold Nesta for the interruption. She only smiled sadly and waved the two of them off, before disappearing back into the kitchen with Roksana at her heels.

“Roksana is an orphan?” Feyre asked Nesta, glancing sideways at her sister after they had winnowed into the midst of the camp.

Ahead of them, beyond the pointed tents, Nesta could see the outlines of the sparring plateaus. Shadowy, winged figures moved within them, the clang of steel and grunts carrying on the wind.

Letting go of her sister’s hand, Nesta settled her headband over her ears so it was snug. Despite her determination to dull any unwanted noise, she had a feeling that today was going to try her ability to succumb to battle fatigue.

“Yes,” Nesta replied shortly. But then there was a beat of a pause in which Nesta realised that Feyre was right; communication was an issue for them. So, she elaborated, “Mas fostered Roksana when she was first brought to the widows camp. When Cassian found out, he employed Roksana alongside Mas to keep her out of harsher work.”

Nesta had seen the little girls who were set to work in the kitchens, or worse, the laundry rooms. The latter was the harshest of the camp jobs, and the younglings were often required to stamp and wring cloth for long durations of time until their feet and fingers blistered from the friction. It was always easy to tell apart the orphans from the other girls. Their faces were more gaunt, their clothing ragged, their eyes hollow. They looked exhausted and Nesta had always left feeling so outraged she wanted to set the laundry houses alight.

Feyre looked at Nesta sharply. “But Roksana can��t be more than five.”

Nesta’s lips tightened until they turned white. “No,” was all she said.

Surprise wound through Nesta as Feyre took her hand. “Will you show me the camp when you are better?” Feyre asked. “I would like to get a better sense of how things are run here. Children should not be working—”

“There are many injustices here, not just to the younglings,” Nesta clipped, because she could not stand by and allow her sister to think that was the only twisted cultural tradition in the camps.

But then, slowly, she nodded in agreement. If Feyre could make change happen in the camps, then Nesta wasn’t going to let their difficult past get in the way of that. “I will show you,” she conceded. “Mas can help, too. She is like a mother figure to many of the females.”

Silence fell again, but this time it was not uncomfortable. They continued to walk through the snow towards the large tent Nesta knew was reserved for war counsel. It was huge, the canvas at least three times the size of the other tents.

“Do you think the rebellion has weight?” Feyre asked her sister. “Do you think the Illyrian’s have a reason to want a different leader?”

It was a plea for honesty and it was not in Nesta’s nature to lie. So, she said, “I think the Illyrians are a proud race who are ingrained in tradition, but they desperately need help in how they restructure the injustices in their communities. They need to do it without losing the elements of their culture which make them who they are.”

Then Nesta changed the subject, because she could not sense him. Had not sensed him since she’d woken that morning, and it was starting to unnerve her, even though logically, she knew he must be in the tent with the other lords. “Where is Cassian?”

Usually, Nesta would not ask outright, but the more things shifted between them the less she cared. There was a part of her that needed to see him. Did he not feel the same? She supposed she had driven him away one time to many. Was that not what he had said yesterday?

If I remember correctly, it was always you trying to rid yourself of me.

Sometimes, Nesta thought the both of them were traversing down a path that was tangled in miscommunication and mistranslated actions.

It was true that Nesta had told Cassian to leave her alone after the war, but had he not chosen someone else well before that? And despite his dying promise to her, Cassian had left the battlefield with Mor rather than her. That had spoken volumes for Nesta. It was not how the love story was supposed to play out in her head. It told her they were nothing but a tie strung between them, rather than being motivated by true feeling.

Even now, the thought made Nesta angry… Yet, the way Cassian looked at her sometimes, his eyes tender and his touch reverent… It was almost enough to convince her that there was something deeper.

They may be magnets but if that attraction was severed, would there by anything left or would they both part ways without a glance over their shoulders?

“Cassian has been with Rhys all morning,” Feyre told Nesta. “Azriel brought news this morning and Rhys disappeared from Velaris in the early hours.”

Nesta did not want to imagine her sister’s mate curled and sleepy around Feyre, dragging himself unwillingly out of bed. Did not want to hear about her sister existing in a home that had been made without her. A home built specifically for every member of their inner circle but her.

And Nesta had wanted to be left alone initially, but then to see how it played out… to see her erased as her sisters started anew and Nesta was forced to attend…

Well, it turned out that Nesta had not wanted that at all.

“What was Azriel’s news?” Nesta asked.

“I’m not sure,” Feyre admitted. “Rhys left whilst I was asleep.”

“Didn’t he speak to you mind-to-mind?” Nesta asked with a frown. Her sister and her mate were always doing that with one another, especially in the company of others. If Nesta were the sort, it would have made her increasingly paranoid. Instead, it just made her irritable.

Feyre nodded. “He only asked me to come to Illyria and see if you would join us in the war-tent at midday. He said there was an update.” She glanced sideways at Nesta. “It’s harder to speak to one another when the distance is great,” she elaborated. “It’s like we’re speaking under water. The sound is muffled, so he made it brief.”

Together they stepped up to the huge war tent. Feyre had fallen silent, as if Nesta had reminded her of her own abilities and she were conversing with her mate.

Nesta stared at the tent whilst Feyre’s eyes remained glazed. Stared at the black banner that flew from the top of the canvas, bearing a mountain with three silver stars above the monolith - Ramiel.

“Rhys says we are to go right in,” Feyre said finally. “They haven’t started yet.”

Inside, Nesta heard the rumble of low voices. It was not a comforting sound; rough and weathered, rather than Cassian’s gentle rumble that felt like a caress.

“Are you ready?” Feyre asked.

Nesta snorted. “What for?”

“The lords.”

A harsher snort. “I don’t care about them.”

Straightening her posture, Nesta drew up tall and formidable. Even though she knew every male in there would rival her in height, she would not allow herself to be intimidated. And she shouldn't be, not with the double-edged serpent which writhed inside her veins — her welcome friend.

Nesta allowed that power to seep from her fingers, testing it out, winding the mist until it was a string of fire around her wrists; a coiled, formidable whip.

Feyre’s lips twitched as if she were pleased to see her sister’s magic. She held up her own tattooed hand, showcasing the fire that she darted between her outstretched fingers.

Her smile was feline. “Let’s go.”

  The tent was surprisingly warm once Nesta had pushed through the heavy flaps. Roaring open steel fire pits crackled fiercely, lighting the canvas and the simple yet comfortable interior ochre.

In the centre of the tent was a large pine table with studded detail, and rather than strewn with maps, it was surrounded by low-backed chairs. In them were the local lords.

Nesta recognised some of the lords cruel faces as she strode inside, her long legs carrying her despite the bark of pain that bit at her side. A quick glance around the table told her that there were no spare chairs, but she kept walking anyway, as if she were nothing but certain in a tent full of testosterone and muscle.

“Good,” a smooth voice drawled — Rhys. “We’re all here.”

He was sat at the head of the table closest to the back of the tent, bedecked in his usual black rather than leathers. A modest crown was inlaid into his unruffled blue-black hair with such subtlety it seemed as if it were a part of him. It was twin to Feyre’s, the stone the colour of the midnight sky and the same as the jewel set into the ring on her sister’s finger — her mating ring.

It was a purposeful move to wear their crowns. Neither of them had done that the last time they had visited Illyria together. The day that Nesta had first met Devlon. When he had called her a witch. The thought amused her now. Her power jumped too, as if it was also entertained by the memory.

The mist wreathing around Nesta’s wrists thickened, gleaming silver.

When Nesta found Cassian, she stopped searching. He was decked out in full scaled leathers and his hair hung wild around him.

With the flickering flames bathing him in a warm glow, he looked indisputably rugged and fierce, but his eyes were on her wrists. Letting her walls fall away Nesta speared for him, just as Azriel had taught her. The method was easy, as if her magic was already seeking him out.

When Cassian’s hazel eyes darted to look at her face, a barely detectable light danced in them. And when her stomach filled with mirth and pride, she knew he was privy to her invisible move.

“What are they doing here?”

All amusement in Cassian’s eyes winked out, his irises turning dark as he snapped his head to the lord who had sneered.

The lord — like all of the most powerful Illyrian warriors — was tall, his entire body corded with unyielding, fierce muscle. Black ink peeked out of the armour at his neck and his hair was close-cropped to his scalp, which was flecked with white scars. His eyes were depthless and such a dark brown in some lights they appeared obsidian, his irises practically blending with his pupils.

They were fixated on Nesta.

Nesta allowed the lord to glare at her. She stared right back, her expression blank but her eyes burned.

He looked unmistakably like his son, Ragar.

“Your High Lady and her sister will be joining today’s counsel, given their involvement in yesterday’s events,” Rhys said calmly, but nobody could mistake the sudden chill of starlight eternal which filled the tent.

A growl of disagreement from the lord. Grumbled murmurs from the other males also ran around the tent.

“A witch has no place on this counsel,” the lord replied bitingly.

Nesta did not let herself rise to the comment. She did not let her power leap to assert authority. Did not need to, even as Cassian’s snarl whipped around them with such ferocity that the fires sputtered.

And then, to everyone’s surprise — before Rhys or Cassian could even open their mouths — Devlon said coldly, “I believe the witch has earned her place on this counsel more than you have, Albar. She is the reason we don’t have more deaths and casualties.”

When Devlon got to his feet, his scaled armour clinked at the movement. Broad wings flared to balance him as he pulled out his chair. And rather than offer it to his High Lady, he gestured for Nesta to sit with a jerk of his chin.

Silence fell but Nesta only drew up taller. Did not allow herself to wince as she seated herself at the table. She felt Cassian’s concern anyway. Slammed up her ice to block him out. She didn’t need the distraction of his emotions right now, not when she wanted to remain collected.

Not when she was trying to block out the sounds of the roaring fires from the open pits.

Rhys waved a hand and two more chairs appeared around the table for Devlon and Feyre. The war lord sat in the chair beside Nesta, just as Cassian settled himself in a chair one place down to allow Feyre to sit next to her mate.

Another flick of the hand silenced the fires. Some of the lords frowned in confusion.

Rhys did not rest his violet eyes on Nesta. She was relieved.

“Since when have we allowed a witch to live amongst us,” Albar sneered, clearly not finished. “We are Illyrian’s. We do not accept outsiders, even if this bastard has a preference for one.”

The way in which Cassian leant forward over the table was slow, but every single lord turned to look at him as he braced his hands on the wood. His seven siphons gleamed threateningly and his face… it was brimming with thunderous calm.

Cassian opened his mouth to speak, his hazel eyes flashing, his wings rustling, but Nesta stopped him before words left his mouth.

She did not need someone to fight her battles. And Cassian did know that, but she also knew that Cassian could not help himself in his need to defend her. She was not angry at him for it. Did not judge. She would do the same. If anyone dared to speak ill of him she would burn them until they were nothing but cinders.

The knowledge was terrifying and soothing at the same time. An irrevocable conflict.

Nesta’s chin rose, determined and unintimidated. “I am not a witch and I belong to no-one but myself.”

Ten pairs of dark eyes snapped back to her, but Nesta acted as if she were entirely unfazed.

“You’re unnatural,” Albar said, his voice cold.

Nesta expected the words to spear home, but they merely bounced off her leathers as if they were made of nothing but a ball of yarn.

“Then I suggest you don’t get on my bad side,” Nesta clipped, holding up her fingers to showcase the mist that was moving with more intent, like a serpent waiting to strike with venomous, pointed teeth.

Albar bristled. But then, with a sneer he sat back, his horrible, dark eyes fixated on her hands. Nesta rested them on the table, kept her power burning slowly. A visible reminder that she would not yield.

“Now we are all here,” Rhys said, “we can begin.”

His violet eyes scanned the table as he spoke, even as he remained sat back in his chair, a powerful king relaxed amongst his subjects. He recapped over yesterday’s events, called in Feyre and Nesta to comment when it came to the start of the attack.

“Devlon,” Rhys said when they had finished recalling the ambush. “Report on the gaps in the patrol.”

A tense silence followed, but the war-lord did not snarl. He only said in his deep, rough voice, “Three of Windhaven’s warriors are missing. Their absence is the reason we were not alerted to the kerits sooner. They were supposed to be patrolling that side of the pass.”

All of the lords sat up straighter.

“Who?” One of them barked. He had a nose that had been so broken, it lay flat and twisted on his face. Nesta had heard Cassian call him Laggar.

“Druis, Alaksandar and Hakkir,” Devlon replied. “Good soldiers. Excellent flyers. Expected to perform in the Rite this year.”

Another of the lords grunted. Nesta recognised him. He was often at Devlon’s side in the sparring ring. His name was Saker. “All bastards.”

“Should we be surprised,” Albar drawled, “that bastards are the reason we have thirteen dead Illyrian’s lying on the pyres today?” He paused as his eyes tracked their way across the table to Devlon. “You have always been soft on the bastards in this camp, Devlon. Look where places of responsibility have gotten us when bastards should not have been elevated above the ranking of foot soldier-“

Nesta could not help but cut a glance at Cassian. His jaw was clenched, but he remained silent. She melted her ice a little, reached for him, felt his anger simmering in her stomach. She contemplated sending an emotion back to him, to let him know that she was not standing for these arrogant males either. That she sympathised, but Cassian was already leaning forward.

The gesture made Albar pause.

“Perhaps you should not be surprised,” Cassian replied quietly, “that bastards may have finally become fed up with those who have cast them out and left this camp all together.”

Cassian’s voice was deathly calm. He did not move from where he was sitting, but the flickering flames of the pit fires emphasised his dark eyebrows and his angular jaw.

It made him appear as sharp and dangerous as freshly forged steel.

And to Nesta’s surprise, not one of the lords opened their mouths. They only cast their eyes downwards, to the siphons gleaming with promise on Cassian’s scaled armour.

“For all we know, the males could be dead,” Devlon answered, his chair creaking as he sat back in his chair. “Lord Slat and I already have males scouting the areas for signs of the males.”

“They are warriors with no honour,” Laggar sneered. “We—“

But Rhys cut Laggar off. “It has not yet been determined why the warriors weren't in the skies. We will not cast judgement until they are found. I believe that is what we call a fair trial, Laggar,” Rhysand said smoothly.

A snort from a number of the camp lords. Only Devlon and Slat did not grunt with derision.

In fact, the latter male tilted his head at Rhys, his round, beady eyes boring into his High Lord as if he were trying to read him. The male was shorter than the others, his hair cropped close to his head, his body leaner but still packed with muscle. His figure was not unlike Lorrian’s — built for the skies — and on the inside of his right wrist, he wore a tattoo; a glowing siphon encased by huge, mighty wings. A symbol that marked him as part of the aerial unit. On the backs of his hands, his four siphons gleamed emerald.

More powerful than the other lords, who wore a maximum of three siphons on the backs of their hands. As powerful as Devlon.

When Slat spoke, his voice was thick, “If you are searching for the males, you are searching for bodies. If they are strong flyers, they will be long gone by now. The skies will have left no trace of them.”

“Even Illyrian’s can’t fly forever,” Feyre said. “They have to rest at some point. It’s been snowing. It will be hard for three warriors to hide their tracks.”

“Not if it’s been snowing,” Albar countered, his voice thick with derision. As if Feyre was stupid.

Nesta bit back a snarl, but she allowed her fingers to spark silver and her whip to glow. A warning. Nobody spoke to her sister like that, unless it was Nesta herself.

But Feyre did not back down. “Especially if it has been snowing. They will have left tracks that can be spotted easily enough from the skies. It hasn’t snowed since yesterday afternoon.”

“What I think we really need to discuss is why warriors would go missing just before a kerit attack,” Slat announced.

“As General Cassian has already insinuated, we are considering it a possibility that the attacks might have been manufactured,” Rhys admitted, arranging his hands so his fingers were steepled in front of his body, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair. He, too, was seated in a low-backed chair, having chosen to wear wings today rather than arrive without. It was a deliberate move. It showed the Illyrians what their High Lord had in common with his subjects rather than how he was different.

Nesta would give her sister’s mate that. He was not stupid. For the most part, he thought things through.

A low murmur ran through the lords.

“Kerits have never attacked our camps before,” Cassian elaborated, when Rhys did not say anything further. Nesta wondered if it was because he was giving Cassian the ability to assert authority. “It is strange that it has happened across three separate camps in a matter of weeks.”

“I’ll be damned if Lord Beron isn’t behind it,” Albar spat, his fist coming down on the pine table so hard the table shook. “Forktail has never had any qualms about organising raids on Windhaven in the past—”

“If Forktail has had no qualms about acting on past feuds,” Nesta said coldly, unsurprised by the lack of intelligence of the males, “then they would not have beasts attack the camps. They would do it themselves.”

A flicker of pride wound through her, despite her walls, but Nesta did not glance Cassian’s way.

“Lady Nesta is right,” Rhys said, before any of the lords could open their mouths to speak. “We cannot assume that this is an attack from another camp. We are considering external forces might be at work. With that in mind, Devlon will be organising fiercer patrols around the camp and it is time for us to erect tougher boundaries around the perimeter.”

Rhys continued, “Myself, my mate and others will be putting protective shields in place for each of the camps. We will not lose any more unnecessary lives when there’s a simple solution to stopping the kerits from attacking again. Your General will work with those on patrols. My spymaster will be present in the camp over the next few weeks questioning warriors.”

“We do not need your fancy shields,” Devlon snapped. “We are Illyrians. We are born to protect. We do not need your magic-“

“Females died because your protection failed,” Nesta interjected with a snarl, her head snapping to look Devlon straight in the eye. Her voice was brimming — shaking — with fervour.

She felt her emotional shields falter, her anger too sharp and ruthless to be stifled. Nesta thought of Durkhanai’s lifeless eyes and the cook’s broken body. Of Mas’s trailing guts as she lay in a pool of blood, Roksana’s hands inside of the housekeeper as she tried to stop the bleeding. “They did not know how to defend themselves yet they did not hesitate to protect your young.” Mist was running rings around her limbs, her whip glowed bright but did not burn — not unless she willed it.

Nesta leant forward. So her face was so close to the war-lord’s that her breath touched his cheek. Devlon did not flinch. Did not move. His dark eyes stared right back at her, as she said, “You will allow your High Lord to erect protective shields around this camp.”

Slowly, dangerously, Nesta sat back in her chair, never breaking eye contact with the war-lord.

And then, to Nesta’s surprise, Devlon gave a sharp nod as he pushed back his chair. The legs scraped on the low wooden platform despite the rugs atop it. “Put the shields in place,” he told Rhys coldly. “We’re done here.”

And then he left the tent, the other lords trailing behind him.

  Cassian found Nesta the moment she left the tent. Rhys and Feyre had disappeared to put the protective barriers in place, winnowing from inside the tent as the lords started to leave.

Nesta had not wanted to remain in the war-tent. Sitting straight for so long had the dull pain in her stomach elevating to an insistent throb, so she had risen stiffly with the other lords and left in search of fresh air.

“How are you feeling?”

Cassian’s voice was a low, welcome rumble in her ear — the only male voice that day that hadn’t made her power itch to escape. Nesta turned into that warmth that always seemed to radiate from him, to find him looking down at her with eyes that swam gold.

“Fine,” she replied. “Sore,” she added, when his expression didn’t change but his wings rustled.

For a moment, Nesta remembered the sleepy memory of a curled wing and even breathing close to her. Had he slept beside her? She wasn’t sure if it had been a dream or real. It had felt real, but she had taken a lot of sedatives and her subconscious had conjured images from both dreams and nightmares.

Cassian’s dark features tightened into a slight frown. For a moment, she thought he was going to suggest she go home and rest, but he only nodded shortly.

“You didn’t tell them about the carrion,” Nesta said.

Cassian threw an invisible bubble around them as they walked. “No,” he replied. “Any information like that could strengthen feuds between the camps. Illyrian’s are hot-headed at the best of times, we don't want to add kindle to the fire before we know who is responsible for leading the kerits to the camps.”

Nesta nodded to indicate she had heard him.

“If the missing warriors have sought allegiance elsewhere, I can’t say I blame them,” Cassian admitted quietly. He was staring away from her, his features twisted. “If I had not had Rhys and an allegiance with his court, I might have been bought when I was younger. I was outcast from such a young age… Those males cannot be blamed for hoping they might belong elsewhere.”

Nesta’s insides squeezed at the concession. She curled her fingers around Cassian’s arm of scaled armour, forcing him to stop and look at her. “Nobody should be outcast,” she told him. “It is not wrong for you to admit what might have been, or to understand another’s point of view. That is not a weakness, it is a strength.”

Cassian looked down to where she clutched at him before he met her gaze. Nesta did not back away, made her expression as earnest as possible.

“They are burning the pyres in a moment,” Cassian told Nesta, casting his gaze to the front-left side of the mountain pass. “Would you like to come?

Nesta swallowed. She thought of the cook… of sweet, beautiful Durkhanai who had not deserved the fate the damned Cauldron had dealt her. “Yes,” she said.

Cassian gestured with his arm to indicate that they should continue to walk to the main path that cut through the camp. “Devlon’s changed his attitude towards you.”

Nesta snorted softly, but then she admitted, “I don’t know why.”

“I do,” Cassian replied, but he didn’t expand further.

Nesta took a moment to study his face. Shadows ringed beneath his eyes, his tan skin a shade paler than usual. “Did you sleep?”

If he were surprised by the question, Cassian did not let it show. Nor did he indicate that she had thrown him with the sudden change of subject. “For a bit,” he replied.

“You needn’t have tended to me, I would have been fine,” Nesta told him, knowing somehow that his exhaustion was partly her fault.

But Cassian shook his head. “You had me worried,” he admitted eventually. “The sedative gave you nightmares but you were in such a deep sleep I couldn’t reach you.”

Nesta fought the red that wanted to flush across her face. She hoped that she had not been speaking in her sleep. Did not like anyone seeing her that vulnerable, not even Cassian.

“You settled after a while,” Cassian added, after another pause that had stretched out for a beat too long. And then to her dismay, a stain appeared on both of his cheeks.

She watched him drag his gaze away from her to stare resolutely at the ground beneath his feet.

Oh. Not a dream then. Cassian had slept beside her. Had arced his wing over her.

Nesta remembered how safe she had felt when she’d woken to a dome of umber. How the gentle, even breathing had lulled her straight back under. How she had fallen into dreams rather than nightmares.

“Thank you,” Nesta said quietly, the words barely audible, but Cassian dipped his chin to indicate that he had heard her.

Then she stopped, a sudden realisation hitting her. “Do I need to change? I - What do I wear to a funeral in Illyria?”

But Cassian’s eyes only softened as they took in what she was wearing. “You’re fine,” he replied, his head tilting slightly to consider her. “Warriors wear armour to funerals.”

  The widows would be given a warriors funeral, Cassian had informed Nesta as he walked her to the front-left of the mountain pass. He led her on a route that she had not taken before, but which Cassian seemed to know with his eyes closed, his feet anticipating rock and uneven ground before it rose up to meet their feet.

 Usually the burning of widows did not draw an audience or demand a ceremony; they were seen as a stain on society, a blemish of which Illyrians were glad to rid themselves. Yet… the act of the widows. The way in which they had sacrificed their lives for the younglings… Devlon had not protested when Rhys had ordered they were given an honourable send off. He had only grunted to show he agreed before he stalked off to make the necessary arrangements.

Sentiments were changing in the Windhaven camp, Cassian told Nesta with detectable hope. It was a positive sign, even if the events leading up to it had been unimaginable.

After a long while of walking along the rocky wall of the mountain pass, a clearing petered out to their left. It was full of too-small ramshackle tents and fae-made fire-pits fashioned by scooped out earth and a circle of craggy stones around the perimeter which no doubt acted as makeshift shields from the battering winds that Illyria was known for.

Somehow Nesta knew what it was without Cassian saying a word, even though the camp was deserted.

“Is this where you lived?” Nesta asked.

Cassian did not stop. “Yes.”

He shrugged, even though Nesta could tell by the tightness of his shoulders that the memory was painful for him. Because of the trauma or the reminder of what he thought to be his own unworthiness, Nesta wasn’t sure.

“This is where Rhys found me and dragged me from my tent,” Cassian expanded, pointing to a spot by a cluster of bare-looking pine trees. “The mud is frozen at the moment because of the snow, but when it rained, the forest floor would become waterlogged. The pine trees provided us bastards with the best shelter against the elements.” Nesta surveyed the thin, red trunk and the pine needles above that couldn’t do much to protect the run-down looking tents below it.

“Anyway,” Cassian continued with a shake of his head, as if he were ridding himself of an unwanted memory. “Rhys took me to the house he and his mother were living in. She was livid, but she told me to get in the tub to bathe or I could go back out in the cold. She never let me leave, after that. Rhys’s mother was full of soft-fire, but she had grown up low-born and knew what it was to suffer, so she gave me clean clothes and a bed to sleep in. I never left, after that.”

Cassian’s darkened expression had caved to make way for something smoother. Yet, it was laced with a sadness.

“She sounds lovely,” Nesta said, not knowing quite what to say. For once, she did not avert her gaze from him. Instead, their eyes locked and something started to turn inside of her. Not her power. But as if a different key were turning in another lock, opening rather than closing.

“She was,” Cassian corrected, and then he looked away, the key jamming in place. “The bastards tents are near the pyres. Whenever there was a funeral, if the wind was blowing in the wrong direction, I’d crawl out of my tent to find the ground covered in ash.”

Horror twisted through Nesta. At the thought of little boys with nobody to love them having to crawl through the ash of flesh and bone. “That’s horrible.”

But Cassian only shrugged and gave her that crooked smile of his, the one he wore when he spoke about the injustices inflicted upon his race by his race. “Yes,” he agreed. He tilted his head in the direction of the trees that ran along the mountain wall. “It’s not much farther.”

Nesta allowed him to lead her across the forest floor through the snow and pine needles. Eventually, the trees cleared and a wide ledge jutted out from the mountain pass, suspending them in midair.

Crowds and crowds of Illyrians had already gathered. No, Nesta corrected, crowds and crowds of females. And it was not just widows and female orphans. Nesta recognised the the faces of females who worked in the laundrette, in the kitchens, as seamstress’s…

Nesta spied Emerie too, standing a little away from the crowds by the mountain wall. Her unusually blank expression was twisted with grief, her tan cheeks stained with dried tears, her eyes red. Durkhanai had worked in her shop… Emerie probably knew the orphan better than anyone else.

At the bottom of the huge pyre, Nesta spotted Rhys and Feyre. Devlon was nearby speaking to Slat. The other lords were nowhere to be seen. Nesta was not surprised, but she couldn’t help the fury that heated her blood at the knowledge that they did not deem the widows worthy of a send off. It clouded her mind, until the fear she had not yet admitted to herself was pushed far, far back: that the sound of the fire would trigger her trauma.

Cassian seemed to know what she was thinking, because his eyes flicked briefly to her headband, as if he were tempted to make sure it was properly secured over her ears. But eventually, he merely jutted his chin towards the bottom of the pyre and led them through the crowds to where Rhys and Feyre stood.

Not long after they had arrived, Nesta spied Mas weaving her way through the Fae with little Roksana in tow. The youngling was clinging to the housekeeper’s hand with an apprehensive look on her face, as if she had witnessed a funeral before and it brought back dark memories. She was hanging back slightly from Mas, her footsteps heavy, her little wings drooping…

Mas did not smile as she approached, but she did not look down. Did not become subservient. Her back was straight, her short, choppy hair ruffled by the breeze. Her eyes were determined in a way that Nesta had never witnessed before

“Masak,” Cassian greeted, his voice low in Nesta’s ear before he bent down to kiss the housekeeper on both cheeks.

Nesta did not fail to hear the murmur that went around the crowd, as the General of the Night Court’s armies greeted a low-born widow not with civility, but clear affection.

“High Lord,” Masak said to Rhys after Cassian pulled back, dipping into a low curtsey. Nesta suspected the two had met many times before. That it was that familiarity that allowed Mas to bury the gender role dictated by her culture. “Thank you for sending off the females this way.”

Rhysand dipped his chin, and to Nesta’s surprise, a dark shadow passed over his features. “Of course, it’s the least we can do. I am sorry we could not prevent their deaths.”

Mas nodded shortly. Nesta watched her wings rustle, as if she were nervous, and then she said, “I would like to speak to the crowds. To the females, before you light the pyre.”

Beside Nesta, Cassian stilled. His chest was almost pressed against her right arm, and he was closer — much closer — than he usually was. Nesta assumed it was him being over-protective. She knew she had terrified him when she had collapsed yesterday. Had felt his unleashed panic, the sensation so fierce that it had practically consumed her. Had been so overcome with it that he had not even bothered to contain it within his shields.

Even so, Nesta knew he had dialled back the territorial side of him that had wanted to snarl at everyone and everything. Knew that he had made the conscious effort to reign it back because he thought she would not like it.

Yet… to know someone felt that strongly about her that they were on edge enough to fight off any threat that might compromise her safety… It was an unusual feeling, to have someone care about Nesta that way.

She didn’t find that she hated it. Perhaps because she knew she would have done the same thing for Cassian. Would not have hesitated to burn the entire camp if it meant he would be safe and well.

If they ever had to go, they would go together rather than apart. It was an unconscious choice, but a choice all the same.

Rhysand’s expression flickered with surprise for a fraction of a second, but then he bowed his head and held out a hand to the crowd. “It would be my honour.”

With a flick of his hand, magic shot from his palms and a bubble slid into place with a gentle glow of violet.

The crowd quieted.

Mas turned to Nesta, passed her Roksana’s sticky hand. Gently, Mas cupped her palms to Nesta’s cheeks, stared deeply into her eyes, as if she were able to see directly into Nesta’s soul and loved every part of it, fire and steel and all. She kissed each of Nesta’s cheeks in turn, just as she had done to Cassian, before she turned and stepped out in front of the expectant crowd.

A surprised murmur ran through the sea of bodies, but the females stood up taller, eager to listen…

“My fellow widows,” Mas started, and a quiet hush immediately fell over the crowds. Rhys had clearly done something with his magic to ensure Mas’s voice rang loud and clear, so even those at the back could hear her. “And my fellow females,” Mas corrected as her eyes ran over faces upon faces, not just from the widows camp but from Windhaven in general. “Today we remember the females who gave their lives for our safety. For the females who offered themselves for the pyre so we could walk free.”

Pausing, Mas took a deep breath. For the briefest of seconds, her dark eyes settled onto Nesta, but then she continued to speak. “Yesterday I was blessed with a new life, and with it, a fresh perspective — a chance to start again. Yesterday, the widows camp was attacked by kerits. Us widows, and the female orphans who live with us, were targeted first because we were banished up a mountain for no other crime than that our husbands or parents had passed. Our isolated camp was subject to the harshest of weather conditions and the most treacherous of paths, not to mention the least safe location in the camp should we be open to attack. Without our High Lady and Lady Nesta arriving early on the scene to fight off the beasts, many of us would not have made it to safety and our death toll would be far greater. It is thanks to them,” Mas said fiercely, looking to Nesta and Feyre in turn, “that so many of us are alive and breathing.”

Mas stopped speaking to survey the crowds, her hazel eyes falling on face after face after face.

No-one spoke.

When Nesta glanced at the sea of fae, she saw that each and every female was fixated on Masak, their expressions stricken with grief and… something else.

“I have been a mother to many of you,” Mas continued, holding out her hands to encompass those that had gathered. “I have taken you under my wing and put clothes on your back. I have never wanted anything in return. But today I do. I ask you to wake before dawn tomorrow and meet me in the sparring ring with a General who cares if we live or die and a High Fae who slew beast after beast to protect us. Two Fae, who like us, know what it is to suffer and who have emerged triumphant despite it.”

Mas was eyeing the crowd with a determination that Nesta had never seen. In the grey light, her eyes danced with a strength Nesta had not witnessed before.

For once, the housekeeper stood tall, the ancient lines of wisdom on her face powerful and indisputably fierce.

“And,” Mas continued. She had fallen into a rhythm now, her voice enchanting — addictive. “I ask that when you travel to others camps, you tell the females of what happened here yesterday. Of how we have suffered but emerged strong. Of how together, we will learn how to defend ourselves, to ensure we are not mutilated or beaten down, or cast out. Of how we will honour those who died by no longer allowing ourselves to be disposable or be told that we are not worthy, because we are. And the next time males or beasts try to knock us down, we will fight and we will win.”

The crowd roared with sudden chatter; the females who had once been silent beyond measure, sparked into conversation, as if life had been breathed into their bodies for the first time. But when Rhysand — their High Lord — walked towards the housekeeper and handed her an unlit torch, they fell silent again with a wave of hush.

For a moment, Mas merely stared at Rhysand. Then she looked down at the torch he had placed into her hand.

Nesta didn’t know what fuelled her to do it. It was as if her fingers moved independently of her body, the digits flicking with an expertise she did not know she had. Silver flames crackled across the clearing in a contained whip of heat. It struck the torch’s cloth with a precision even Nesta was surprised by — that she knew, if she and Cassian had been in training, he would have praised her for.

The torch roared to life in Mas’s hand. Silver flames licked into the fresh, untamed air of Illyria, but then, somehow, Nesta willed them to be silent and they obeyed. As if her power had rolled over at her will, subservient. As if finally, Nesta had understood that her magic was not separate from her, but part of who she was, and as such, bent to her will.

Mas’s widened eyes connected with Nesta’s, but Nesta only nodded, her chin dipping in encouragement.  Her heart was bursting, full to the brim with love and pride for a female who was brave beyond measure, despite the atrocities life had dealt her.

The sensation melted through the icy cage Nesta held fierce around her emotions as if it were made of nothing but air, hitting her square in the chest, but Nesta did not try to stop it. Instead, she allowed herself to truly feel. Let her barriers fall away so she could be overcome with it. Throwing her magic out over the crowds like a fishermen casting a net out at sea, Nesta allowed it all to hit her. And as the awe, grief and determination of the inspired females in the crowds wound its way into her gut, Nesta realised that her gift was not just a curse. That it could be beautiful.

Biting back a sob, Nesta stood tall, gathering Roksana so the little girl was hugging tight to her legs. Cassian’s hand came to grip Nesta’s upper arm, but when she craned her neck to look up at him, he was not looking at her but at Mas. His grip remained tight as together, they watched their foster mother — the mother to so many vulnerable Illyrians — lower the torch to the pyre.

Nobody spoke as the flames took hold, even as the pyres blazed with silent silver. Instead, they all stood and watched the dancing flames submerge the cloth bound figures.

Cassian did not drop his hand. Did not loosen his grip, as if he were too caught up in the moment to catch himself.

His dream, for so long, finally coming to fruition. The dream he had held since he had learned of his mother’s fate. Another female who had been discarded and deemed unworthy, even as she had brought life to the world.

Nesta knew all that without him having to speak. Unthinkingly, Nesta brought the hand that was not pressing Roksana close upwards, so that she could slide her icy fingers against his warm ones.

And she squeezed, just once, before she let them drop.

  At dawn the next morning Cassian, Nesta, Devlon, Lorrian, and a few of the camps best instructors watched Mas walk to the sparring ring. Behind her was a stream of females both young and old.

They were not just from the widows camp. Nesta spied Emerie and the female who worked in the apothecary. The females who worked as seamstresses, in the kitchens… No camp-matrons, but Nesta hadn’t expected that. They were too deeply entrenched and favoured to sacrifice the positions they have no doubt battled for in their own way.

“They’re determined,” Lorrian murmured to Cassian. He clapped his friend briefly on the back, as if he too knew what this meant to him. “It’s a good sign.”

Cassian only nodded to indicate he had heard, his features tightening. Nesta knew it was because he felt too much. Because he didn’t know how to arrange his expression. Because he had never dreamt that his vision for the females of Illyria might come true.

Nesta could feel all his emotions churning around in her stomach. Had let herself feel them. After the funeral, Nesta had not stacked her ice walls back to form an icy cage around her heart. Instead, she had stacked them into a wall heigh enough to block out lower level emotions. Any emotion that surged would still reach her, but Nesta had found the new height allowed her to filter out the lower-level intensities.

“You will demonstrate?” Cassian asked Nesta.

He turned his head to face her. Concern was etched upon his face and his eyes darted to her stomach, which was clad in her favourite leather’s.

Nesta’s injury had faded away with another night's sleep, and she had woken that morning feeling refreshed and new, as if she had not suffered major internal bleeding at all.

“If you like,” Nesta agreed, even though she had been going to offer anyway. Was not in a million years intending to watch on the sidelines.

“Please,” Cassian said.

Nesta blinked. In all the time that she had known him, Cassian rarely said please. When he had, it was usually when he was begging her.

Please talk to me. Please don't shut me out. Please eat, Nesta. 

But this was different. It was not Cassian simply asking her to help him, but telling her what she wanted more than anything. What she had always wanted.

You are useful. You are needed.

So she just nodded, unable to find the words to respond verbally.

The males soon set to work, splitting the females into three groups dependent on age. Then Cassian started to teach. He explained that they would start with self-defence, talked through each move, demonstrating each one with Nesta. When he finished talking through the counter-assaults, he had the groups split up into the three separate training rings to begin their practice.

Today, the females would focus on learning to strike down their opponents with a forearm to the neck, followed by a hard strike to the stomach with an elbow. When they had mastered that, Cassian had informed Nesta during their walk to the sparring rings, they would move on to harder moves.

Cassian had taken his time explaining to the females why each move was important. Why every Illyrian who trained in the rings mastered the self-defensive moves first. Whilst Cassian spoke, Nesta had scanned the females faces; many of their expressions were grim, as if they had suffered from attacks before.

Nesta tried not to wonder how many females had been raped or beaten. It hurt too much, so she concentrated instead on the look of determination on their faces. It blended in with the apprehension, but not one of them walked away.

Afterwards, when the females had finished for the day, Lorrian came over to join Cassian and Nesta where they stood just inside the entrance of the main training ring. The Colonel had been training the eldest females with Slat, a lord who Lorrian appeared to have a terse but amicable relationship with. Nesta supposed that being part of Windhaven’s aerial unit, Slat respected Lorrian’s expertise in the skies. Just the night prior, Cassian had informed Nesta over dinner that Slat had fought in the most recent war against Hybern, but that he had escaped the fate of the Cauldron’s blast because of an injury to his left wing, which had forced him to remain in the war-camp.

“How many females have had their wings cut?” Cassian asked Lorrian as the Colonel stomped through the mud. The weather was still bitterly cold, but the trampling of feet had meant that icy ground had given way to thick mud just at the opening to the ring. Cassian’s expression was grim — expectant of bad news — but there had been a rare light in his eyes that morning which he did not usually allow the Illyrians to see. It was as if someone has swept a hand over his face and lightened the sense of foreboding and worry he harboured when it came to his people.

Lorrian grimaced. “Too many. A lot of the younger females can fly, but I’d imagine they lacked the training as youngling’s, so it will be slow work if we want them in the skies.”

“But not impossible?” Nesta asked, before she could help herself.

“Not impossible,” Lorrian assured Nesta. His eyes fell to Roksana. The youngling had come over to shyly clutch at Nesta’s legs.

The Colonel’s features softened, but then Devlon was stalking over to where they stood, and Lorrian straightened.

As always, the lord’s face was serious, but there was no trace of a sneer across his face. “They are all green and weak,” he told Cassian coldly, his tone matter-of-fact rather than outrightly cruel. “The trainers have been given orders to turn up five days a week.”

Cassian dipped his chin once to show he was satisfied. “Colonel Lorrian will attend every Wednesday,” Cassian replied. “Alongside Slat, he will get those able up into the skies and organise drills so the females can strengthen their wings.”

Cassian and Devlon continued to converse in short, terse sentences. Nesta wondered how difficult it was for Devlon to allow the females to train, when his upbringing told him otherwise. Nesta knew he had only been begrudgingly teaching the few female students when she first came to Windhaven because of Cassian and Rhys’s insistence. That if Cassian was not there, the lord would have let the sessions slip. But… with such a big turnout it seemed that even Devlon could not deny the females the right of learning how to fight. Had not complained to Cassian, apart from to grumble briefly about pulling extra trainers from the male rings to compensate for the amount of new recruits.

Nesta’s attention was pulled away from Cassian and Devlon as Roksana began to tug urgently at Nesta’s leg. The youngling’s wings were flapping with such agitation that Nesta was worried, but when she bent down she realised that Roksana’s face was alight with excitement.

Roksana’s hands slipped around Nesta’s neck, pulling her head down by the loose tendrils of hair that had slipped free of the plait that Nesta had braided down her back when she had woken.

Nesta was so astounded by the fact that Roksana wanted to whisper in her ear, that she didn’t make out what the youngling was saying until she had repeated it for the third time. “Manticore.”

Nodding encouragingly, Nesta looked over to where Caerleon was lying in the mud as if it were a throne. His beautiful, sandy head was raised regally, and he was surveying the scenery with a look that was all-seeing.

“That’s right,” Nesta told Roksana, her lips twitching upwards. “M is for Manticore. His name is Caerleon. Would you like to say hello?”

But that seemed to be too much for Roksana and she scampered off, her wings flapping every few strides as she went to join some of the other young orphans just outside the training ring. Mas was conversing with some of the widows a few feet away and Roksana was no doubt waiting for her foster mother to take her back to the camp.

“That little one has small wings.”

Nesta’s head snapped Lorrian who was nodding in the direction of Roksana. His expression was thoughtful.

“Is that bad?” Nesta asked with alarm.

Lorrian shrugged. “She might have a late growth spurt, but it wouldn’t hurt her to start strengthening them as soon as possible. If youngling’s don’t learn to use their wings, it slows down the growth rate.” When Nesta continued to look concerned, he elaborated, “As a lot of older widows have clipped wings, it is not unusual for orphan younglings to grow up without witnessing their guardian’s fly. It means that many of the female younglings have wings that are underdeveloped.”

“I can tell Roksana wants to fly,” Nesta told Lorrian. “She is always scooting over the ground.”

Lorrian jerked his chin at Roksana with a small smile, and Nesta saw the orphan skate over the mud to meet Mas. “I’ve noticed. Will she let me examine her?”

Nesta frowned. Roksana did not like males. Cassian was the only male Roksana did not shy away from. He had even held her the other day, and that morning, Nesta had felt a fist clench over her heart when Roksana had hovered over to Cassian when he had bent down to say hello.

Nesta knew how it had affected Cassian. Had felt joy flare inside of him as he fell into soft Illyrian which Nesta could not follow. Had seen the way his eyes lit up as Roksana had quietly said thank you as he complimented her hair.

“We can try,” Nesta told Lorrian. “You’ll have to bend down to her level. She’s wary of males.”

Lorrian just nodded to indicate he understood. “She will need to stretch her wings for me.”

When Nesta called to Roksana, the little girl spent no time coming over to her, but she still clutched at Nesta’s legs and stared up at Lorrian with an apprehension which hurt Nesta to look at.

Smoothing a hand over Roksana’s braided hair, Nesta said, “This is my friend Lorrian, Roksana. He wants to take a look at your wings. Would that be ok?”

Silence fell as Roksana’s hands tightened on Nesta’s leathers. When Lorrian knelt down to eye-level, she darted behind Nesta’s legs, only her face peeking around the tops of Nesta’s knees.

But Lorrian did not let her movement faze him. He smiled kindly, wiping all traces of Colonel from his face. It made his features less harsh, revealing the male that Nesta had come to know since first day in The Steppes when she and Cassian had been attacked by kerits.

“Hello, stella,” Lorrian said. “Can you stretch your wings out for me?”

He puffed his chest out with mock importance and pulled his wings wide, straining the tendons. After a little hesitation, Roksana followed suit.

“What beautiful wings,” Lorrian said conversationally. “I’m just going to touch them quickly. Would that be all right, Roksana?”

“Roksana?” Nesta prompted gently, running her hand over Roksana’s head when the little girl remained mute. The youngling was still clutching at Nesta’s legs, but she dipped her chin just once in agreement, the action so wary Nesta’s heart ached.

“Atta youngling,” Lorrian said with another gentle smile.

Quickly, he examined Roksana’s wings, running his hands brusquely over the tendons and bone. He asked the orphan to open and close her claws, to curve and straighten her wings, for her to hover above the ground.

For the latter, Roksana wobbled as if she were unable to balance herself.

When Lorrian nodded to indicate that he was finished, Roksana half-scampered, half-skimmed the ground as she went to join Mas.

Nesta and Lorrian watched her go. 

“She’s got excellent control considering her wings are under-developed,” Lorrian told Nesta. “I’ll speak to Cassian about ensuring all of the orphan younglings aren’t being missed out when it comes to flying lessons. I can oversee them myself during my weekly trip.”

“She’s a quiet little thing,” Lorrian added after a moment. “Do you know what happened to her parents?”

“No,” Nesta said. “She’s only just started to say the odd word. The grief rendered her mute.”

Lorrian’s expression tightened. “It’s a good job Frawley isn’t here,” Lorrian said finally, but he didn’t offer anything else, even though the following silence was pregnant. In the end, he added, “If you want to help Roksana strengthen her joints, you could hold her hands whilst she practices flapping her wings a few feet off the ground.”

Nesta nodded. She would do that. Would do anything to make sure Roksana tasted the skies. Nesta knew Roksana hungered for it. The same way that she did, herself.

Roksana deserved that freedom. All of the females did.

“You have Caerleon today,” Nesta observed.

When Lorrian had arrived at the training rings, the manticore had been padding silently by  his side. It had only taken Caer moments to spot Cassian. Nesta had noticed the beast’s ears prick forward, but rather than bounding over to the General, he had remained close by Lorrian, his spiked tail flicking leisurely from side to side as his hips swayed. And the Illyrians… they had stepped backwards, their eyes wary as they took in Caer’s huge body and impressive wings. To them, he was a deadly predator under Lorrian’s control. It certainly made a statement. It told them that Lorrian was not to be messed with.

It hadn’t stopped Caer from pushing his head into Nesta’s hand when he had passed her, or butting his head lightly into Cassian’s midriff. The action had been enough to tell any watchful eyes that Caer held an allegiance with them — that they were his to protect.

“Yes,” Lorrian replied. “Frawley insists that Caer likes to stretch his wings, but I think she likes to know that having a manticore reminds the Illyrians that they would be wrong to challenge my authority.”

Nesta’s lips twitched upwards. “And does it work?”

Lorrian snorted. “It certainly makes them cautious.” He turned to Nesta, then. “Cassian says you chose the bow.”

“Yes.”

To Nesta’s surprise a pleased expression wound itself across Lorrian’s face. “Would you like another instructor?”

Nesta blinked at the Colonel. “You want to teach me how to use the bow?”

Lorrian crossed his arms firmly across his chest, as if to demonstrate that he was immovable on the subject. “Of course. I’ve been told you’re formidable in the sparring ring. I’d be honoured to teach you how to fight with my weapon of choice.”

Nesta studied Lorrian’s expression, tilting her head to try and decipher whether he was being serious or not. In the end, she dropped her emotional shield and felt around until she found that air of heat laced with sandalwood - Lorrian. And she felt…  no humour. No mocking. Only honestly.

Feeling guilty for having doubted him, Nesta stacked up her wall again.

“I would like that,” she conceded.

A smile broke across Lorrian’s face. It wasn’t the true, unfettered smile she had been privy to in his home, but it was unguarded and genuine enough. “Frawley wants you to come and visit. Perhaps I could oversee some of your training whilst you are with us? Otherwise, I can give you a lesson when I’m here to oversee the aerial legions. It would only be once a week, so I’ll have to trust you in the hands of that brute for the rest of it.” Winking, he jerked his head to Cassian who was striding towards them through the mud.

“You don’t have to visit,” Lorrian added, seeing Nesta’s taken aback expression, “but we would love to have you.”

Nesta thought of the warm cottage, a place that brought only a sense of comfort despite the way she had first ended up there. And… Nesta liked Frawley as much as she liked Lorrian. The witch was brusque and direct, but clearly kind-of-heart. Someone who predominantly chose to heal rather than injure.

Perhaps Nesta could use the opportunity to take up Frawley’s offer of mastering her healing magic. It was the first strand of her power that Nesta truly liked. It felt like it was a manifestation of the most secret part of her, a chamber which barely anyone knew about or understood. That she did not thirst for her ability to bring about death, but to give life to those who deserved it.

The thought sent a thrum of power through her veins, silver turning over to give way for white light.

“No,” Nesta assured Lorrian, who was still looking at her with reserved expectation. “I would like to come.”

“Come where?” Cassian asked as he drew up beside them, so close that his chest was inches from Nesta’s side.

“I’m going to visit Frawley and Lorrian next week.”

Mock-wounded, Cassian threw a hand to his heart as he said to Lorrian, “And you didn’t ask me? One of your oldest friends?”His eyes were sparkling when Nesta craned her neck to look up at him. He winked at her and magic spiked in her veins.

Grunting, Lorrian replied wryly, “I don’t know why you’re pretending that you won’t hound us for a visit. Pick up Nesta and come for dinner. We’ll see you the following week for Solstice, anyway.”

At that, Lorrian turned to the manticore who was still lying in the mud, his large almond eyes blinking in the pastel sunlight. “Caer,” Lorrian called, as he started to spread his own wings wide. The manticore stood, stretching slowly with a wide yawn which showcased his long, sharp teeth and his leathery wings. As Caerleon trotted over to Lorrian, his ears perked forwards and his tail shot up so it was engaged and upright, the deadly bristles at the tuft soft rather than pointed.

“I’ll take you back to the cottage with me when I visit next week then,” Lorrian told Nesta. He looked to Cassian, “Start Nesta on the basics before then.”

And then, with a wide stretch of his large wings, he shot into the air.

  Mas found Nesta shortly after Lorrian had left. She and Roksana were the only females left in the sparring grounds. In the distance, Nesta could see the last of the retreating figures of the widows as they made their way back to their new camp, which was set up at the back of the mountain pass, not far from the sparring rings. The new camp was full of green pine trees and forest floor rather than treacherous, ominous rock and battering winds.

“Come,” Mas urged to Nesta, taking her by the hand. “Not you,” she told Cassian firmly, but he had only grinned in that unbridled way of his, before he shot into the skies in search of breakfast.

Together, Nesta and Mas walked up the mountain to the old widows camp with Roksana in tow. Nesta watched the youngling skim across the patches of deep snow. The path was a blanket of white, but despite the bite in Nesta’s feet, she did not complain. Nor did she moan about the dull ache in her side. Instead, she walked hand-in-hand with the housekeeper, allowing Mas to lead her up the zig zag path until they reached the even ground.

The destruction and death in the camp had been covered by the snow, but Nesta could still feel it: the sorrow, pain and terror seeping into her skin, lining her stomach in a way  that was so intense that her power surged. Yet, Nesta did not try to push the sensation away as Mas led her with purpose to the Eastern side of the camp. They passed the makeshift canteen, the shell of tents scattered with snow and the rusted fire drums, until they reached the far point where Mas had lain on the ground as the life bled out of her.

The mountain wall loomed up into the dusky sky to their left, running until the ground round at the tip, leaving only a sheer, terrifying drop to the right.

When Mas stopped, so did Nesta. Roksana was a little way off, approaching the edge, and Mas scolded her to come back before she fell off the precipice.

Roksana skimmed over the stone, her little wings flapping at a rate that was faster than normal, as if she had to work extra hard to stay aloft. She collided with Mas’s legs, but the housekeeper only tutted in a way that held no bite, before bending to press a kiss to the little girl’s head and ordering her to stand back.

Nesta did not say anything. Not even as Mas clasped her dry, weathered hands in Nesta’s and peered into her face.

“Diyosa,” Mas said quietly, her voice brimming with feeling — love and anticipation — as she led Nesta slowly to the edge, carefully stepping backwards. “I wanted you to see it first. I wanted you to witness the freedom you have granted me.”

Despite the tears lining her eyes, a toothy grin spread across the housekeeper’s face.

Nesta watched Mas stretch her wings out wide, the movement slow and purposeful, as if she were flexing unused muscles.

And then she stepped backwards off the cliff.

For a second, Nesta was consumed with a terror that gripped fiercely at her throat, but then the boom of wings sounded around the mountain pass and Mas soared up on the wind, her beautiful wings beating hard as she caught an upward draft to climb above them.

Beside her, Roksana let out a cry. Her little hands clapped together and from her mouth… a laugh. Not one of Roksana’s small, secret smiles, but a delighted laugh that was so joyous it rang around the mountain wall.

And it was that, coupled by the whoop of delight from the housekeeper, that made Nesta laugh, too.

Nesta could not remember the first time she had truly laughed. As if it were a forbidden sound, her hands flew up to clap over her mouth, but then Roksana was hovering high enough in the air to pull them away, tearing off that mask that desperately wanted to cling on out of years and years of habit.

And Nesta allowed the youngling to do it. Clasped her fingers around Roksana’s as for the first time that Nesta could remember — through the tears of happiness that poured down her face — Nesta felt joy.

So Nesta laughed. She laughed for the female flying above her who had got her freedom back. For the little youngling who was holding onto Nesta’s hands as she hovered in the air, her wings flapping in desperation to join Masak… to taste freedom, too. And Nesta laughed for herself. For having finally done something right. For giving life rather than death. For bringing happiness rather than sorrow.

Then Mas was diving, her form flawless as she swooped down to take Roksana’s hands in hers, taking the youngling up, up, up into the Illyrian sky brushed with pastel hues.

That was when it happened. Nesta’s laugh fell into an untethered smile… a smile which had been imprisoned for so long. And as she did that, Nesta allowed her magic to reach out again… to sense the emotions that seeped up from the ground from years and years of suffering. But Nesta did not let them surge through her veins to charge her power. Instead, she gave something back. Nesta added a new layer upon the rocky ground that was tainted with death and pain. A comforting blanket of her own joy and happiness. A layer that symbolised that there was hope. That there was a way out of the inky black and the biting cold.

And the camp, which had been full of anguish and pain and unimaginable suffering, suddenly burst with light so pure that it was dazzling. The promise of healing shone from Nesta’s palms, and she stared down at her upturned hands in awe. At the light which travelled upwards to bathe the two females dancing in the air, as they laughed and laughed and laughed.

Tags: @arin1030 @superspiritfestival @sayosdreams @perseusannabeth @mylittlebigplanet @biggestwingspan-az  @bellsqueen @ekaterinakostrova @bookstantrash @prophecyerised @rainbowcheetah512 @awesomelena555 @wannawriteyouabook @iammissstark @lovelynesta @melphss @nestalytical @darkshadowqueensrule @laylaameer01 @a-trifling-matter @grouchycritic7794 @thalia-2-rose @champanheandluxxury @swankii-art-teacher @princessconsuela02 @lavendergoomsltd @little-diyosa @princessofmerchants-reads @jeakat @sjm-things @imwritingthesewords @nestable

[hqbbg]

butterflies.

pairing: bokuto x chubby fem!reader

summary: bokuto doesn’t understand why everyone’s giving you a hard time.

genre: fluff

word count: 1.6K

warnings: people are mean to reader >:(

You saw many flaws about yourself growing up, whether they were first pointed out to you by your parents, schoolmates, or even the cashier lady at the supermarket. The one particular flaw that seemed to follow you around throughout all the years seemed to revolve around one thing: your weight.

Looking in the mirror, you used to not see what was so wrong with how your body looked. You truly didn’t think you looked as overweight as those around you made it seem, but their words began to contaminate your thoughts and soon, you saw what they saw: someone who simply did not fit into a conventionally “beautiful” body, a standard set by models on magazine covers.

Some people had called you cute while growing up, but as you sat in your classroom during your second year of high school alone while others had gone to join their friends, you most definitely felt like all the kind words people had told you before held no meaning or sincerity to them.

“Hey, hey, hey!”

You’ve been hearing this every other day lately. It was always at the beginning of lunch time, give or take a few minutes depending on the day. The source of the brief disturbance to the white noise of the classroom was none other than Bokuto Koutarou, a third year. He always came to hang out with Akaashi, a classmate of yours that sat a few rows down from you.

You had seen Akaashi once or twice last year in the hallways, but never spoke to him, and even this year as his classmate, you barely exchanged any words. He seemed like a relatively quiet and observant person, so part of you wondered how he and Bokuto seemed so close yet were polar opposites.

You had been lost in your own thoughts, too busy staring off into space to notice a few classmates come up to sit at the desks around you.

“What, is our little piggy not hungry today?”

This was not unfamiliar territory for you. Once or twice throughout the week, a few students would get bored with themselves and decide to pick on you or taunt you. Usually, you would ignore them with your head hung low, and they would just get bored again, deciding to leave you alone until they saw another opportunity to mess with you.

Things like this used to bother you a lot more than they did now. Of course, their words would still keep you awake at night occasionally, but you’ve learned to move on.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried to lose weight before; nothing just seemed to work. It was as if your body had reached its current weight and stubbornly refused to change, no matter how much your heart and mind willed it. Your mother would toss in a few comments here and there about how boys wouldn’t want you because of this complex of yours and your father wouldn’t stand up for you. You supposed they were right, since the only time boys were interested in talking to you was to either make fun of you or compare notes after class.

“Did you not hear us, piggy?”

“You guys are talking in her face, so I’m sure she heard you loud and clear.”

You snap your head up towards the source of the voice and see Bokuto looking over in your direction. He has an unreadable expression on his face and your eyes flicker towards Akaashi as he also looks in your direction, his face blank with indifference to the situation.

“With all due respect, this doesn’t concern you,” replies one of the boys sitting in front of you.

“How rude,” says Bokuto. “Akaashi, you never told me how mean your classmates were!”

The third year turns to look at Akaashi, a pout on his face as he points to the group around you. Any thoughts you had of him being cool for butting in and momentarily diverting the attention away from you have all disappeared and it seems that everyone’s mental image of the suave and cool upperclassman have collectively shattered.

“Everyone is mean to Y/L/N-san,” Akaashi replies coolly.

You have to admit, as much as that statement should irk you, it doesn’t because you know it’s true.

“Why?” Bokuto turns his head back and looks directly at you. You feel yourself stiffen in your seat. He blinks his eyes a couple times, as if he can’t understand what anyone could possibly be giving you a hard time for. Part of you finds it refreshing, but another part of you is skeptical.

“This guy’s weird,” mutters one of the girls next to you. “Let’s just go.”

You feel a little dumbstruck as you watch the students around you stand and walk away before your eyes slowly return back to the pair of boys who are still staring at you. You can feel your face heat up at the realization that their eyes haven’t left you yet and you shift uncomfortably in your seat, clearing your throat.

“T-Thanks.”

Before anyone else can say anything, you quickly grab your lunch and head out of the room, muttering halfhearted apologies to the students you bump into as you walk down the hall. You make your way to the rooftop where a few other groups of students are enjoying their lunch and find yourself a decent and secluded spot. Maybe the fresh air would cool you down and prevent yourself from overthinking the situation that had just unraveled.

The next few days, you avoid eating lunch in the classroom and go back to the spot on the rooftop; you aren’t disturbed there and find it quite peaceful. You get used to not hearing Bokuto’s unique greeting and things seem to slowly go back to how they used to be.

“Hey, long time no see!”

You glance up as you walk down the hall, seeing Bokuto walking towards you, presumably heading back to his class as you head for yours. Although you’re sure he’s addressing you, you glance around to ensure that it really is you he’s talking to.

“Yeah, you! You’re in Akaashi’s class,” Bokuto laughs heartily as he walks up to you, stopping only a few paces away. “You know, no one really answered me when I asked why everyone is so mean to you.”

You can only look up at him, unsure what exactly his motives might be. There’s no way he’s this oblivious, right? You’ve heard stories about him, being a remarkable volleyball player and assumed that he would be intelligent. Was that limited to just volleyball?

“I should get back to my class,” you reply, bowing your head halfheartedly before rushing back to your classroom.

Needless to say, you’re socially awkward. No one has really given you this much attention without throwing a blatant insult at your face, so you’re unsure how to handle it. It isn’t until a week later when you miss the timing of heading to the rooftop for lunch and see Bokuto enter the classroom, making a straight beeline to sit in the empty desk in front of you, facing you. Akaashi has also moved closer, sitting in the desk to your right, looking at you with the same indifferent expression on his face.

“So, I’ve really been trying to figure it out for the past week and a half,�� says Bokuto, propping his elbow on your desk as he leans his chin onto his palm, “and I still don’t get it.”

Your eyes flicker back towards Akaashi, but he doesn’t move a muscle that indicates that he’s helping you get out of this situation.

“W-Well, I…”

What’s he talking about? What are you supposed to say?

“Are you mean? Is that it? You seem like a normal girl, so I really don’t understand why everyone treats you so poorly,” says Bokuto, not letting you finish your half-developed thought. Is he teasing you? Is this some cruel way of indirectly making fun of you?

“Do you really not see it?” You ask, finding some rare confidence spurred by the thought of his antics being motivated to hurt you like everyone else.

You finally look into his eyes and see no malice in them, quickly casting your eyes back down when you can feel yourself blushing at the innocent intensity of his eyes staring back at you.

“Is there something I should be seeing?”

“I,” you pause. You’re suddenly afraid to say your next sentence because it’s a thought that was drilled into your brain since you were younger, but say it anyways. “I’m fat.”

Bokuto frowns.

“So?”

Well, that wasn’t an answer you were expecting.

“Huh?” You look at him again, brows furrowing slightly.

“What he means is, he doesn’t see why that’s a reason for you to be bullied,” Akaashi speaks up. Bokuto nods his head quickly, realizing the mistake in his word choice.

“Yeah, that’s what I meant!”

You narrow your eyes slightly in suspicion.

“No, really, Y/N! You look perfectly fine to me.”

You try not to show your surprise upon hearing Bokuto say your name, but you’re not sure how well you hide it. You want to question how he knows your first name, but something tells you that the boy sitting to your right has something to do with it.

“Thanks,” you say awkwardly, unsure of what else to say.

“If anyone gives you a hard time, let me know! I’ll take care of it for you,” Bokuto sits up, puffing his chest. You’re hesitant but feel your lips tug into the slightest smile.

“You don’t have to, Y/L/N-san. He’s all bark and no bite anyways,” says Akaashi. You feel your lips pull a little further into a smile. Bokuto looks like he’s about to complain or whine to Akaashi, but is stopped when he looks at your face.

“Wow, so you do know how to smile,” Bokuto grins at you. “You should do it more often. It suits you.”

That might’ve been the first time in your whole life to have ever felt butterflies in your stomach.

[lovely-necromancy]

A Cure for Insomnia Ch 17

Living with the Cowell's is going about as well as you'd expected it to go. In other words it's more or less a disaster for your mental health. Which is ironic considering you didn't put this much stress on yourself when you were sure a stalker was watching you.

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that the stalker didn't own your house and wasn't in your personal space at every turn.

You'd honestly been expecting Little Jo to be the biggest space invader but Dia and Nate were constantly hovering around you. Nate had taken up the other spare room, or rather his room away from home, the minute he heard you'd be staying with the Cowells. He's made it his job drive you to and from work for the past two days and you both take breaks together now closing the store when you do. Then the second you cross the threshold Dia is right by you either asking for some help cooking or rushing you off for hobby time in the sitting room. It's like living in a 1920's story book, minus the extreme prejudice you would've faced.

It's only been two days and you can't find a way to ask for more space. You tried asking to go on a walk earlier and it turned into a partial jog with Nate. You really just need a moment to yourself it's been five or six days since you last had some 'me' time. All your nerves are shot and you are just a few minor inconveniences away from snapping at someone.

And it would not be a smart idea to nap at your boss. Your boss who's been so considerate and helpful offering his support to you through this whole mess of a situation.

Nonetheless you need space and your own clothes. Nate's don't fit you properly and they're uncomfortably itchy against your skin. His detergent is also very smelly, more in the chemical sense than in a bad sense. Though it could be a bad sense considering the headache you've had the past day from the over bearing smell. You know it won't end well for you but you desperately need to go back home and grab your own clothes and maybe even your car.

Having the illusion of more freedom would put you more at ease.

After all it isn't like you want to knowingly put yourself in harms way, you just can't stand the suffocation any longer. That's why you decided to bring it up during dinner, and why you are now sat in the tensest atmosphere this table has possibly ever experienced.

“Installation ain't done yet.” is Big Jo's gruff response.

It's as if that short sentence gave everyone premission to breathe again.

“I'm not planning to stay, I just need my own clothes.” you press.

Nate glances over to you before placing his fork to the side, “Then why do you need your car?”

“I'd just feel more comfortavle if I had it.....y'know instead of just relaying on you for rides.” you gesture around to the table trying to get someone yo come to your defense.

Big Jo pinches the bridge of his nose, it's been a stressful week for him as well. You don't mean to be ungrateful in this scenario but you are Autistic and the routine you've spent months carving out for yourself is being ruined. You are wearing smelly itchy clothes and need to have something you have control over. Not to mention you're the one who actively experienced the home invasion and were sat in a hospital for two days.

Big Jo can deal with you asking to go collect your thing, as far as you're concerned anyway. You're at least entitled to that much.

Dia puts her hand on Jo's arm and he sighs, “Fine, if Nate takes you. You can go to the cottage.”

“Tio, they can't have the car.” Nate is wildly failing his arms and motioning to you as he explains that you're a known flight risk.

Great, nothing's been resolved and you are back to a tense dinner in the Cowell's home.

“Fine I won't take the car, just lemme give it to someone to watch it for the...the what's it gonna be a week?” directing the question to Big Jo who's been handling the security detail for your home.

He gestures in a so-so manner.

“Yea, just lemme give it to someone to watch for the week.” you pause before throwing your hand up, “Because let's face it none of us have any idea where those two are now, and they could've easily tampered with my car.”

That was the worst possible thing to say because the second you finish you sentence the table erupts into chaos. Dia and Little Jo voicing their concerns over you driving your car, Big Jo and Nate all but forbidding you from driving and you trying to find some sort of compromise.

“What if we had it towed to Whistle's? Nate takes me there after work and we make sure nothing's wrong with my car.” looking around the table at the mixed reactions before you.

“I'll call Lewis for a tow in the morning and you both can go after work.”

“thank you.” you say relieved that you can finally gain back control over your life. Maybe get a little bit of space a long with it.

Everyone calms down and goes back to eating. The air is still so tense you could practically cut it but without your constant stirring it seems to settle. The rest of the night goes by uneventfully, you've changed into some pajamas and are ready to lay awake staring at the ceiling for hours.

The antsy energy you've been building up these past few days have left you without sleep. Tomorrow the hallucinations will probably start up, you wonder if they'll be worse thanks to your healing concussion. Hallucinations aside, your real problem is being alone with your thoughts for the next seven or eight hours.

You have nothing to occupy your mind with and thus nothing to help block out the invasive thoughts.

You'd finished the TAZ graphic novels while you were still at the hospital. The Cowells had taken you straight to their home after you got discharged, so you hadn't been able to grab your switch or any smaller art supplies.

Ultimately knowing that all this was for your safety and benefit you understand them wanting to keep you away from your home. The sight of you attack. Even a supply run could prove dangerous. Try telling that to your restless and bored mind. Constantly feeling like one of the undead wandering around aimlessly with no real purpose has certainly not done anything good for your mental health The lack of stimulation was definitely making it harder to mask and not just explode in  frustration. To just let loose and rage at everything: from the situation to your stalkers, hell even to Jo and yourself. The after the brief flash of rage it would be washed away by the overwhelming guilt you felt about being in this web and dragging everyone around you into it. Whether directly or indirectly.

Safe to say, it is not good to be alone with your thoughts right now.

And it is with that restless energy that your night of staring at the ceiling turns into a morning of staring at the ceiling. Until a knock at your door signals the start of breakfast. A routine you've recently become apart of while staying with the Cowells. Getting ready for the day you make your way to the dining room, not before steadying your nerves and static filled mind with a long and drawn out huff of air.

Not quite cathartic enough to be viewed as a sigh.

And with that you begin you day.

The morning fades into late afternoon and you find yourself in the shop a little before close, just looking through the isles. A vaguely human figure, much too tall to truly be an actual person, had brushed past Nate and into one of the isles. Honestly you're sure it's one of your hallucinations but you still have to double check the isles before you finish locking up the shop. Today had been really slow and you can only recall a handful of patrons throughout the day, though you haven't been with it enough to actually hace much accuracy on that statement.

Nevertheless you are searching for stragglers, thankfully you find none. Really hoping to get out and to Whistle's soon, then home to grab things that'll keep you occupied. Things that are finally yous; actual comfortable clothes, that smell like you too. Eyes blinking in rapid succession at your near giddy nerves.

For once your tic helps you vision, you're able to catch the book laid on its side. Its cover a deep russet nearly matching the shelf in color, you'd have missed it if it weren't for the inverted shapes that pressed themselves into your eyelids almost burning the scenery into your memory. Picking the book up you try to discern where it had come from.

Upon further inspection it appeared to be more of a journal. Half written in English with margins made out it – was that German? Yeah that was definitely German, the Eszetts is way too distinctive for it to be any other language. Poorly drawn out sketches littered several pages as you flip past them. Until you see a familiar but scrathy image. It's of a symbol a circle with an 'x' through it.

As you look at the jagged lines you can't really place where you've seen this symbol before. It's so familiar but the ringing bells do nothing to help you remember where you've seen this symbol. Flipping further in you catch sight of a drawing of a being that is slim and taller than the trees. Wasn't that the figure you'd seen moments before? Right as you were doing you check for customers? You're beginning to think this shop's haunted.

“Hey YN, coast clear?” The sound of Nate's voice stops you from inspecting the book any further.

Placing it back on the shelf and nestling it in between to larger books you turn and head out of the isle.

“Yea, no customers.”

“C'mon then, I don't want to be out all night.”

Rolling your eyes at Nate's exaggeration, Whistle's probably wouldn't take more than an hour tops and you won;t take long gathering your things from the house – you follow Nate out the door.

Waiting close behind him as he locks up. One thing about the attack is you've become hyper aware of your surroundings and are nearly always on high alert now when you're out in the open like this. Luckily in most spaces you had already noted the number of exits and where to find them. Having to plan escape routes ahead of emergencies might not be the healthiest mentality but it's kept you sane throughout this ordeal. Thank you American public school system.

When you get to the auto shop you see a familiar ticcing brunette talking to a group of mechanics as he leans on your car.

“Who the hell is that?” Nate says squinting at Toby who's practically laid out across the hood of your car.

Weird, haven't they met yet? Toby did hang out at the shop for an entire day. Had Nate not noticed him then? What about the picnic? Before you can say anything Nate's already out of the car and shouting something to the group. Most of the men standing around tense up as Nate storms up to them.

But you catch the dead look in Toby's eye, the other is still horribly out of commission. Honestly without your glasses faces blur from so far away but it's undeniable that there isn't a light reflecting in his eye. Nate seems to be directing his lecture to Toby who doesn't appear to do anything. He's like a big old house cat, tired and done with everyone's shit if they aren't actively feeding him.

Sighing you exit the car, your only real thought is defusing your Karen.

You aren't at all surprised when Toby locks onto the movement of you walking towards the group. The man perks right up and lifts himself off your car in one fluid motion. He's so agile, just like a cat. You can't help but smile a bit at the connection automatically reaffirming with yourself that Toby would totally push over a precariously placed glass of water.

“Hey, wh-mrrow-what'd you bring the car in for?” Toby asks side stepping Nate, completely ignoring the older man.

“Huh – oh, yea boss wanted it checked out to make sure it wasn't like tampered with – I guess. Y'know after the accident.” you know the mechanics probably know what happened to you, you do live in a small town after all. Gossip stops for no one. But you do have control over details and talking about the incident and you won't be letting go of that any time soon.

Toby's one good eye darkens as he nods, “Gotcha, well it's fine even had Jess take it for a drive. Drove fine. Fixed that weird clicky thing it did on left turns, you're welcome.”

Hah, during the drive through Franklin Toby lost it after two left turns. He noticed the clicking sound your car would make, oddly only on left turns, and started bitching about it to you. At the time you just thought he was being funny when he'd complained you needed to take it in to the shop to fix that. Guess he wasn't. But what's the point of fixing something so trivial?

You cross your arms and are about to sass Toby about how unnecessary that was when Nate interrupts.

“Well since the car's cleared we'd better go settle the bill with Lewis.”

“No need, no parts to replace plus my free labor.” Toby looks away from Nate and back to you “It w-w-was so sl-o-ow-w so I told the old man we were dating and I'd been wanting to fix up your car.”

Normally you'd protest a friend or anyone giving you free services but since this was on the Cowells' dime you weren't going to burden them anymore.

“That's sweet – really really stupid, but sweet.”

Nate's already moving around you two and motioning towards his car as he says, “Well thank you, now we really need to get going YN. I don't want to be out late.”

You nod to Nate, turning and saying bye to Toby from over your shoulder.

When you suddenly remember, “Wait, hey Tobias can you take care of my car for the week? I know it's probably a weird request, but I'm sorta “grounded” right now and can't drive till the cottage is set up. A little worried the battery will drain from disuse.”

If it weren't for the mask and swollen eye the confused sneer of his would be clear to everyone on the lot. He sputters for a moment before speaking up.

“Ok? I mean like that's valid – whoa – a valid concern...but your car's not that old. But I guess I'll watch it? I don't have Connor so it'll have to stay in the lot tonight, that ok?”

Oh this stupid beautiful boy just gave you an out. Probably not the one he meant to give you but you are taking it and running as fast as you can.

“Or, or, or-”

“No, no, and no. You can't be trusted to not just drive off in the dead of night.” Nate cuts in.

It took a bit of coaxing but after calling the house and getting Dia's blessing you obtained one night to yourself. Really it'd be one night spent at the lodge but it was still better than being a guest in someone else's house for the night, this way you're a guest at the lodge for the night. A little mini vacation if you will. And Toby seemed fine to go with you to the cottage while you packed a bag with your essentials, before you both go back to the lodge.

He even agreed to drop you off at the bookshop in the morning.

“Are you seriously going stir crazy after five days?” he asks as you pull up to the cottage.

“it's more their constant smothering I'm over. I know everyone's worried but I still need my own agency. Y'know?”

“Yea....I do.” he murmurs with a solemn look about him before he exits the car and makes his way to the front door.

Your steps falter as you near the cottage. A few flashing images pass through your mind before you shakily inhale. Fortunately Toby is right beside you squeezing your hand to remind you of his presence. You aren't alone this won't end like Monday night.

Opening the door the house is quiet and just as you had last seen it. Nothing was disrupted, even peeking into the bathroom where you expected a crime scene to be – only a toppled shower curtain and over turned bath mat remained.

It doesn't really feel like your house right now. A fuzzy sensation clouds your thoughts, like your brain is trying to protect you from connecting with this place after your recent trauma. Although you aren't sure how you actually feel there's a strong sense of discontentment.

Noticing how you linger in the threshold of the bathroom Toby gently guides you into your room, all without a word. Leaving you alone in your room to collect your things. You move around at a moderate pace, you aren't drawing this out but you aren't rushing to leave soon either. A handful of shirts, a set of jeans, shorts, and joggers later you are grabbing your switch. Before diving into your art supplies you hear a thud across the hall.

You freeze as if ice water had just been poured onto you keeping you in place.

“Tobias!” you call out not moving.

“Fuck – sorry I acc-ack-accidently kicked your trash can.”

When had he gone to the bathroom?

“Are you ok?” you receive a quick 'yea' in response.

Jittery and in no mood to sit and draw you pick up an embroidery kit you'd been meaning to rip into. Should keep your attention long enough, but maybe you should grab another kit just in case. Bag loaded with enough of your things so you aren't driven mad during your stay – you turn to leave but decide to grab your goat plush as an after thought before leaving your room.

Walking out and into the rest of your house you notice a lack of Toby anywhere. Going towards the front door you spot him as you pass the kitchen. He's messing with your garbage can before he takes out the bag and ties it up.

“Wha' cha doin'?” he's been a bit off since you both arrived but you don;t blame him. Not like you're fairing any better.

“I, I kicked it and a whole bunch of trash came out. So then I had to put it-it all back, but there's a lot here and you aren't gonna be here for a week....I, I ju-just thought it'd be better to tak-take it out now.”

Nodding, you're thankful to have such a good friend looking out for you. It would've sucked to come home to a toxic waste site because you'd left trash in the garbage for three weeks.

You probably just thought it came from the bathroom because of the echo or something. Paranoia's been a pain this past week. Maybe you should look into getting a roommate, they might help.

“They're not that helpful trust me.”

“Wow, did I say that out loud?” Toby nods, “Fuck I am out of it. How are you and Tim doing?” you might be deflecting/ignoring your own issues. But Toby had his own shit going on Monday night and you doubt he's talked to anyone.

“We're fine. Just fucking hate him.” the sharp jerk of his head keys you in that he's very much not fine.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Who are you, my fuck-ing therapist?”

“Fine, wanna bitch then?”

He comes off the defensive like he realizes that he's talking with you right now. His good eye down cast after he relaxes his stance a bit.

You go to grab your kettle, filling it up and placing it down on the stove to warm up.

“Any preference on tea? I've got a few.” it was very much more than a few.

A chair screeches as Toby drags it out to sit down at your small kitchen table. He doesn't respond so you get one of your special blends out. This blend has rose hips which you normally dislike anything scented or flavored with roses but the ginger and cinnamon can normally over power the slightly floral sting of this tea. Plus it's made with the intention of healing the heart and promoting self love. A spell tea of sorts. Toby could probably use a little pick me up, you always did after a fight with a friend. Getting out the honey you ready the tea infuser into the cup waiting for the kettle's whistle.

“So just wanna start talking....or should I ask questions?” you turn to face Toby as you lean against the counter.

He's taken his mask off and placed it on the table, of course you remember his deteriorating face but it still surprises you to see it after a few days of not actually seeing his face. Maybe you'll get used to it and one day won't be so fascinated by his teeth.

“Tim's just a dick who thinks he has a right to act like he's my dad. Li-ike-like I'm twenty-four he doesn't need to constantly question the things I do. He doesn't have any room to talk to me about my mistakes he literally could've fucked staying here up for us....” Toby head had been snapping to the left several times during his rant and it continued as he got very quiet suddenly.

Tim could've messed staying here up? Did he mean here as in Kepler or the lodge? Barclay did have to break up the fight maybe he didn't want any of the trio in but let Toby stay out of concern for his condition.

“Hey I'm sure it wasn't that bad, I could even talk to Barclay to get you unbanned from the lodge.”

He takes the mug you pass him and spoons some honey into it/ It's weird to see half his face drawn into concentration since the other half isn't able to emote yet. Holding the cup in his hands he stares at the swirling steam rising up as you bring your own mug over to the table taking a seat. Not once does he look up at you as you stir in a bit of honey into your own tea.

Toby's neck snaps, “Am I...is it bad that I don't want you to?”

You send him a slightly pitying smile.

“No hun, you're upset. And you're having a totally valid reaction to a falling out.”

Toby rolled his eyes, at least you thin he did. Hard to tell with just the one.

“My therapist would love you. That's the kind of bullshit she tells me like all the time.”

Not knowing what to say to that you just nod as he continues to stare at you.

You both continue to talk, well you continue to let Toby rant about how stupid and dumb Brian and Tim are as you finish your tea. You still don't know the details of the fight but it sounds like the cause was just the last straw between the men and not the actual catalyst. According to Toby the other two tend to baby him or talk over his ideas and suggestions because he's the youngest of the group. Twice Toby mentioned Tim's paranoia and how that was really the cause of the tension between them. And how Brian wasn't any help because he'd always side with Tim to make sure his boyfriend was ok.

Toby was very bitter when talking about Brian's role in this more than Tim's. As if his role of passive bystander just sent Toby over the edge. Which from the way he spoke seemed like it's been dragging on for some time. All of this was painting an even worse picture of the smug asshole. Though you didn't break your silence or series of nods and hums until Toby off handily mentioned Brian getting him in trouble with his therapist by saying he was the one who started the fight.

“He fucking snitched....wait no he lied?!” Toby had to blink a few times before he finally understood what had gotten you so upset.

“Yea I mean it's not that big a deal. I was able to tell Clarise I missed a few days of my meds and she made me set reminders in front of her on the call.”

Apparently Clarise was sure Toby suffered from Bipolar Disorder, he was very flippant when he told you like it wasn't anything big. When you mentioned ADHD he kind of blanked. He got fidgety when you mentioned the symptoms you saw and  nervously told you his medication was working just fine for him. Not wanting to make him more uncomfortable you dropped the topic. Soon it was dark and you needed to leave to make it to the lodge for dinner.

“You sure you want to take the garbage out? What if Chonk is over there?” joking as you lock the door.

“Good point. Trash you live here now.” he dumps the bag onto your lawn and walks towards your kia.

“Toby!”you gasp out, which sounds weird amidst your laughter.

He stops and looks at you his expression more unclear than it's been all evening. Your heart skips a beat as you stare at each other for a moment, your laughter gone now.

“It's weird to hear you say 'Toby'.”

That's all he says before he grabs the bag and carrying it to the side of your house where your bins are.

The conversation in the car is pretty light in comparison to what it has been. Just jokes getting thrown around and sharing the gossip that you'd head in the hospital because nurses' can't keep their mouths shut. Neither of you know any of the characters in the stories but they're still pure gold. Like the man who came in after getting his hand stuck in a cookie jar. Nervous and scared his wife would find out he's been eating the new holistic dog treats. A few stories or more like vents about the auto shop got thrown in. By the time you got to the lodge both of you were in lighter spirits.

Everyone was ecstatic to see you up and about and made an extra spot for you at the table. You didn't miss how Barclay would rise an eyebrow every time you locked eyes. You just roll your eyes and continue eating. When it got time to settle in for the night you were planning to commandeer the couch but Toby offered his room.

More accurately he offered a chance to hang out with Connor which you readily accepted. The rottie was just as excited to see you, bounding over the second you stepped through the door.

“Sigh if only there was a way to see Connor everyday.” you say dramatically whistful as you hold the pup's jowls in your palms.

Toby responds in turn in a drawn out sarcastic monotone “Oh my, how sad your life must be. There's only one solution, marry me. So Connor can finally have the second parent he's always wanted” he ends with a scratch behind the pups right ear.

“I was just gonna kick you and steal your dog.”

He turns to face you, “I can't feel-”

“So if I kicked you in the back of the knee it wouldn't buckle?”

Toby goes silent before conceding to your point. A mumbled “Connor would avenge me.” is heard.

After you two settle down you both hop into bed to try and get some sleep. Toby was holding your switch hostage so you had no choice but to “sleep” now.

You really hoped he changed his sheets from the other day. You'd hate to find out you're laying in milk stained sheets. Pushing those thoughts away as your body finally starts to relax, you can feel when your mind begins to drift into the beginning stages of sleep.

“Tobes, you can crash at my place if you need to.” is the last thing you say before falling into a peaceful slumber.

Toby on the other hand wasn't able to get much sleep at all that night. He couldn't shake the feeling something bad was about to happen. And unlike Tim he didn't think it was because of you, it just had something to do with you. You were too kind to be one of The Operator's proxies, with all the clues of His presence in this town you were one of many red herrings. Looking over to you Toby only hoped you wouldn't get hurt in the crossfire. Not like Lyra did, he doesn't think he could handle something like that. Especially with how shitty Tim's been lately, he's on edge and constantly about to snap. He just needs a break from everything. Maybe then the weight in his stomach would go away.

In the morning Toby's keen to hold up his end of the deal and drive you to work. You buy him breakfast and an iced coffee from Dunkin' and a pup cup for Connor. The three of you eat in your car while you wait for Nate to arrive. When he does you say your goodbyes and head off to start your shift. Promising Toby you'd call once you've been ungrounded.

Nate's face is grim as you approach the shop, you're starting to get used to the cold sweats from these dread bearing encounters. That can't be a good thing.

Did something happen last night? Were the Cowells targeted? Was everyone alright? These thoughts and more swam through your head as Nate motioned for you to follow him into the shop quickly.

He locked the door and pushed you into the back room. His hast doing nothing to settle your fraying nerves as you stumble past the threshold.

“That Rogers kid, how well do you know him?” his eyes dart around the back looking at every shadow as if watching their movements.

“Who's Roger?” you feel out of the loop.

Was Roger one of your assailants? Had the police already found suspects so soon on what little information you had to go on?

With a groan Nate smacked his hand against his face muttering something under his breath.

“Toby, Tobias Rogers how much do you know about him?” his tone is rushed and sharp.

You didn't even know his last name until now. But maybe you had heard it before but it never clicked with you. Honestly you've known each other for a month that's not very long at all. But maybe it's long enough to learn some things?

“...ah not much?”

There's a panicked look in Nate's eyes and he does his best to control his breathing. But it's clear that Nate is either about to hyperventilate or go into an anxiety attack. You wonder what's got him so worked up as he reached into his bag and pulls out a manila folder.

He hands it to you, you can see the water marks left by his sweaty palms.

What on Earth is going on?

[a-yellow-book]

A-Ying is A-Ying!

There's no logic to how Wei Ying is de-aged temporarily, and my one brain cell has taken leave today so here we are. I wanted to write some fluff to de-stress without any planning or thinking or editing for that matter. :P All mistakes - in logic and/or spelling, are truly done by my own hands. Welps. Please enjoy~

[read on AO3 instead]

Jiang Cheng fidgeted with his outer robes as he approached the Cloud Recesses’ gate, followed by a full Jiang Sect entourage. This year’s Discussion Conference was the first that Wei Wuxian would officially take part in since marrying Lan Wangji last Fall. Jiang Cheng would like to think that they had made a lot of progress on rebuilding their relationship, and a lot of the credit had to go to Lan Xichen’s calming influence. 

Thinking of the Lan Sect leader and now Chief Cultivator, Jiang Cheng couldn’t help but smile fondly. He'd also like to think that their personal relationship had grown tremendously over the last year, and harbored hopes that they could take it to the next stage soon. 

With his thoughts preoccupied with images of Lan Xichen’s smiles, Jiang Cheng was caught off guard when he felt a pair of tiny arms squeeze his legs. 

“Hello!!!” The tiny boy who had wrapped himself around Jiang Cheng’s legs said, smiling. He looked oddly familiar. 

“Who are you?” Jiang Cheng asked, letting the boy stay where he was. The other Jiang Sect disciples behind him watched the exchange curiously. 

“A-Ying is A-Ying!” he proclaimed, smiling wider. 

“A-Ying?” Jiang Cheng assumed the boy must belong to the Lan Sect with his white robes. Upon closer inspection, he noticed the boy’s curly hair was tied up in a loose knot with a red ribbon with the shorter strands poking out in an unruly fashion, and his robes weren’t the pristine white but were dotted with mud around the hems. There was something very familiar about him that Jiang Cheng couldn’t place. 

The boy nodded before letting go of Jiang Cheng’s legs to show him the other thing he was holding onto, “And this is Lil’ Apple!” He pulled back his long sleeve to reveal a plump white bunny happily chewing on a bit of grass. 

A few of the disciples openly awwed at the scene, and Jiang Cheng couldn’t deny that the boy - A-Ying, was adorable. 

“Why are you walking around by yourself?” He asked. 

“A-Ying is bored!!!” He answered, snuggling the bunny closer and looked up at Jiang Cheng with large pleading eyes. 

Before Jiang Cheng could reply, a voice rang out from beyond the gate, “Sect Leader Jiang, you have arrived!” 

Jiang Cheng looked up and was momentarily rendered breathless by Lan Xichen’s smile. 

“Ahh, hello, Sect Le---- I mean Chief Cultivator,” Jiang Cheng bowed, and internally screamed at himself for being so embarrassing in front of the love of his life and his junior disciples. 

“I see that you have met A-Ying,” Lan Xichen gestured at the boy, still smiling so brightly. Jiang Cheng once again found himself unable to breathe at the sight. 

“Ahh, yes. He appeared out of nowhere and exclaimed that he’s bored,” Jiang Cheng said, looking down at the boy in question who was now pouting at full force. 

“A-Ying is so bored!” He whined some more for good measure. 

“Is he one of the Lan Sect’s disciples?” Jiang Cheng asked dubiously. 

“Ah,” Lan Xichen looked a bit uncomfortable. “I think we should head inside before I explain what happened.” 

“That does not sound good,” Jiang Cheng frowned. 

“A-Ying, let’s head back. We have to talk to Sect Leader Jiang,” Lan Xichen reached out and waited for A-Ying to grab his hand before leading the way towards the Cloud Recesses. Jiang Cheng was growing more suspicious by the second, but followed behind the pair silently. 

The moment they settled in the Main Hall, with A-Ying plopping himself right down the middle of the room petting his bunny without a care in the world, Jiang Cheng couldn’t hold back anymore and pressed, “Please, do tell me what happened?” 

Lan Xichen dismissed the servants and junior disciples lingering about before looking over at Jiang Cheng, “A-Cheng, please don’t be worried.” 

“I... What do you mean ‘not worried’?” Jiang Cheng’s mind was hung up on the intimate way Lan Xichen was addressing him before catching up on what he’d just heard. 

“Two nights ago, Wangji and Wuxian went out on a night hunt in Caiyi,” Lan Xichen began, “I had assumed it was just a normal water ghost plaguing the river, but when Wangji returned...” 

“Did something happen to Wei Wuxian? Is he hurt?” Jiang Cheng jumped out of his chair, “Where is he now? I need to see him!” 

“A-Cheng, I told you not to worry,” Lan Xichen approached and gently tugged Jiang Cheng back from running out searching for his troublesome brother. “Wei Wuxian is... fine... albeit a bit different.” 

“Different... how? Where is he now?” Jiang Cheng asked impatiently. 

Just then, the doors burst open and Lan Wangji rushed in, eyes wide and panicked obvious on his face. “Wei Ying!” he said, looking around. 

“Lan Zhan!!!!” the little boy, who had been sitting quietly and petting his bunny, jumped up and ran towards Lan Zhan. 

Jiang Cheng could not find any word to voice his shock and so continued to observe the scene before him. 

“Wei Ying, I told you to wait for me in the Jingshi!” Lan Zhan crouched down and pulled the boy into a hug. 

“But I was so bored I wanted to go see the new people visiting! And I have Lil’ Apple to protect me!” He replied, raising the bunny in his hand up triumphantly. 

“I was so worried,” Lan Zhan continued, “When I returned and didn’t see you...” 

“A-Ying is sorry,” he replied, frowning. 

“I’m sorry, but... would anyone care to explain?” Jiang Cheng finally found his voice and interjected. 

“Sect Leader Jiang, it wasn’t a normal water ghost that was wreaking havoc in Caiyi - it was a powerful demonic spirit that lurked in the waters and when Wei Wuxian got too close, managed to place a curse on him,” Lan Xichen replied. 

“What?!” Jiang Cheng felt like his heart was going to jump out of his chest. 

“It was fortunate that Wangji was able to vanquish the spirit and started to play Cleansing right away,” Lan Xichen continued, gently patting Jiang Cheng’s back comfortingly. “The curse was meant to transfer Wuxian’s life force to the demonic spirit, and even though Wangji managed to interrupt the transfer process, its effect was already taking roots and well...” 

“And now Wei Wuxian is a baby?!!” Jiang Cheng asked, confusion and concerns warring for dominance in his voice. 

“I’m not a baby!!” Wei Wuxian protested at the same time as Lan Zhan said, “Just temporarily.” 

“Yes, just temporarily,” Xichen confirmed, “Wangji has been playing Cleansing for Wuxian since and with time, the effects should be slowly lifted and he should return to his normal age.” 

“How long would that take?” Jiang Cheng was afraid of the answer but seeked it out anyway. 

“At the rate he has been progressing, most likely ten to fourteen more days,” Lan Zhan replied. 

“Does he still remember... all the things?” 

“What things?” Wei Ying turned his ridiculously large brown eyes at Jiang Cheng. 

“From what we have seen so far, Wuxian’s memories lined up with his age,” Lan Xichen said. 

“Then how is he still so close to Lan Wangji?” Jiang Cheng asked incredulously. “He’s what - six at most? My father wouldn’t have found him for another year or so. He wouldn’t be able to recognize me let alone knowing who you are.” 

“Lan Zhan is my best friend!!!” Wei Ying exclaimed with confidence. “He gives me Lil’ Apple to protect me, and candies when I’m hungry, and he’s really good at hugs!” 

“‘Really good at hugs’? Is that an euphemism...?!!” Jiang Cheng knew he might be ridiculously suspicious, but he wasn’t one to censor himself during normal circumstances, so why start now. 

“Sect Leader Jiang, I am fully aware of Wei Ying’s current age and development and will not do anything as distastefully inappropriate as you have just insinuated,” Lan Zhan said slowly and calmly but with the heat of a thousand burning suns. 

“Don’t make Lan Zhan sad!!!” Wei Ying wailed, stepping in front of Lan Zhan as if to shield him from Jiang Cheng’s words. His tiny face was scrunched up with displeasure while his arms were still full of Lil’ Apple, making for one hilariously adorable sight. 

“I’m sure Sect Leader Jiang is just worried for Wuxian,” Lan Xichen said placately. Turning to Jiang Cheng, he smiled reassuringly, “I know it’s a lot to take in right now, but I promised you - the Lan Sect, and especially Wangji, has Wei Wuxian’s best interests in mind.”  

“I know, I know,” Jiang Cheng conceded. Turning to Lan Zhan, he bowed respectfully and apologized with slight difficulty, “Please accept my apologies, Hanquang-jun. I am merely taken by surprise and allowed my worries for my brother to cloud my judgement.” 

“Apologies accepted, Sect Leader Jiang,” Lan Zhan bowed in return. 

Lan Xichen watched the whole exchange with a satisfied expression. “I’m glad we have come to an understanding. Now, why don’t I escort you to your chambers to... ah, get some rest before dinner?” 

Jiang Cheng snorted, an entirely undignified gesture for someone of his station. Lan Xichen was many things, but subtlety he was not. “That would be... greatly appreciated, Chief Cultivator,” Jiang Cheng replied. 

“Huh? Rest?! But A-Ying wants to play with the new people!” Wei Ying pouted. 

“Wei Ying, let’s leave Chief Cultivator and Sect Leader Jiang to rest. I need to play Cleansing for you,” Lan Zhan said before effortlessly picking Wei Ying up. 

“Ahh! That’s boring! Lan Zhan~ Let’s go fly on a sword!!!” Wei Ying declared as he was being carried out of the Main Hall, limbs flailing about. 

“Cleansing first,” Lan Zhan replied. 

Jiang Cheng watched the two of them bickered back and forth all the way across the courtyard, definitely ignoring all the rules about noise levels. 

“So, Sect Leader Jiang, ready to retire to your chambers yet?” Lan Xichen, the sneaky bastard, had siddled up next to Jiang Cheng and intertwined their hands. 

“You think you’re so cute, huh?” Jiang Cheng smirked. Lan Xichen pretended to think over it for a moment before nodding unabashedly and tugged Jiang Cheng along the white pebbled path to the Hanshi. 

[thethistlegirlwrites]

Comfortember Day 14 (Alt prompt-Jacket)

Since I wanted to write about my OCs today but a road trip would not be so fun for Robin (metal in cars is uncomfortable to be around for too long), so here's an alt prompt instead! (I'll probably do a road trip for someone else later though, because that's a GOOD ONE)

Winter in Los Angeles is barely winter. At least according to Kira, whose school in Oregon saw real snow every year. Robin's never seen more than faint flurries. It sounds magical, but if it's even colder than the weather is today, he'll pass.

A chilly breeze is blowing off the grey ocean, and the dampness hangs in the air, making its way into his bones. He zips his dad's jacket up as far as he can, tucking his hands in the pockets. He hasn't taken anything out of them, there's a gum wrapper that crinkles with real foil, the kind almost no one makes anymore, a lighter almost out of fluid even though Robin doesn't think Adam ever smoked, and a peppermint candy that's covered in dust even in its plastic wrapper.

In the other pocket is a folded picture of Robin and Ellie. Robin is standing in the yard and Ellie is bent down over him, both of them looking at the camera and smiling. The picture is creased in half at Robin's shoulders in the picture, the crease thick like a seam and worn white, like the photo's been opened up and closed again multiple times.

With the sun down, the chill creeps through the streets like the shadows. Robin steps into the slight shelter of the side of a building. The vamp they're looking for hunts this area and they're basically on stakeout patrol (and John has already made EVERY possible variation of a pun on that) until he shows.

Kira scampers up the side of the building to perch on a fire escape three stories up, getting a good overhead view of the area. Kira reminds him of the alley cats, agile and lethal. She's a shadow, moving fast and striking faster. Robin's impressed with her ability to take advantage of every handhold. She'd tried to teach him too, but too many things she uses to help her climb have too high an iron content. And since wearing gloves can be dangerous because of potential slipping, Robin finally decided he'd leave the climbing to her.

With her on watch, John and Robin prep their gear. Cody's back in the van on comms, watching their local surveillance feeds. John says one of the best things that happened to hunting was the digital camera. Vampires actually appear in digital images as themselves. Film cameras capture them as they truly are. Showing their real age, or in some cases only a skeleton. Robin remembers the vampire informant they meet with who buys cheap film cameras and takes pictures of himself because he wants to feel human again.

Thinking of the photos the vamp had in his pocket along with his little black book reminds Robin of the one tucked in his. He fingers the worn paper, wondering how many times Adam touched it before heading out on a hunt.

A faint tapping above him catches his attention.  He turns just in time to see Kira hop down from her perch with a gracefulness his own numb, cold-heavy limbs could definitely not replicate.

MOVEMENT IN THE SECOND ALLEY NORTH, she signs, and John nods and relays the information to Cody quietly. It's no coincidence, Robin is sure, that that's the one place they're struggling to get video coverage.

Unfortunately, it's a false alarm. Just a local shop owner a shortcut on his way home. Which means it's back to their posts.

Robin tries not to lean on the cold brick wall, it feels like it's sucking the warmth out of his body. He takes slow breaths, hoping no one can hear over comms that they're shaky. He's good at keeping his teeth from chattering, but the shaky breaths he can't help. His cheeks feel wind-bitten and his toes are cold.

John turns and glances at him when he raises his hands to blow on his fingers, and Robin quickly tucks them back in his pockets.

"Are you cold?" John asks.

"I'm fine." It comes out too fast, too desperate, a conditioned response to being asked that many times before and not liking the results of total honesty.

"Oh really? That why you're shakin'?" John asks. "You coulda said you were getting too cold. You can wait in the van..."

"I'm useless in the van," Robin says. "By the time I get out the door you guys will be where you need to be."

He's cut off by the knocking sound again, as well as Cody whispering over comms. "There's movement northeast of your position. Hard to get a clear visual."

Kira scrambles down from her perch again, and they head toward the source of the movement.

This time, it's not a false alarm. Fortunately, the vamp is easy to bring down. He's the kind of predator who likes laying in wait and getting the drop on victims, and in a full-on fight he surrenders almost immediately.

The adrenaline of the arrest pushes the cold aside temporarily, but by the time they're heading back to the agency with the vamp in the secure section of the van, Robin is feeling the chill again. The van is warm enough, but even so, he feels like he'll never really get warm again, the damp chill like fangs sinking into his bones. He tries not to think about Arion or that cell.

He startles when someone spreads something over his lap. John is looking at him with concern, his own jacket off, that's what Robin felt. And from her seat, Kira is digging through the emergency kit to pull out one of the brown shock blankets. The ones they carry are different from everyone else's; wool is more effective for Robin than the reflective insulating material in the regular type. They have a couple of those as well, since the rest of his team is human, but Robin feels a little warmer just at the thought that his specific needs have been considered.

Robin wants to insist he doesn't need it, but John is already wrapping him in the blanket the best he can while Robin is huddled in his seat, and it's not worth the effort to try and figure out a way around the painfully obvious truth.

"Next time, tell us if you're not okay, alright?" John asks. "We're not gonna make you stand out there and freeze to death."

"I should be fine. You and Kira were alright."

"That's not a good enough reason. If anyone told you it was, then they better answer to me." John frowns. "We don't all handle things the same. And we don't have to. You don't see me scaling walls like Spider-woman over there." He puts a hand on Robin's shoulder and Robin could swear he can feel the warmth through the blanket, his jacket, and his shirt. "You don't have to be okay just because someone else is."

Robin nods shakily. It's going to take time to undo the things Michaels and the Silver Blade team beat into him, literally and figuratively. The constant reminders that he wasn't allowed to struggle because none of the rest of them were, so he'd better suck it up and stop acting like an entitled brat.

But they'll get there. And he knows it.

Taglist: @nade2308 @cmvorra @bands-space-and-monsters-oh-my @catwingsathena @asloudasalone @anguishmacgyver @flowing-river24 @myhusbandsasemni @floh673 @teddythecat1234 @bkworm4life4 @viawrites-andacts @amarilloskies

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[cadenreigns]

My Monster(s)

(This was an AU short story I wrote for a reddit 1-day writing contest for the star vs subreddit a long while back and later decided to add a twist ending to. While I went back and edited it a little bit, it was still something I wrote in like 2 hours so don’t expect a masterpiece. And since it’s longer than I remembered so it’s after the break)

“And that should be everything,” Dr. Backintosh said as she ticked off a few notes on her clipboard. “We’ll call you to set up a follow-up appointment once the results come in, but based on what we’ve gathered so far, I don’t foresee anything keeping us from moving on to the next phase.”

Meteora shifted in her hospital gown before feeling Mariposa squeeze her hand. The two exchanged a hopeful look before she returned her attention to the doctor. “So, you don’t think there will be any problem because of…what I am?”

The doctor looked up and gave a reassuring smile. “Ms. Butterfly, while your body may be more unique than others, you still have all the same organs and working parts we’re used to dealing with. I won’t say it’s impossible something won’t come up, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”

Meteora let out a sigh she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding. “Good.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I guess all that’s left is to figure out a donor,” Mariposa mused aloud as they exited the doctor’s office and made their way to her car. Meteora immediately knew that she already had an idea, otherwise she wouldn’t have brought it up. It was, after all, the part of this situation that made her the most uncomfortable. More about it probably should have made her uncomfortable, like the very basic fact that 19 was a bit young to be doing what she was. But unlike Mari, quintessential college student that she was, who had every opportunity still ahead of her, Meteora only had one major decision of her own to make. And she had decided to make it before her weird half-breed biology could mess something up about it. Everything else, like where she could live and what job she’d have, had already been decided by the government or negotiated by her parents. And while being the monster representative would be a cushy job, she wasn’t sure that’s what she would have chosen for herself.

“I’m not going to like what you’re going to say next, am I,” Meteora said, knowing the answer.

Mari put on her most innocent smile, the smile that had convinced Meteora to do so many things over the years. So many things that often ended with them in trouble. “Well, there is one obvious way that would let me be a real aunt.”

Meteora stopped in place. “Please don’t tell me you’re insinuating what I think you are.”

Mari continued to smile. “And wouldn’t you know it, today’s the day I’m supposed to go check in on him. But my evening class starts soon, hmmm.” She cupped her chin in her hand and started to tap her upper lip, something she often did when presenting an idea as just thought up instead of meticulously planned. “Maybe you could go check on him for me, see how he’s doing, have a chat about life, the universe, and medical procedures. You know, stuff like that.”

Meteora’s tail had started to swing tersely back and forth at some point, and she made no attempt to stop it. “You know I don’t like him, Mari.”

“But you’ve got no real reason not to. Besides, he’s basically just me as a guy.”

“Does it even matter to you that I don’t want to go?”

“Your future matters more.”

Meteora crossed her arms and huffed. “Fine, I’ll do it. But you should know that sometimes I really hate you.”

“Which,” she began as her smile spread mischievously, “is of course why you end up doing everything I put in your head.”

It took Meteora almost an hour to make her way to his ramshackle home at the edge of Echo Creek. Not because it was any significant distance away, if that was the case then he probably would have been outside the area her and her father’s kind were allowed to travel in, but because he had picked the most out-of-the-way spot imaginable to live. The roads that led there were little more than curvy dirt paths that were hell on her moped, each looking ready to collapse into one of the many riverbanks or ditches that lined the way, and took the most roundabout routes to get anywhere. Of course, this spot was chosen when “he” had been “them,” but he had stayed after everything…stayed for years, so she wasn’t going to give him any slack about it.

And then the trees parted and she was in the clearing, where the mountains were far enough away to be majestic instead of looming overhead. It was truly a beautiful sight…until you looked down and saw the home sitting in the center of the clearing, right at the end of the dirt road that had brought her there. Everyone called it his “house” to be polite, but it was little more than a gussied-up trailer as far as Meteora was concerned. The chicken coops off to one end while a messy garden and old minivan took up space on the other didn’t exactly improve the image it gave off. If you didn’t know he owned all the land around them you’d think it was a squatter’s camp.

The closer she got the more Meteora didn’t want to deal with this. And that feeling only grew stronger when she propped the moped on its kickstand and took her helmet off. She knew she could drive away now and just tell Mari that she had done it, that would satisfy the periodic visits she insisted on, but not the donor angle. That she couldn’t drive away from without getting an earful about later. So, after a long and drawn out sigh, Meteora stepped up to the front door and knocked.

At first there was no reply, so she knocked again. Second time was the charm evidently, as almost immediately she heard a call from inside, “I’m coming.”

A moment passed, with some rustling barely making its way through the door before she heard the lock slide in and the handle started to turn. “You know you don’t have to keep checking in on me, Mari. I can take care of myself…”

Marco Diaz trailed off when the door was fully open and he saw that it wasn’t Mari at his door, but her best friend. This man, who Meteora had known all her life and who was in surprising good shape considering that, by all accounts, he rarely actually left his so-called “house,” was the man who she despised more than anyone else in world. But Mari had made her promise not to let that come across as too obvious.

“Hey jerk-face.” Some promises were hard to keep.

“Meteora,” he replied, his brow raised in confusion.

She stepped past him and inside before he could get the chance collect his thoughts. “Mari’s got class tonight, so she sent me. You’re not doing anything stupid that would worry her, are you?”

Marco closed the door behind her and followed as she made her way down the length of the small home. Based on what Mari had told her about previous visits, she had expected more of a mess as she made her way through the small sitting area and kitchen, but the place was clean and tidy, almost sterile. The only thing even close to messy about it was a dish rag on the kitchen counter. She stopped when she came to the bedroom on the far side of the kitchen, it featured some un-fluffed pillows, not that Meteora ever bothered with that either.

“I don’t think so,” he finally replied. “You want a drink, or something?”

She shrugged. “Got any diet Pitt?”

“I see Mari’s taste for that junk finally wore off on you,” he said as he opened the fridge and reached inside. A second later he emerged with a pink can, though instead of handing it to her when she put out her hand he placed it on the kitchen table and then took a seat. “I’m surprised you bothered to come, even with Mari asking.”

“Yeah well, people don’t pick their families,” Meteora said, picking up the can without taking a seat of her own, then pulling the on the tab. It opened with the expected swoosh of bubbling liquid that was practically reassuring, even if it was generally the sign of something that wasn’t actually good for her. “I like it when she’s happy, she likes it when she knows you’re not dead because you live in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of chickens, so I guess I like knowing that too.”

Marco made what Meteora could only assume was an amused sound with his nose. “Even though you’d probably enjoy figuring out a way to set the chickens on me?”

It was Meteora’s turn to make an amused sound, which she followed by taking a huge gulp of her diet Pitt. “At this point I’m more likely to just not help when the chickens attack than actually sick them on you.”

“Well I appreciate you not hastening my demise yourself,” Marco answered back. “Anyway, I know you don’t like being here, so you can go and let Mari know that I’m in the same state I always am. Nothing to be worried or relieved about.”

“Right…” she said slowly, turning in place to survey the home again instead of looking at him. She couldn’t bring herself to really look at him and ask this question. It was bad enough she had to ask it at all, let alone of him. “Well there was one other thing I…Mari suggested I ask you…”

Meteora paused as her slow look around came back to the bedroom and something caught her eye that she hadn’t noticed before. A picture on the nightstand, one of a young woman taken over twelve years prior. Meteora had been around seven the last time she’d seen Star, and hadn’t really understood when she couldn’t anymore. No one had been able to explain it in a way she’d understood. Some had said she’d gotten sick, like so many had at the time, but everyone had cried, and then yelled. Marco had yelled most of all, and at practically everyone. And then, well then he stopped leaving this supposed “vacation home” they’d shared altogether. In fact, Meteora didn’t think anyone aside from Mariposa had seen him in person more than three of four times in the dozen years that had followed.

Trying to pull her attention back to the task at hand, she saw the home in a new light. The photo of Star was the only color in the whole place. Everything else was white or some shade of grey. And the place wasn’t just sterile, it was practically lifeless. That’s why Mari came here when no one else did, not because she was worried about him living so far out alone, but because she knew he wasn’t really living at all.

“Ask what?”

Meteora almost jumped when Marco prompted her to continue. And looking at him in that moment, with something besides the irrational anger that had plagued her thoughts of him all her life, she couldn’t bring herself to ask what she’d been sent here to. So she asked the question that had been asked of her so many times.

“Why…why do you think I’ve never liked you?”

Marco took a deep breath and looked out the window for a moment, as if considering something very carefully. But then the moment ended and she got her answer.

Meteora pushed her third can of diet Pitt to the side to sit with the others as she ran though everything Marco had told her. It all seemed crazy when he’d said it, even crazier as she thought about each part, but none of it seemed wrong either.

“Because of an old king I was raised by an abusive robot…and then ran a boarding school?”

“From what I understand, yeah.”

“And then I had to live in a car because you, while crossdressing, riled my…students into kicking me out.”

“It wasn’t my idea to cross-dress, but basically.”

“Which led me to remember that I was half monster…which led me to try and take over Mewni…”

“Which led to all the soul draining and eventually the combination of magics that turned you back into a baby,” Marco said nonchalantly before taking a sip from the water bottle he had eventually pulled out for himself. “And you just never liked me after that. I guess some emotions just get too ingrained to fade.”

“But,” Meteora started as she put the pieces together. “If you hadn’t gotten me kicked out, which let me remember what I was, which led to the magic battle…then I wouldn’t have my family, or Mari, or any part of the life I have now.”

He shrugged. “Probably not.”

“So, I’ve been angry at you all my life, because you gave me my life.”

His mouth twisted a bit before replying with, “Well it’s not like I turned you back into a baby myself, but if that’s how you see it then just know that I don’t take it personally. In fact, it’s actually kind of nice having someone not like me for a different reason than the rest.”

Meteora’s chair squeaked across the linoleum floor as she pushed herself up. The empty cans shook as she walked around the table. And Marco just looked confused when she grabbed and pulled him up by the collar. He was still a few inches taller than her, so it was an awkward position once he was up, but no less awkward than when she wrapped both her arms around him in the next instant.

Silence permeated the next few moments. Shocked silence from Marco if she had to guess, while her own was confused. Part of her still felt the urge to knock his block off, but at the same time…well another part was seeing him in a whole new way.

“Thank you,” she finally said before pulling away from him.

“No problem?” he replied.

Now the silence between them was just awkward. Though that wasn’t surprising when Meteora remembered that the only physical contact the two had ever had before that hug had usually entailed her trying to hurt him in some way.

“I gotta get going. I’ll tell Mari you’re doing fine.”

“Sure, thanks,” he said slowly before glancing out the window. “It’s starting to get dark, be careful on the way back.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Meteora’s tail twitched back and forth as she sat on the couch flipping through channels. She hadn’t slept well the night before and was going to be alone all day thanks to Mari’s new class schedule. Angie and Raphael usually would have been there to bother her in their good-natured way, but they were out of town. Which left her alone with nothing to do on a day that had a storm approaching and nothing worth watching on tv. So, when the phone rang, she didn’t even care that it was probably a telemarketer, at least it gave her something to do.

“Hello,” she answered.

“Ms. Butterfly, it’s Dr. Backintosh. Is this a good time?”

Meteora sat up straighter, ready to receive the news they’d been waiting for. “Well I’m on my own today, so I guess-”

“Actually,” the doctor interrupted, “it’s probably better we talk about this on our own first.”

In the distance Meteora heard the first boom of thunder.

Meteora knocked on the door, though she could barely hear her knocks over the rain and thunder that plummeted from the sky above. She knocked again a few seconds later, barely any harder though. She didn’t have the energy for it. Finally, after she forced herself to knock a third time, the door opened.

“Meteora?” Marco practically bellowed.

She didn’t reply.

“Come on, get out of the rain,” he said before taking her by the arm and pulling her inside. “Are you ok? Did something happen?”

She thought about it as she watched drops of water roll off her and start to puddle on his floor. Something had happened, though what actually mattered was what wasn’t going to happen. She didn’t say that though, just like she hadn’t said anything since hanging up the phone.

“I’ll get you a towel,” he said after a moment had passed without any reply. “I’ll be right back, okay.”

Meteora remained silent as he ran off towards the bedroom, continuing to watch the droplets join the puddle while listening to Marco frantically open and close drawers. A few seconds, maybe a minute, later he returned and the towel came down over her head. He hadn’t bothered to offer it to her, and wasn’t bothering to let her get around to actually drying herself either.

“I can’t believe you rode here in this weather,” he said while gently dabbing the towel across her face and long lilac hair. “And without even a jacket, you know it’ll be me Mariposa explodes at if you get sick.”

She still didn’t reply, just watched the droplets while he moved on to wiping off her arms.

“Ok, well whatever brought you here, you need to finish drying off first. And since I don’t think I can dry anymore myself without feeling like a creep, I’m going to push you into the bathroom. There’s some spare clothes in there, so will you please finish drying off and change?”

Meteora nodded meekly and let him lead her towards the back.

Sometime later Meteora found herself huddled at one end of his couch wearing an oversized ninja t-shirt and a pair of drawstring shorts that were loose even with the strings drawn all the way. Marco sat at the other end. They had been that way for a while, silent except for right when they’d sat down and he’d said to just ask and he’d do whatever she needed him to. She didn’t have any conscious plan to ask him for anything. She didn’t even have a conscious reason for being there, it had simply been where’d she decided to go. But suddenly, even surprising herself a bit, it started to come out.

“My life was planned out for me since Mewni became part of Earth,” she started. “Except for when I get to have a baby.”

“Ok…”

“So I was going to do it,” she continued. “Invitro and all that, because it’s my choice and it’s what I want.”

“Well I guess that’s ni–”

“But because I’m half-monster they say they can’t.” Her eyes started to well. “That something about the way I am makes it too dangerous. That the only way I could ever be a mother would be…the natural way.” The tears were rolling now. “But I’ve never felt…that way about anyone. So what am I supposed to do? I’m too much of a freak to get what I wanted and I just…I just–”

Marco stood without warning. He made his way towards the kitchen, where Meteora could hear the fridge and some drawers open and then close in succession. He returned with a six-pack of bottles and pile of old-timey VHS tapes.

“Look Meteora,” he said as he put the bottles down on the small coffee table and started shuffling through the tapes, “the last time anything bad happened to me I pushed everyone that cared about me away. And well, that’s probably not going to help you right now. So instead of trying to make you feel better, we’re going to play a little game that used to help me forget about stuff.”

He slipped one of the tapes into the VHS below the tv and hit play. The tv roared to life with an off-color title screen that loudly stated, “Fist of the Fist!”

“This,” Marco said as he sat back down and started divvying up the bottles between them, “is an early Mackie Hand movie, before he even learned English. The rules of the game are simple, take a sip anytime someone acts like they were hit but obviously weren’t, anytime the dubbing is obviously off, and anytime someone shouts an attack name.”

Meteora looked at the bottle he handed her, and then at him. “And this is supposed to help me?”

“It’s supposed to make you feel less bad,” he replied. “Actual help can start tomorrow.”

The title screen faded and a man sitting at a bar came into focus. Another man approached him and put a hand on the first’s shoulder. Their eyes met and an American voice yelled, “Time to die, Mackie Hand!” while the man’s actual mouth calmly said something completely different.

Meteora almost laughed, then joined Marco in taking her first sip.

[with-fists-and-folded-steel]

Ghost Frequency

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The clock ticked steadily away. A tall (if a few ilms shorter than she used to be), blonde Garlean woman, face riddled with old burns and scars, deep gashes from a time she would… very much prefer to forget, was sat at her desk, trying to glare a hole in the stack of paperwork in front of her. And the infernal clock just kept ticking.

Claudia quo Servius had no clue as to how exactly she, in her extremely limited military capacity as an overglorified mascot for the Empire, could possibly have a fraction of forms to fill out and approve. She swore they made half of this shite up for the sake of keeping her busy. She didn’t blame them (She absolutely did); she wouldn’t know what else to do with her, either. But she hated it. She hated the drudgery. She hated feeling chained to this damn office, with nothing to do day-in and day-out.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

She was hit by the strange urge to hiss like a feral coeurl at the stack of documents or slump in her chair out of boredom. She shook her head, and shoved the urge down, and buried it. That was… uncomfortably reminiscent of someone she once knew. Someone she was certain had long since perished. Truthfully, she’d be glad to see the little gobshite go to town on her office at the Imperial Consulate of Kugane. It was a nice office, don’t get her wrong. It was actually fairly decadent, especially as offices for war veterans go. And it had a truly excellent view of the city. That said, it was still utterly stifling, and Claudia was still mind-numbingly bored. She groaned, doing her level best to will herself into getting at least some of this paperwork finished.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

… Nothing. Still. Nothing. This wasn’t happening. Not today. If she stared at any of this much longer, she was going to tear it all up and throw it away. Or rather, she would, except the last thing she needed was to have her superiors noticing her beyond when they trot her out for special appearances and suchlike. She despised her current position, but the thought of being demoted and dealing with the same daily minutiae, minus the comforts of her nice office was not one she was keen on entertaining. Fortunately, none of these documents were time-sensitive for once, so they could survive a day untouched. She’d just rather not leave them piling up to torment future Claudia. Future Claudia was just going to have to suck it up.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Ti-BzZtckrkrrrrrrrrrrrr~

Huh? What? Claudia’s head shot up from an especially bland document she’d looked over half a dozen times as her vox crackled to life. She rarely received much contact on it. Not these days. Not without any actual soldiers to report into her. Who would be trying to contact her on her frequency? She dug around in her desk drawer, searching for her vox. To her surprise, however, when she finally found it, it was dead silent. Yet despite that, she could swear she was hearing the telltale static of a vox. The only other one in her office was her old III Squa—No. No, that couldn’t be could it? That’s impossible. There’s no one left alive who could be on that frequency… Could there?

Tick.

Tick.

Kkrccrrrrrrckrcrrrrckrrrrrr~

Tick.

Claudia scrambled to get out of her chair, nearly tripping over her own prosthetic legs trying to reach the lockbox where she kept her old effects from the XIIth Legion. Sure enough, the static crackled louder as she approached it, if a little muffled. Her heart raced as she rifled through her pockets anxiously for the key. She tried her best not get her hopes up—After all, what were the odds anyone else made it out? After all these years? And even if any of them had, what the fuck would they be doing in Kugane of all places, halfway around the world? She must be losing her marbles. This was pointless. She shouldn’t be bothering chasing after ghosts.

But… What if… What if she wasn’t actually alone? Maybe there was someone from her squad out there. Maybe… She had to try. She had to know.

Tick.

KrckrccrrrrrrckWercrdrrrckrrrrrr~

Tick.

Tick.

 Claudia’s heart skipped a beat at that last sound. She swore on Emperor Solus’s grave she heard someone’s voice. She knew she did. It was unmistakable. Claudia scrambled uncharacteristically clumsily to push the key into the lock, panicking to turn it and dig out her old, beaten up vox from the bottom of the box. Dammit, let someone be there. Anybody. What she wouldn’t give to hear Belisar’s voice; probably stoned out of her gourd.

Rrrrrckrrrberrrsecrkrrhvn’trrr~

Tick.

Tick.

Rrkckrrrrrrrrckrrrrr--……………………………….

No, no, no, no. Don’t you dare do this to me. Not now. Not when she was so close. She pressed down on the broadcast button, hand shaking. “Hell-… Hello?” Her voice cracked embarrassingly, and her face briefly scrunched up in disgust at how weak she sounded. “Is anyone on this frequency?” Yet only silence emanated from the old vox. Claudia could do nothing but stare down at it, clutched tighter in her grasp than was probably recommended. The damn thing had given out as she’d retrieved it. It hadn’t seen any use in years. It was a wonder it had managed to hold onto a charge for so long. Garlean engineering. Go figure.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

She took a step back, closed her remaining eye, and took a long, deep, agonizing breath. Fighting tooth-and-nail to remain any semblance of composure. A cold, stabbing emptiness settled in her chest, slowly growing and sprawling outwards within her. That was such a stupid, pointless waste of time. Chasing ghosts? Really, Servius? She knew better than that. She was better than that. When would it finally sink in that they’re all gone? They’re all gone, and none of them were ever coming back. You get to live, and they don’t. Congratulations on becoming a war hero, Centurio. Was it all you hoped it would be?

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Amidst the biting emptiness cutting into her, anger and rage bubbled up in her gut, rising faster and hotter, and her grip on her vox tightened more and more, until the casing groaned and creaked awfully. She snarled angrily, more at herself than anything else, mere seconds from smashing this damn thing cursing her with yet more false hope after all these years. She hated this. She hated her job. She hated this place. She hated these shitty legs the Empire gave her. And she hated that she just couldn’t let go. No matter how many times she convinced herself they didn’t matter. That she didn’t need them anyways. No matter how deeply she smothered and buried those feelings, memories of her squad still clawed their way to the surface.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

T-CRASH.

Claudia screamed as she slammed her fist into that damn clock, ending its incessantly loud ticking once and for all. Taking heaving breaths as her knuckles burrowed into the now-broken glass for several long moments. It wasn’t until she saw the lines of red trickling between the cracks that she finally felt the sting of her hand being cut into and pulled it back, still clutching the vox in her hand.

…

…

…

…

The sudden rage and grief and self-loathing that had overflowed from her a minute ago slowly ebbed away, replaced with… an odd, inescapable curiosity about the little device. Upon closer inspection, in spite of everything, it remained remarkably intact. A couple minor cracks had slightly worsened, but overall, not too bad. It very likely worked perfectly fine. Her hand shook a little as she went to set it down on the shelf beneath the shattered clock. Claudia sighed heavily and muttered curses under her breath. She should just throw this traitorous thing away, and forget about it. It only brought her false hope, and could only bring her more. It was just going to hurt her more to keep it on the slimmest chance someone, somewhere was on the other end. She should do it. But… like her quickly-forgotten mountain of paperwork, she just couldn’t bring herself to.

Despite herself, despite the disappointment gnawing at her, demanding she give up and give in to the futility of it all, she instead went about the task of taking down the clock and tossing it (She’d have someone replace it later that day with one that didn’t drive her up the wall), and finding a charger for the squad vox. Thankfully, it wasn’t so outdated that it was no longer compatible. It’d take time to charge; these old things may hold a charge for fucking ever, but where they excelled in that capacity, they failed miserably at any sort of charging speed. Maybe she could afford a bit of hope.

With nothing left to do but let it sit and recharge, and any chance for anymore work long-since thrown out the window, Claudia headed for the door to her office. On her way out, she glanced back at the vox. Images of Castellus, Valens, Petrus, Belisar, DeMeer… Fuck, even Sawyer, flashed through her mind. It probably wasn’t worth the effort - worth the hope - but… really, what did she have left to lose? As she turned the lights out, she chuckled quietly to herself. “… High and away, right?”

[godsofmonster]

Blame Game ≽

Reader x Seokjin- Couple’s Therapy 

Word Count- 3,4k

Warnings-  angst, explicit language, toxic relationship, mentions of cheating, mentions of physical abuse, just drama, etc.  

Let's play the blame game, I love you, more. Let's play the blame game for sure. Let's call out names, names, I hate you, more. 

We passed through the door frame into the dreadful room. The large set of double doors, painted white, shut us inside with nowhere to run. There was a well-mannered gesture making its greatest effort to make us feel comfortable. This was supposed to be a safe space but we only appeared to be content. The truth was we hadn't been comfortable in a long time- that's why we were here.

Even as we went to sit down on the pearl leather couch, we were as far away from each other as the seat allowed. The silence between us was only apparent during this time when we were forced to face it. There was nothing for us to find distraction in. It was appalling and overwhelming, to say the least. Still, I pulled out my phone, hoping to enjoy a bit of diversion before we started. 

However, within my scrolling, It wasn't long before I could sense his cold stare watching me. His voice was just as icy.

“Do you mind, (Y/n)?” Jin harshly whispered beside me. 

I didn't even try to look in his direction, I could already imagine the face he was making, as I lied through my teeth.

“I'm just turning it off,” I mumbled. 

I did turn it off about fifteen seconds later, by then, the young woman was stepping toward her seat in front of us. On a gray-colored couch chair, she adjusted her long, artificial, raven hair. She held a notebook on her exposed thighs, crossing one over the other to expose a bit more. Offering herself to the lingering eyes of her patient.

She didn't think I noticed her skirt went up an inch with every meeting we had. I couldn't remember her name- not that it mattered anyway.

Afterward, she took in a deep breath, and her pretty eyes, like a wildcat, found their way to my boyfriend.

“How are you two feeling today?” 

Her words were empty. A recording of what she had been taught to say, and what she was saying every time we came back here. 

“Fine.” We both lied. We were very good at doing that.

She jotted something down in her notes, whatever our perfect lies told her about us before continuing.

“I wanted to start today by going back to the beginning of your relationship,” She adjusted herself comfortably, leaning back and studying us like lab rats. “How did you two meet?” 

The image of the memory already began to engulf my mind. The smell, the music, and the light that illuminated his face of an angel. A faint recollection from a past life, it seemed like. 

"At a charity ball about two years ago," Jin replied. "(Y/n) used to be very active in those kinds of organizations, and we were asked to speak at the event.”

To anyone, it must have seemed as if Jin was the only one who wanted to give couples counseling a fair try. The way I saw it, he simply took advantage of any opportunity to talk down to me.

All I did was listen half of the time, as he spoke about the people we once were.

"It took her over a year to even go out with me," 

The comment might have appeared harmless, but no one knew him the way I did. I could hear the resentment in his voice.

“Of course,” 

I straightened myself out of the slump I had grown accustomed too. My eyes looked only at her, thinking she might finally see what was going on. 

“I didn't think I was worthy of being seen with the great Kim Seokjin; worldwide handsome, and a member of the biggest k-pop group in the world.”

My voice was drowning in bitterness and sarcasm. When I turned to look for Jin's begrudged stare, he simply couldn't even bear it. He looked away without a word.

“Would you say Seokjin’s profession puts a strain on your relationship?” 

What a stupid question to ask.

“I only see him three months out of the year,” It even drew a sour laugh from my mouth. “What do you think?” 

She remained unfazed by my sharp tongue. In the past few months, she had experienced much worse from my behavior. 

“How have you two been handling it up to now?” 

I noticed Jin was about to jump in with a pair of virtuous words for an answer. So I spoke before he could ever make a sound.

“You mean, how I've been handling it,” I corrected her. 

“Jin has too much on his plate and, believe me, I am the last thing he worries about.”

Jin knew everything about talking to people, it was a part of his life. He gave interviews constantly. My boyfriend had perfected the art of righteously answering a question, without giving away too much information. He had used it on me a million times before.

“I have a demanding job!” His voice raised in volume. His red lips poked out in a pout, and a vein strained out of his neck. “I have six other people relying on me!"

I had heard this all before, every last word about it.

"I'm not out drinking, or gambling, or fucking girls!" He yelled. "I'm working my ass off! For her. To pay for everything she wants!”

The story between us was always the same as a play on Broadway, scripted. Fighting, sex, money, and then came the silence. 

“That's the problem!" I chimed in, my voice matching his in intensity. "He thinks that's what I want- he thinks that’s all I need!”

But we could never seem to understand each other. 

“I've never heard you complain," He spoke directly to me this time. "Not once! Any single time I bought you something or gave you money. You didn't have a problem with it then."

His voice was tormenting. We were too blinded by our rage to ever understand. It was almost too much.

I hated everything about this. I hated that we ended up here, fighting in front of a stranger once a week to stay together. I hated that being here was our last chance. That’s why I couldn’t look at him half of the time. I saw us and almost nothing had changed physically, but we were two strangers.

“Well, for this to work you both need to be honest- not to me, but each other." She tucked a side of her hair behind her ear as she continued to write things down in her notes. "If you haven’t been honest with your emotions before, this is the place to start.”

Maybe there was something to that.

Anyone who had seen us fight would think there was nothing we held back, but they couldn't be more wrong. There was so much we never said, never dared to speak out loud. Neither I nor Jin knew if we could make it if we did. 

“It’s important to have a plan, any idea of what exactly you two want to get from this experience." I loathed the way she tried to be sound attentive. "You don’t have to say it out loud right now, you may want different things, but these are some questions to think about as we talk,”

Those questions would be the end of us, I just knew it. They would have to be faced regardless. Jin and I needed to start taking a step in our relationship, even if that step was backward. 

“How do you truly feel about your relationship?" 

She let the idea spill into the air. "One of you might feel like the relationship is salvageable, but the other... might not."

That idea terrified me.

"Though, since you’ve both agreed to get this counseling, chances are there is still something left to work with.” 

Though I loved him, neither one of us knew what it meant to be in a healthy relationship. It was the only thing I was sure of, and I knew that love wasn't good enough. 

“What issues are most important to you?" She continued. "You should always air your views on what you think the most important issues are so that the two of you can work on them together."

The things that matter the most to one often seem insignificant to the other. In itself creates a bad foundation for the both of us, that's why we couldn't get anywhere. Jin and I always discarded each other's concerns. It was always a mixture of revenge and self-indulgence.

“Do you trust one another?"

We didn't even know what trust was. "Trust is one of the most important factors in any relationship. If you have a hard time trusting the other, you will find it difficult to connect on any level."

She looked at each of us, wondering if her words had managed to reach into our thick heads. They had settled in the depths of our only reasonable part of the brain. All we could do was nod in the stillness.

We were only guessing what the other was thinking at this point, and we were both terrified.

“Great,” She said. 

“Let me ask each of you, why do you want to work things out? Please don’t interrupt each other and listen to what the other person has to say.”

We nodded again. 

“Seokjin," She turned to him, full-body and everything. "Why do you want to work things out with, (Y/n)?”

I could tell the question made him uncomfortable, he tensed up and struggled to make eye contact with either of us. 

He sighed and shook his head, shrugging his shoulders as he was unsure of how to respond. He ran his tongue over his lips that were full of doubt. Jin wasn’t good at opening up to anyone, including me.

“I... rather argue with her than be with somebody else.” 

It was like the first time he tried to tell me he loved me- he simply didn't know how. 

How could I be satisfied with a man that couldn’t even admit it? 

"But sometimes, after a fight, I dismiss it completely."

Jin cursed under his breath, not enjoying the vulnerability that was about to slip past his mind. “Sometimes it’s like forget arguing, harvesting feelings, I'd rather be by my fucking self." 

My throat strep with the pain of holding back tears. It wouldn't disappear even as I gulped my feelings down.

“Until about 2 a.m...” I say softly. I watched him from the corner of my sight as he remained ashamed. 

“I call her back and start to blame myself.” He was asking for somebody to help.  

She wrote in her notes and proceeded to ask me the same question. 

"He's not perfect but he made life worth it," I replied bluntly.

“That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’ve been here- for him." I could feel tears sheer over my eyes in a bit of anger and pain.

"Is that what it is?" Jin asked as if he knew that it wasn't. "You love me for me? Could you be any phonier?"

We both were hurt at our true feelings and insulting each other was the only way we ever got past it. 

"I stuck around hoping, one day, some real feelings might surface." 

I wish I could have told him that to his face, but I was never strong enough.

"What are your arguments like?" She asked.

What was it like to argue, when all I knew to do was lash out in insults and defensiveness? What was it like to argue with a man so consumed by his pride and ego? Where could I even start to begin?

“He’ll call me bitch, for sure...” 

I wanted to be honest, even though honesty always seemed to turn into a fight with us.

“As a last resort,” Jin said, trying to justify.

“And your first resort.” I corrected it.

There was a venom in his eyes when they looked at mine. It was a wave of anger he could restrain for only so long. There was nothing more Jin hated then admitting he was wrong. 

“She'll call me motherfucker for short,” He argued back. Even though at the end of it, we knew we both were wrong. 

"You two are playing the blame game," 

She said, her voice becoming a warning for our way of life. "Where none of you will win, and the only thing you'll lose, is each other."

The blame game was where you went to lose your soul. There were no smiling faces and warm kisses, just lost control, slamming doors, and breaking dishes. Constantly screaming that we didn't miss each other, followed by a slap to the face or an uppercut.

“But we love to play the blame game…” I spoke to myself, knowing that it was too late for us.

We were vicious by nature, not because we hated each other.

"You know," Jin said in the abysses of our silence. He worked up the courage to say what he's been holding in, all this time.

"You should be grateful someone like me ever noticed you."

After years of fighting, he didn't even have to say it for me to know. “Because you're noticeable, and no one can keep control over you?” I remarked with the pound of my chest in my ears.

I never felt insecure about dating an idol. I didn’t think about the money or the millions of women after him. I was only ever insecure because he was the one who would think about it.

 It sounded like the drums of war as I locked eyes with him. His eyes black and glossed with rage, skin pale and red lips, his black hair vailing over him. Then I realized that I hadn’t looked at him this long in almost a year. 

"But the way things used to be... now they’re not." His voice was brutal.

Tears blurred my image of him, distorting his gorgeous face before the tears fell and streamed down my cheeks. "All this time we disguise ourselves as public lovers when we’ve become secret enemies.” 

"I can't love you this much..." I cursed myself. "No, I can't love you this much!"

“It is completely normal for something to bother you about your significant other. It shouldn’t-"

We were both completely ignoring her. Her voice faded into nothing as our eyes studied one another, speaking without words, I knew what was coming.

I could hear his voice, like silk, saying it over and over in my head. The words matching his very eyes, looking deep inside of me, as he asked why?

A topic- my mistake, that we both tried to ignore. 

“I know you weren’t getting this type of money from that local guy."

It happened about six months ago while he was on tour. I was alone and it had been days since he bothered to call. I was in the bad company of my thoughts and very expensive wine. The next morning when Jin called, my mind was mud, and splotches filled my memory as to how the man beside me had gotten there. 

He knew, I didn't know how, but he did.

At a certain point, we just stopped asking questions, instead chucked dirt on each other like mud wrestlers. So we were satisfied being in love with the lie and who to blame, you to blame, me to blame for the pain and it poured out whenever we spoke.

We played the blame game. 

"You don't remember but I called you that night," I could see the words pull on his emotions, tears threatening to escape his eyes. "It just rang and rang..."

I barely caught a glimpse of him pulling out his phone from his pocket. “You didn’t pick up but your phone accidentally called me back... and I heard the entire thing.”

I couldn’t see what he was doing but it didn’t take long to find out. Jin shut his phone and dropped it on the couch in the space between us.

The audio was playing and I soon recognized my drunken voice. 

“Holy fuck… Where did you learn to do that baby?” He was breathing hard. The rustling of sheets and springs of the bed are the only things that could be heard in between. “You were so good.” 

He continued to praise me in our intoxicated states. Not even his voice sounded familiar to me. I couldn’t even remember his face. “Where did you learn that?”

I could hear my obnoxious giggling echoing through the room. All I could do was shut my eyes and cowered away from the truth.

“My boyfriend taught me.” 

I felt sick to my stomach as our voices mingled in laughter. I didn’t dare to look up from the protection my hands gave me. I buried myself in shame.

“God, just look at you…” I heard the sound of lips pressing against bare skin. He spoke his words after every peck and continued to tease. “Who taught you to talk dirty like that?”

“My boyfriend taught me.”

The smallest glance that I could get of Jin was reckoning for me. He stared at the phone in rage, completely disillusioned. He stared at it as if he had been hearing it for the first time but I knew he probably spent nights listening to it, over and over again

“You know what? I have to thank your boyfriend.” We laughed some more. Laughed and laughed behind his back not knowing that he could hear every word. "I’m serious! I’m going to buy the album. I’ll download it right now!”

I caught the glare of the woman who just remained seated in front of us. She knew she had no part in this any further, and wouldn’t know what to do anyway.

“Where did you learn to treat a man so good?”

“Jin taught me.” 

“He taught you well- your boyfriend taught you well.”

The rustling fell silent, the short audio held heavy in the atmosphere. There were no words that could come close to worthy of being said.

 The only sound that followed was Jin silently rising to his feet, sparing me a final glare before grabbing his phone and walking out of the room. The door slam left a ring in the depths of my ears. The tears had stopped and only the cold traces remained as evidence. 

“How do you feel about the relationship?” I said, repeating the questions she told us to keep in the back of our heads.

“I feel that we lack the understanding of what empathy truly is. We cannot embody it in our day to day life, while also so desperately lusting for it.”

She pressed her lips together and looked down at her notes. She felt pity and uncomfortable at the truly horrendous side of relationships.

"What issues are most important to you?" 

I tried my best to wipe the tears off my face, to take responsibility for what I had done, but they just wouldn’t stop flowing.

"Our issue is that, even after all of this, he’ll call me tonight... and I’ll answer. We could have a hundred million reasons to stop this now, but one is all we need to stay.”

That’s not how it should be. We should walk away like strangers in the street, be gone for eternity, erase one another. After so far from where we came, with so much of everything, we were left with nothing. 

“Do we trust one another?" 

That was an easy answer. 

"Of course not." I grabbed my phone and handbag, cleaning the mess under my eyes and fixing my hair. I said to her, 

“But that hasn’t stopped us before.”

I made my way out of the room, sure that we would never return. There was no hope in helping those who didn't want to be helped. We were addicted to the chaos of each other. Our sin was the sensation, like making love to the angel of death, it was worth dying for. 

The sun had hidden under a cloud where Jin waited for me on the inside of the black vehicle. His bodyguard showed me the way to his side.

 We sat together as the lack of visual empathy equates the meaning of love. Anything but us is who we truly were. Our hatred and attitude tear us entirely, that's what happens when you play the blame game.

Masterlist ≽ 

[sprnklersplashes]

heart of stone (3/?)

AO3

It’s an hour before Damian leaves. An hour of him hugging her and stroking her hair and her telling him everything she can. They try to spend some time normally, watching vine compilations on Janis’ phone, only it doesn’t feel right. Their laughter is forced and accompanied by a pit in Janis’ stomach, the hard reality staring them in the face. After one video she puts her phone away and Damian holds her tighter, resting his cheek on her head and lacing their fingers together. She lets herself sag against him, revelling in the comfort he gives her even if it can’t make this better. She bites the inside of her cheek as she wonders when the next time they hug like this will be or where they’ll be when it happens.

It’s going to be a long few months.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asks him as they stand at her front door. “With all this?” When his smile doesn’t reach his eyes, that’s when she truly feels the weight of it and it drags her down hard. She’s only seen that expression on his face a grand total of three times, two of which related to unpleasant memories of his father. And now once more, because of her. She bites back an apology.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” he replies half-heartedly before shaking his head. “Who am I kidding? Of course you’re going to be okay. You’re Janis.”

“I am?” she replies, smirking just a little.

“Yeah.” The crack in his voice doesn’t escape her notice. He play-punches her arm. “This cancer’s going to have a tough time trying to beat you.”

“If God wants me gone he’s going to have to come down here himself,” she jokes. Only it doesn’t land with him. His eyes widen, his hand around her wrist in a grip that’s sudden and panicked. It’s an old joke spoken in a new world and she realises that too late. “Sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t-” She grabs his tense shoulder, unsure of what else to do, and tries to be as reassuring as possible. “It’s okay. I’ll be okay, they’ve said I will.”

“I know.” He hugs her once again, crushing her in her grip and stroking her hair, his heartbeat fast against her chest. She wraps her arms around him, cursing at herself.

“Maybe the dark humour will take a backseat for now,” she whispers. He laughs at that at least, even if it’s short lived. He steps away from her just as his mom pulls up outside of her house, beeping her little car horn.

“My mom,” he says, looking from the car to her. “When do I tell her?”

“Whenever you want,” she replies, shrugging. “Not like we’re keeping it a secret.”

“Okay.” He pats her cheek clumsily as she opens the door. Before leaving, he takes one long look back at her, sadness clouding his eyes. She doesn’t let him know that she hates it. “You owe me a calzone when this is all over, Sarkisian.”

“It’s a date,” she jokes, her breath catching in her throat. Through the window in the door, she watches him run across the road, holding up shirt up over his head as the sky starts spitting, and climb into the passenger seat of his mom’s car. Her vision blurs as the car pulls away, her cheeks hot and her jaw clenched.

She doesn’t bother to hide it when she walks into the kitchen. She’s too tired and even if she wasn’t, what’s the point in it?

“Oh, sweetie,” her mom sighs, rushing up to her and pushing her hair out of her eyes. She rubs a hand up and down her arm, her lips rolled into a thin line. “How did he take it?”

“Fine,” she says. “I mean, not fine. But he’s… It’s a lot for him. But he didn’t storm out of the house or accuse me of lying or something messed up like that so I guess…” She trails off, the sentence running away from her. Is there a good way to take news like this? If there is, it would have been nice for her to know yesterday.

“Why don’t I make you something?” her mom asks again. “You want some coffee? Tea? Or one of those little mug-cakes you like so much?”

“I can make it myself,” she tells her, already tempted. She breaks out of her mom’s grasp and starts pulling stuff out the cupboards, the recipe crystal clear in her mind. She turns around, equal parts amused and annoyed at her mom hovering behind her. “I’m not going to burn myself on the microwave, Mom.”

“I know. Just, well, maybe you should be sitting down?”

“I can do it myself,” she repeats, despite her tired legs. She looks over at her again, annoyance beginning to win out.  She spoons flour into her mug, white smoke puffing up before her eyes. “I’ll be fine, Mom. Besides I’m the only one who knows how to make them.”

They were Cady’s idea. Over the winter break last year, before it all truly went wrong, she had called Janis about this new recipe she stumbled upon on Pinterest, babbling excitedly about ‘little tiny cakes in mugs, how cute is that, Janis?’. She invited Janis over, insisting on testing out as many different recipes as her microwave would allow. There was something about the sight of Cady with a white handprint on her skirt and flour dusted across her nose like snowflakes that did certain things to Janis’ heart. She can’t be sure, but that might just have been the day she began seeing Cady in a new light and daring to imagine them as something other than friends.

The memory now only makes her heart clench. There are few things Janis loves in the world more than Cady Heron’s smile and nothing hurts her heart like when she’s sad. When her lips touched hers for the first time, she swore she’d never do anything to hurt her. She’s going to be breaking that promise tomorrow, even if it’s through no fault of her own.

She goes up to her room with a mumbled goodnight to her parents and an unexpected, quick hug from her dad. Maybe she should start expecting them, she thinks sadly as she trudges upstairs, one hand around her mug and the other gripping the bannister.

She curls up on her bed, too tired to sit up but too jittery to try to sleep. Besides, the sky is still orange out there and she refuses to go to sleep before the sun does. Despite herself, she feels strangely proud. Cancer or no, her sleep schedule is hers, at least to some extent.

She pulls her laptop over, squinting in its blue light, and opens Tumblr for a while, scrolling through likes and reblogs without any of it registering. She bounces through social media with twitching fingers, closing tabs not five minutes after opening them. Facebook is the worst; little green dots lined up at the side of her screen, each one able to contact her with the press of a key. The last thing she wants right now is a conversation. So she opens Twitter instead and lets the friends be mixed in with the strangers. She’s hidden as long as she doesn’t say anything and she has genuinely no intention to. No likes, no retweets, nothing but a stream of content she can half-focus on in a bid to forget herself.

It works, at least for a while, three jokes or art pieces for every “real person” who crosses her timeline. But her eyes are constantly drawn up to the searchbar against her will and when a post of Cady’s crosses her path, her eyes linger for longer than they should.

“Fuck it,” she mutters, typing her handle into the searchbar and tapping her nail against the mouspad. She’s not as strong as she looks, and recently she’s discovered that she’s really not that strong when it comes to her girlfriend.

Cady’s profile loads up on the screen, her profile picture of her hugging a lion at least putting a smile on her face. Cady rarely uses this, having only gotten it at Regina’s request and preferring to use platforms like Instagram, uncomfortable with Twitter’s character limit. 280 characters is barely enough to capture those beautiful thoughts of hers. But Janis scrolls through them anyway, not quite having realised how much she missed her until now, missed how she talks and thinks and the feel of her hand against hers. Scrolling through her Twitter is a poor substitute for having the real thing.

There’s a post from five days ago, of the two of them sitting in Cady’s backyard, her chin on Janis’ shoulder and Janis’ hand covering hers, the remains of ice cream around Cady’s chin. Cady’s mom had taken that on her daughter’s phone, the two of them lounging in Cady’s garden after she had been showing Janis her peonies.

Janis is almost taken aback by how she looks. She knows how she felt, exceedingly happy, dangerously close to in love and a little intoxicated, but also exhausted. Even though everything felt perfect and all she could ever want, in the back of her mind she was thinking about going home and collapsing into bed. Her skin crawls as she knows why she felt like that. The girl in the photo with the sparkling eyes and beaming smile has cancer. Her body was-is- falling apart bit by bit and she was none the wiser, enjoying summer sunshine and thinking about nothing other than how much she adores her girlfriend. How would she react if she knew that in a few short days, her life would be ruined?

She curses as she wipes away a tear. Hasn’t she cried enough for today?

She opens up a search engine, fear building in her chest, the hair on her arms standing up despite the warm air. She sits and watches the blinking cursor, the only sound in the room being the soft whirring of the laptop and her heavy, deep breathing. She doesn’t want to know, not at all. Knowing will only make it worse. She should just turn this thing off and toss it away before she does something she regrets. That’s what reason says.

She doesn’t listen to reason. Instead she listens to the one part of her brain that won’t shut up.

She types effects of cancer on relationships into the searchbar and closes her eyes tightly. If she can’t see the results, they don’t exist, right?

A high school senior using middle school logic. What’s become of her?

She clinks on the first link, squirming at the images that load in pieces on her screen. Hands clasped over a wooden table, two people looking into each other’s eyes with sincerity and sadness on their features. She’s never been good with emotions like that. Which is why she pushes them away, she supposes. Even the idea of sitting down carefully and Having A Conversation in hushed voices about such delicate, difficult subjects makes her want to vomit. Today was hard enough. Her parents are just lucky she loves them too much to do that.

She scrolls past sections about family and friends until the word ‘partner’ catches her eye and she stops. According to the article “cancer can be a difficult thing for couples to face” (yeah no shit). Little Miss Psychology who wrote the thing goes on to explain that “this can manifest in changing roles in the relationship” which again, no shit. The more she reads the article, the more she feels her time being wasted. There’s nothing she couldn’t already guess and most of it is for married couples with kids. Who’s going to take the kids to school, who’s going to pay the bills, who’s going to make dinner? Nothing that concerns her, nor should it for a long time.

She reads that cancer has a negative effect on their sex lives, and actually laughs. Sex was the last thing on her mind.

Then, near the bottom, it shifts from the practical to the emotional. Miss Psych explains that cancer can often cause “an inability to do leisure activities” and while that should have been obvious to Janis, it screws with her more than a little. Sure, she and Cady have quiet time in one of their rooms, but it’s always balanced by doing something else, trips to the mall or the movies, or going down to the zoo to see Cady’s beloved lions or the museum so Cady can watch Janis get lost in the art world. It’s the being with each other that makes it special, but going out like this keeps everything interesting for both of them. What do they become when that disappears?

With a shuddering breath, she pushes on, reading about how miscommunication can happen in relationships when this happens. Cady trying to keep positive could become dismissals in Janis’ eyes, or Janis keeping a mask up for Cady only leading to them stopping talking. And miscommunication is always the first step, according to Damian. Out of his three relationships two ended because they stopped communication.

And finally, “cancer can be a destabilising force for most relationships”. It’s one of the first things she sees and it’s the last thing she needs to see. There’s a lot she loves about her life now, or at least her life post-Spring Fling, and one of those is how solid it is. Steady friendships, or semi-steady in some cases, and a comfortable romance with Cady. For the first time in a long, long while she was happy without even trying to be.

She closes her eyes and turns onto her side, pressing her hand to her stomach. What must it look like in there now? According to the doctor, her body is producing more white blood cells and they can’t function and then something about her organs. While she should know better, the image of her blood turning white attacks her mind, something like white paint spreading through her veins and attacking her organs, turning them pale and hard and frozen. Maybe once it was done with her body it would bleed through her skin and show on the surface. Her body could become a statue from the inside out. Maybe if she stabbed herself right now, she’d bleed cold and white instead of red.

She shoots up, shaking the image from her head. Her heart is unsettled in her chest but she takes comfort in it, wild and erratic and alive. She pushes all thoughts of what’s happening to her out of her head, trying to replace them with anything else.

Unfortunately for her, the only anything else she can think of is Cady. Her only two options are her debilitating body or her debilitating love life.

Well, it’s not debilitating. Not really. Not yet anyway. Well, except for the fact that she hasn’t texted Cady back in two days. She’s not left her on read, but she’s no doubt left her worried. She’s always worrying, her Cady. Worrying that there’s enough food for everyone or that everyone at her place is having a good time or that her two friend groups will get along.

What will this do to her?

She opens her laptop again, fully aware of how destructive she’s being. But her mind won’t rest and checking the internet is just as good a plan as any. The article is still there when she opens it, the white light making her head hurt.  Her stomach hurts more and more as she looks through the web and she’s sure it’s not because of the illness or the hastily-made mug cake.

“Cancer can be incredibly straining on the patient’s relationships,” the article tells her. “Often the patient will find it difficult to be a supportive and loving partner with the toll the illness takes on them.”

That’s the part that really sends her flying. The phone falls from her weak hands as anxiety takes over her body, making her hands shake and her chest tighten. She pushes the laptop away and pulls her legs close to her chest, pressing her forehead into her knees as she counts her breath, in for eight and out for eight.

Dumb as it sounds, she likes being someone’s girlfriend. She likes making people, particularly people she cares about, feel happy and warm and loved. It makes her feel worth something. Despite the front she presents to the world, she cares. She cares for fuck’s sake.

Cady deserves a girlfriend who supports her. One who is devoted to her and makes her life easier. Cady went through a lot last year, she wasn’t innocent in it at all, but she went through a lot. So many times she’s told Janis she’s excited to go back to school this year and just be normal. To study with her and walk to school with her and be her prom date.

‘Last year was like a shark tank,’ she had explained to her as they sat in the park, her head in Janis’ lap. ��Next year I just want to float.’

The sharks might be gone, but Janis is bringing a whole tsunami.

It isn’t fair. None of it is, her parents have told her as much, but now it’s really not fair. Not to her and not to Cady. After a less than great first year, she deserves a better chance at real school life. She should have a girlfriend escorting her to prom, an old fashioned date-on-your-arm type of affair. They should dance under a glitter ball together while Janis whispers words of affection into her ears.

And then there’s the school side of school. Cady has so many college plans, big and lofty ones that require months and months of work. What will Janis be then? A distraction? Or worse, a burden. She’d never dream of demanding anything from her, but what if she can’t help it? Or if she doesn’t need to because Cady focuses on her anyway? What if she’s the reason Cady doesn’t make it? Her job as Cady’s girlfriend is to be her support system, her rock. If she can’t do that then what’s the point in them being together? Why should she have a girlfriend if she can’t give her everything every day?

It’s only when she finds her toy kitten twisted and wrung in her hands that she realises she’s spiralling.

“Breathe,” she whispers to herself. “Come on, breathe.”

Her mind clears as her heart slows down. Her worries don’t go away, but she can see them more precisely than before. She leans her head back against the wall, letting the air rush out of her. There is a solution to her problem, but it’s not one she likes. She guesses what she wants went out the window when her blood started acting like a dick.

After all, the best way not to hurt Cady with this is to just not be her girlfriend, right?

“You’re a moron,” she sighs, shaking her head. She stretches her arms and starts tugging on her pyjamas, tiredness taking over and dragging her eyelids down. She shuts off her laptop, avoiding even a glimpse at the article, and shoves it under her bed. In the quiet of her dark room, she can hear her parents murmuring downstairs and wonders, probably with good reason, if they’re talking about her. They talk about her a lot more than they used to. Years ago, Janis lay in this same bed listening to the same thing; anxious, inaudible conversations about her between people who thought she was asleep. Only thing is now, it hurts more. Guilt only gets worse with age. She drifts off slowly, her stuffed cat pressed into her chest, one thought coming together in her hazy mind.

She’s already hurt the three most important people with this. Can she really hurt Cady too?

                                                                                               *****

Her room is still dark when she jolts awake. Her eyes sting and she blinks heavily out of tiredness as well as getting used to the darkness. She knows why she’s awake before she even looks down or can feel anything. There’s only one reason she’d have woken up this early.

She switches on the light and finds her legs covered in sweat, small dark splotches on the sheets. Her top clings to her stomach and her hair to her neck, a feeling that’s uncomfortably and frustratingly familiar.

Her clock reads 4:30am. Groaning, she kicks her covers off and stumbles to the bathroom, rubbing at her bleary eyes.

Avoiding her reflection, she holds a cold cloth against her skin, her damp shirt handing over the edge of the bathtub. She can’t help asking herself, what if she had noticed this before? What if she had brought it up to her parents? She had just shrugged it off as nothing before. If she hadn’t, would they have caught it in time? Maybe this would be over sooner, maybe it would have been over already. If she had just paid more attention, she might be happy now.

She makes eye contact with her reflection, and the words ‘stupid girl’ ghost across her mind like the other her had whispered them.

“New level of self-deprecation,” she mutters, running the cloth under the cold faucet. “Blame yourself for… this.”

She settles herself in the bathtub and presses the cloth into her stomach and another to her neck, debating with herself if she should go get some ice from the kitchen. Ever the drama queen. She rubs at her heavy eyes, thankful that she has no plans for tomorrow. All her plans are cancelled for the foreseeable future, but at least there’s the silver lining of letting her sleep for longer. Karen must be rubbing off on her if she’s looking for the good parts now.

She’s almost nodding off in the bathroom, until the door open and her dad calls her name, shocking her awake and nearly giving her a heart attack on top of everything else.

“Dad!” she whispers sharply, stumbling out of the bathroom. Her dad’s eyebrows are shot up his forehead, his mouth hanging open a little as he looks at her with more alertness than she reckons he had a minute ago. He looks from the cloth in her hand to her damp shirt, confusion etched onto his features. “Dad I was just… I started sweating. I just needed to sponge off.”

“Okay,” he replies. “Do you… do you need any-”

“It’s fine.” She drops the cloth in the sink and moves to brush past him. “It’s fine, I’m okay.”

“Woah, woah, Janis,” he says, his fingers curling around her arm and his other hand on her chest. She stops where she is, avoiding his eyes. “Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

“No,” she answers with a shake of her head. “No I’m okay. I just need to go back to bed.” Her dad nods and brushes her sticky hair away from her face.

“How long as this been going on?”

“I don’t know,” she sighs. “A few weeks, I think. It’s not every night. I think it’s a side effect of the… of you know…”

“Ah,” is all he says. There’s an air of discomfort neither of them can brush off.

“I’m fine, really,” she says, pulling his hand off her as gently as she can. She dares look up at his face for a minute, the two of them feigning composure of the other. “I’m done. You can use it.”

“Do you need anything?” he asks again. “New clothes, some water?”

She shakes her head, even though her throat is painfully dry.

“I can get new PJs in my room,” she tells him instead. “Good night, Dad.”

“Bonne nuit, petite fille,” he whispers in his native French. Although it’s short-lived, she manages a smile.

Back in her room, she pulls off her shorts and tosses them away. She may well run out of pyjama shorts thanks to this. After a second’s thought, she tosses her t-shirt away too and pulls on another one that’s a little too big for her. As she slides into her bed, she wishes her dad hadn’t mentioned water. Even though her throat cracks and she holds back dry coughs, she won’t ask for more than she has.

When she’s half asleep though, her door slowly opens, and when she wakes more minutes later, there’s a full glass on her night stand. It makes her smile, and it lasts longer this time around.

                                                                                               *****

Hours later, she wakes stiff and sore and nowhere near as refreshed as she should be waking this close to noon.  As she curls into a ball and presses her face into the pillow, a wave of self-pity crashes into her chest and fills her lungs. Self-pity is probably her least favourite feeling out of all of them. Anger is an old friend and can be righteous and satisfying. She resists sadness more, but at least that can be reflective and healing. What does self-pity do for her? Doesn’t give her an outlet, doesn’t change anything. She just sits there and wallows in it, hating it more and more with each second until the anger wins out and she throws the covers off.

She leaves her phone switched off for as long as she can. She shuns technology entirely except for the TV, looking at the screen blankly with Maxie in her lap. Even her dog seems to know something’s wrong, either with her body or her mind. He presses his head into her stomach and looks up at her, eyes bright and wide and heart-meltingly cute, all the while whimpering quietly, his little paws tickling her stomach. Janis kisses his nose and it makes her feel a little better.

She goes up to her room and starts getting dressed, not wanting to spend the rest of her day in pyjamas. She’ll probably be doing that a lot a few weeks down the line. Possibly a few days down the line, she realises. Her shirt in her hands, she looks over at the calendar on the wall. Tomorrow is circled in red glitter pen and a little skull drawn in the box, ‘senior year’ written in black glitter pen above it. She wrote that weeks ago, end of July or beginning of August, back when it mattered.

The school knows now. Her parents called them up and told her the day after they found out. Janis, against her better judgement, sat against the bannister upstairs and listened in on it. There wasn’t a whole lot to listen to on her end; just a lot of ‘thank you’s and reiterations of what they’d been told in the hospital. What she would have given to have been a fly on the wall on the school’s end though. To hear every word about how sorry they were and the endless support they were offering to Janis and judge how much they meant it. North Shore’s not a bad place, especially since the end of Spring Fling. There are worse schools. But that doesn’t mean she trusts it. Trust is easy to eradicate and hard to win back.

Regardless, they’ll tell everyone tomorrow. They have to. It might be in a special assembly, or during morning announcements. Maybe they’ll take her friends out of class one by one and break the news to them gently. Or just assume they already know. They’d be a quarter right in that case.

Her phone is still dead on her nightstand. She picks it up the way you’d pick up a live grenade and holds it gingerly in both of her hands. Her reflection stretches before her in the screen like a funhouse mirror. She’s not felt quite so afraid of her phone since she was 12, but now she’s not scared of what people would say to her. The opposite really.

She turns it on after an eternity and places it on the floor until it stops buzzing. One message from Damian, asking how she’s feeling and if she wants to hand out, followed by a yellow heart. Three from Cady, one good morning text, one photo of her hamsters and one asking if she’s okay. It’s harsher than anything she’s seen from her before and the worst part is she has a feeling that’s only the beginning. It’s still polite and careful, asking Janis to talk to her “whenever she’s ready”.

That may take a while, Cady.

Her chin rests on her knees, her nails digging into the sides of her legs and her jaw tightly clenched. Her breaths are long and shallow. She’s not exactly a stranger to difficult conversations. Between coming out and telling them about Regina and telling her parents she wants to major in art, she could make a walk of fame of them if she really wanted to. But none were like this. They could all end in good things and they all did. Nothing good could come of this, not for her and certainly not for Cady.

She dials the number slowly, despite having never dialled a number in her life. Like if she takes longer, she’ll get a better idea. Or this will all end if she waits long enough.

Shouldn’t she know better now, she thinks as she presses call.

“Hi!” Cady picks up on the second ring, sounding out of breath, like she’d ran to pick it up. She can almost picture her just from the sound of her voice; brown eyes wide, maybe twirling the ends of her hair. Or sitting on her bed, her hand buried in a pillow and feet anxiously tapping the floor.  She hates herself and this isn’t even the worst part. “Um, hey, how are you?”

There’s a tiny spark of warmth in Janis’ chest, in amongst all the fear. She’s missed her voice so much.

“Um, yeah,” she replies, aware she’s not actually answering her. “No I’m-I’m good.” As her mouth runs dry, she starts worrying if she is even able to talk right now. Near silence stretches between them, broken only by Cady shifting on the other line and her parents talking below her. As she tries to find something, the idea of just hanging up and throwing out her phone crosses her mind and she can’t quite dismiss it.

“Did you go to your hospital appointment?” she asks, a calm tone taking over her voice. “How was it?”

“Oh,” is all she can muster up. “It was…” Horrible. The worst day of my life. Ruined my life. I wish it had never happened. I haven’t been happy since. “Fine, I guess.”

“So you found out what was wrong?” she asks. The question forms a rope, tightening around her neck.

“Yeah. It’s not important.” Just slightly life-altering. She lets go of her wrist, shaking out of her cold hand. She flexes her fingers, words coming out of her mouth thoughtlessly. “I need-I need to talk to you.”

“Okay. Should I… should I be worried?”

Yes.

“I don’t know,” she replies. She pushes herself to her feet, legs shaking, and pulls her sweater around herself.  She bites hard on the inside of her cheek. Her main priority out of this is Cady not hearing her cry. “Caddy…”

She closes her eyes and mouths a silent apology before continuing.

“Caddy, I think we need to take a break.”

Cady stammers on her end, nonsensical, meaningless sounds that do nothing but fill empty space. Janis bites into her fist as tears begin running down her face. It builds up in her chest instead and it aches. Is this heartbreak? Is this what they mean when they say it? She’d always taken it metaphorically. Turns out it’s literal.

“Take a break?” Cady echoes. “Janis I don’t-what do you mean take a break.”

“I mean-” She takes a deep breath, hoping that the sniffle sounds like allergies. “I mean, we’re going into our senior year, Cady. That’s a lot. You’re looking at math college, I’ve got a lot to do for art school, I think it’s best if we-if we just pause it.”

She can’t hold it back. She puts the phone on the bed, the covers blocking any sound and presses her face into a pillow, letting herself cry into the fabric. It’s not much, just enough to let herself breath again. It doesn’t stop hurting or even hurt any less, but she can speak again.

“Janis? Janis are you still there?” Cady asks, muffled by her covers. “Janis?” She picks it up and throws herself off the bed, walking in a continuous circle.

“Yeah I’m here,” she says, her throat raw. “Sorry Maxie was being a dick.” She crosses her fingers behind her back.

“Janis I just want-I just want to understand,” she says. Her own voice shakes a little and it’s a knife against her ear. She’s probably pacing the room, a frown on her lovely face. Janis slaps herself on the cheek like she can slap the image out of her mind. “Janis we can make this work. Loads of people date in senior year-hell, Karen and Gretchen are. Aaron was a senior year-”

“You’re going to use Regina and Aaron as an example of couple goals?” she snorts, an unkind edge in her voice that tastes vile on her tongue. Hurting Cady is more painful than the cancer will ever be, yet a part of her wonders that if she’s a bitch now, this will end faster.

Thankfully, she still has some integrity.

“That’s different,” Cady huffs. “That’s Regina. You and me… we’re you and me.” There’s a long sigh on the other end and Janis can imagine her rubbing her forehead like when she’s debating a math problem. “Janis lots of couples date in senior year. Rachel Hamilton was still with her girlfriend last year. They’re still together now. And I know-I know you’re worried about stuff, I’m worried about stuff, but if we stay together at least we can-”

“Cady!” She jumps at her own voice. She’s never heard herself as sharp as she was just there. Her voice echoes around her and cuts her skin. She lowers herself onto the bed again, her limbs weak. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Cady assures her. She doesn’t deserve this level of gentle. Not from her. “It’s okay let’s just talk this out. Maybe we could get Damian-”

“No.”

“You’re right. Bad idea,” she says lightly. “Look Janis, we’re all stressed about senior year. But we don’t need to jump to anything yet, right? We can just take it easy and if it gets too much-”

“It’s already too much,” she replies. She’s not lying. Cady just doesn’t know. “Cady I’m sorry but it’s already too much. I can’t deal with a relationship now. It’s- it’s not you.” Her nails dig into her palm. “There’s just too much happening in my life for a girlfriend now. I mean, I didn’t think it would last as long as it did.”

“You didn’t?” And if pain were a sound, it would be Cady’s voice. Breathless and cracking, the two words shaking. If she had punched her right in the face it would have hurt less than what she just said.

Congratulations, Janis. You just did exactly what you wanted to avoid.

“Not like that,” she whispers pathetically. “Just… I think it’s best for both of us if we end it here.”

“Okay.” There’s a finality in that one word, a line drawn under everything they had these past months. Nothing could have prepared Janis for this. “Okay fine. If that’s what you want, then fine. We can end it here. I’ll see you tomorrow then, maybe.”

“Thank you.”

She’s not sure if Cady heard the end of that. The dial tone rings in her ear, loud and unending. She keeps it there because in a weird way it’s like keeping Cady there.

She got what she wanted, didn’t she? After all, why should she be Cady’s girlfriend right now when she can’t be what she needs? This is all for the best, isn’t it? Now Cady can focus on school with minimal distraction and Janis can go through this without dragging more people down with her.

“Fuck that,” she says in a low voice. Her chest rumbles as her breathes suddenly get quicker, her fingers curling inside and out. Fuck that. It’s not what she wanted, not at all. She wanted a senior year with Cady. For her to slap Janis away as she tries to distract her from homework. To greet her with hugs in the mornings and hold hands with her in the afternoon. Her visions fall apart in front of her and roll away, stopping her from building even a daydream to keep her going. Her nails scratch at her scalp as she pulls on her hair, a dull throbbing rising in time with the dial tone’s steady beeping. As she bites down on her cheek, she doesn’t know if she’s imagining the metallic taste in her mouth, if it’s blood or just her own cocktail of anger and shame and grief.

It keeps building inside her, rising like a tidal wave and filling her lungs, her mouth, her ears. Much like the hard conversations, these feelings aren’t new to her, rage and anxiety are long-time companions. Lately she’s started turning to the people around her when she’s feeling like this, heaving learnt the value of a support system, but her parents are busy enough and she can’t face Damian with this and drive a wedge between him and Cady who is incidentally the person she wants to talk to the most but she doesn’t have Cady anymore because she just broke up with her and Cady doesn’t even know why, and all Janis has is that stupid ringing dial tone-

“Oh shut up!” she yells, chucking her phone across the room. It bounces against the wall with an audible ‘thump’ and falls to the floor. At least the ringing stops. She her head hits the mattress, bouncing a little before going still. The ringing from the phone has entered her head instead and has seemingly no intention of leaving no matter how tightly she closes her eyes or how hard she covers her ears. Her nails leave indents on her skin and her fingers tangle in her unbrushed hair.

“Janis?” She doesn’t even hear her door opening above the noise in her head. Her mom hesitates as she enters, unease evident in her hunched shoulders and flitting eyes. “Janis I heard you yelling-”

“I’m fine.” The words are dull and heavy and hold no semblance of truth. She forces herself to look over at her mom. At least her eyes are dry. “I just talked to Cady.”

“Oh, baby,” she sighs sympathetically. The bed sags as she sits down, her hand covering Janis’. “I’m sorry hon. I know that can’t have been easy.” She just nods, a heavy weight pressing into her chest. She doesn’t cry and wonders if she’s used up all her tears in the past two days. Her mom’s hand moves in a small, gentle motion on her shirt; it’s comforting to her and it soothes her frantic mind. So why doesn’t she like it?

“Mom,” she begins. “No offence but I… I just want to be alone.” She can’t miss the sadness in her mom’s eyes no matter how hard she tries. The hand grows slower and lifts from her back. “I’m sorry, just-”

“It’s okay, Jan,” she says, pushing herself up. She stands over her, the picture of the doting mother. “We’re just downstairs if you need anything.”

“Mom.” Janis manages to push herself up by a mere fraction. Her mom halts right where she is, turning around so quickly she should be accompanied by a whooshing sound effect. She also can’t miss how bright her eyes are, ready to attend to whatever Janis needs. “Um… can you pass me my phone?  It’s… it’s on the floor there.”

The request is so tiny and not at all suited to her mom’s hyper-focus. Not to mention how weak and pathetic her voice sounds. It doesn’t belong to her body, her towering frame that even cancer can’t take away from her. Her mom nods, smile on face, and hands it over to her.

“I… I threw it across the room,” she admits, gesturing with her chin. “At the wall.”

“That’s okay,” her mom says. Something about the careful tone doesn’t sit right with Janis, but she’s too drained to care. “If it’s broken we can just get you a new one, okay?” Her hair moves against the fabric of the covers as she nods. “See you later, kid.”

When her mom leaves, the door stays open slightly, no doubt on purpose. She doesn’t have the energy to get up and close it.

Tomorrow should have been the first day of her senior year. Instead it’s the first day for everyone but her. They’ll all be preparing for the unknown, but while her friends prepare for SATs and college choices, she’ll be preparing for IVs and blood tests. They won’t want to get out of their beds, and she’ll be confined to hers.

Janis rolls onto her side, her phone laying dark beside her. No new messages, not from Cady or Damian. The former probably doesn’t have anything to say to her and the latter doesn’t know what. He’s been giving her a lot of space since she told him. She runs her finger across the cold glass, gliding smoothly across until it finds something that shouldn’t be there. A ridge that runs against her fingertip. She’s almost certain what this means, and last week she would have been freaking out and throwing curse words around. Now she just sighs and turns on her phone to assess the damage.

Her lockscreen is, of course, a photo of her and Cady, taken by none other than Damian. The two wearing their pyjamas at a sleepover they had at Damian’s, a night of movie-musicals, Cady’s hair in a messy side braid and her head on Janis’ shoulder and Janis pressing a kiss to her head. An hour ago it was the perfect picture, and one of Janis’ favourites. Now there’s cracks running through the screen, small ones at the top poking through her hair and over her eyes, and a longer one that slices between her and Cady. They’re not too bad. Nowhere near bad enough to warrant a new phone. But they’re there and they’re all Janis can see.

[rather-impertinent]

Time For Such A Thing

A/N: I am practically asleep as I type this lmao. This is for day 3 of @fuckyeahdwightcaroline’s Carolight week, and for @dodgersrecruit who requested some George and Dwight content, I hope this is what you meant 💞 Also this is fluffy af and contains every main character lol. Enjoy friends xo

~~~~~~~

The warm sun rays stretched their long fingers onto the step of the church entrance, where the Enyses attempted to hide from the summer’s day in the shade.

Dwight anxiously checked his pocket watch and squinted his eyes at the gate and towards the horizon.

His wife, Caroline, noticed both actions and chuckled quietly beside him. “This is precisely why we told everyone it starts at eleven o’clock, when, in truth, it starts at quarter-past,” she said pointedly, having expected all of her dearest friends to be a little late, as usual. Caroline fixed Sophie’s crisp, white christening gown and held her little form against her chest, swaying them both slightly.

“We are not late, are we?” A voice asked, fearing impertinence.

The Enyses stepped out of the shade slightly to be greeted by the sight of Sir George Warleggan and his two children, who came from the right side of the church, presumably having just visited Elizabeth Warleggan’s grave.

“George,” Caroline greeted politely, somewhat surprised he had come despite having indeed been invited, “Welcome. No, you are not late.”

George nodded politely and faintly smiled at Dwight and Caroline. Valentine smiled brightly at the adults - having become acquainted with them both at Nampara - and Ursula clung to her father’s hand and bobbed a shy curtsy.

“How are you all?” Dwight asked conversationally, smiling at all three Warleggans.

George’s shoulders seemed to relax slightly. “Well, I thank you,” he replied. “And you?”

Dwight put his arm around his wife and smiled softly at his newborn. “We all are well, thank you.”

“I wonder, might I have a word with you - in private?” George suddenly asked Dr Enys.

The doctor nodded and then glanced at his wife, who nodded an assurance that she and Sophie would be fine alone for a few minutes.

“Valentine, Ursula, why do you not keep Mrs - and Miss - Enys company?” he encouraged, gently pushing them forwards. The children nodded obediently and ambled over to where Caroline stood, where Valentine immediately began to inquire about Caroline’s horses.

Dwight and George turned the corner of the church; over George’s shoulder Elizabeth Warleggan’s grave stood out due to the colourful selection of flowers that lay by it as well as its natural grandness. “What is it you wished to speak about?” Dr Enys asked. “Are you ill?” His blue eyes and his tone were cautious and - George noted - concerned.

Sir George paused for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. “No, not ill...,” he said, struggling with articulating the words. “I- I have never thanked you... for your- assistance these past few years,” George stated, uncomfortable with the debt he owed the man in front of him; George loathed to owe anyone anything.

“It is thanks enough that you are well and your children reap the full benefit of such a thing,” said Dwight, meaning every word.

“Still,” George said, “I thank you all the same.”

Dwight nodded politely in acceptance, feeling surprised and quite touched that he had received such a thanks, perhaps George had truly changed after all. “Your other friend shall be here soon,” Dwight quipped.

A confused frown formed on George’s face. Other? Friend? Other friend? So, Dwight Enys considered him a friend; he wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or to think it an impertinence. For today, at least, he would choose to feel pleased. “Friend?”

A taunting smile tugged at the corner’s of Dwight’s mouth. “I refer to Ross, naturally.”

The very idea was dismissed with the wave of a hand. “Friends, allies, we shall never be,” George scoffed. His mouth then twitched slightly. “But one’s day is far less taxing for not constantly plotting the downfall of Ross Poldark.”

Dwight bubbled with laughter. “There are no doubt other forces at work in your place,” the doctor said, slightly sobering at the probable truth of the statement.

“No doubt it is deserved.”

Dwight could not really argue to the contrary, even if his deep internal loyalty to Ross nagged him to do so. “At any rate, please try not to kill each other. It would somewhat dampen my daughter’s christening.”

A snicker exhaled through George’s nose. “I promise to do my best, I cannot speak for Ross though, I suspect he shall consider my presence an affront to his family.”

“Was that all?” Dr Enys then asked, his tone professional as he ignored the momentary return to old ways. “Shall we rejoin the others?”

George struggled slightly, finding the matter awkward in more ways than one. “I- hm-,” he began, “it- it appears your wife possesses some knowledge about my past... that could potentially pose some difficulties... were such information to become- public knowledge.”

Dwight knew exactly to what Sir George referred, Caroline had informed him of the situation a while ago and apologised for its cruel necessity. “I assure you such information will never be public knowledge. It was a precaution, for Caroline, she never intended to ruin you. It matters a great deal to me than you be aware it was not I who shared such information. I was careless in that I had left some correspondence on my desk, but I did not intend for it to be seen by another living soul,” Dr Enys promised.

George accepted this with still the slightest sliver of unease. Begrudgingly, he politely nodded, settling the matter. “Shall we rejoin the others?” he asked, moving to lead the way once Dwight had nodded in agreement.

“Papa, it’s too hot,” Ursula complained with a pretty pout as soon as her father was close enough to hear.

“Well, then, let us wait inside,” said George, taking her hand; he bowed his head politely at Dwight and Caroline before he left.

“What was all that about?” Caroline asked her husband, her curious eyes following the Warleggans as they entered the church.

Dr Enys looked at his wife with a barely contained smirk; bless her, she could hardly bear to not know everything about everybody. It was a relief that she had remained, in some ways, so unchanged from the woman he first fell in love with all those years ago. “My love, you know I cannot discuss my patients.”

With an bored eyeroll, Caroline turned her attention to her infant, whom she loved very much, which she did a very poor job of disguising, though she did try valiantly when in company.

Dwight smiled softly at them both. Sophie was but a week old, and already he noticed how much more open Caroline was in her affections, as if she thought her jests last time had been what had went against them, had went against Sarah. Their eldest daughter, who died almost 4 years ago now, slept in eternal peace just out of their line of sight from where they stood now; but they had already visited her and informed her of today’s events, and laid some carefully selected flowers. Dwight and Caroline were both secretly proud of one another for not crying, and instead focusing on the positives that today would bring - for today was not a day to be sad.

As Dwight now watched his wife gently hum a traditional Cornish lullaby to Sophie - who began to coo as sleep beckoned her - he wondered how it was possible to be so in love with two different people. Just then, he heard some children arguing in the distance and glanced straight forward to see a bickering Jeremy and Clowance Poldark.

“Good morning, you two,” Dwight greeted as his chosen niece and nephew approached him, his expression highly amused.

The greeting silenced both Poldark children and their quarrel. “Morning, Uncle Dwight,” Jeremy mumbled, his voice beginning to crack and deepen with age. “Hello, Aunt Caroline. Hi, Sophie.” And with that, Jeremy brushed by them and entered the church. Clowance crossed her arms across her chest and said absolutely nothing, her face decidedly stormy; she was most definitely her father’s daughter.

“We did not even have time to warn him Sir George is inside; I’ve never seen Jeremy eager to enter a church before,” Caroline commented to her husband, mirthfulness in her eyes.

“Ugh, nor I!” Demelza moaned as she approached her best friends, baby Bella sat comfortably on her hip. “These two,” she continued, pointing between Clowance and the church which now sheltered Jeremy, “have been at it all morning! And Bella has been up all through the night screamin’ bloody murder about somethin’ that ails her and I cannot rightly think what it is, I wish she could talk already so she could tell me. Oh, Caroline, Dwight, I’m that weary,” she despaired, on the verge of tears, her ginger brows creased about her shining blue eyes.

A quick glance passed between Dwight and Caroline, and Dwight immediately took Bella from Demelza so that Caroline could console their stressed friend.

“Hello, Ella,” Dwight murmured, taking the infant’s hand and waving it gently. Everyone doted on Isabella-Rose Poldark, who had a varied range of nicknames, which only served to demonstrate how loved she was and how welcome her presence into the Poldark family had been after years of turmoil and uncertainty; it somehow had marked a new beginning for them all.

Demelza cried softly against Caroline’s free shoulder, the other one of which was occupied by a sleeping Sophie. Caroline awkwardly tapped Demelza’s back and lamented that did not have enough hands to sufficiently deal with this situation.

“It’s only teething, dearest Demelza,” Dwight informed his friend after noticing Bella’s tender gums, hoping this information would be of some comfort to her.

“Oh, thank God,” she whimpered, images of Julia’s last night with her had been playing in loop in her mind for the last fourteen hours; Demelza’s face remained pressed against Caroline’s shoulder, which was now growing damp.

Frowning in displeasure at Demelza’s distress, Dwight let out a sigh. “Clowance, my love,” he beckoned. The nine-year-old turned to look at her unofficial uncle. “Take your sister,” he ordered, placing Bella into her arms, his tone serious and authoritative, “and go make peace with your brother this instant. Look at what you two have done to your poor Mama.” He motioned to the sniffling grown woman who rested against his wife’s shoulder, almost too exhausted to stand independently.

Clowance nodded miserably and trudged into the church. “Sorry Mama,” she mumbled on her way inside. Clowance did not like making her mama or uncle Dwight upset as they so rarely got upset with anyone. She hoped Jeremy would accept her apology so Mama would smile again.

Caroline eyed her husband out of the corner of her eye and wet her lips; she loved it when he was authoritative. Just as she was about to make an inappropriate comment, Ross Poldark came jogging through the church gates, holding up a hand in apology.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m late,” he apologised breathlessly as he caught up with them. “My meeting with Pascoe ran over.” He then noticed his wife pressed against one of his best friend’s shoulder. He frowned in concern and pointed at her. “What’s this?” He placed his hand gently on his wife’s shoulder.

“I’m fine, Ross. I’m just a thought overtired, that’s all,” Demelza sniffed, enjoying her short respite against Caroline’s shoulder from the chaos of her three, displeased children.

With a slight frown, Ross placed a kiss in her fiery hair and soothingly rubbed her back before turning his attention to his dearest friend. “Dwight Enys,” Ross chirped, extending his hand. “It’s a proud day.”

Dwight took Ross’s hand. “That it is, my friend,” he said, beaming at his dark-haired friend and quickly stealing a glance at his sleeping daughter.

Nobody knew why Ross and Dwight bothered to shake hands - their hands always ended up crushed between their chests as they pulled each other into a tight, friendly hug. Today was no exception.

“Ross,” Caroline said, her tone teasing and yet serious, “stop flirting with my husband and look after your wife.”

The corners of Ross’s mouth twitched and he approached Demelza, pulling her into an embrace. “Yes, Mrs Enys,” he said, saluting her as though she were a corporal.

Caroline swatted him with her free hand for his sarcasm; Ross caught her hand and kissed it fondly.

“Whoa, whoa, what be happen’ here, eh?” Drake called as he, Morwenna and their daughter Loveday walked up the stone path. Everyone crooned as Loveday independently strutted down the path on her chubby legs all.

Ross laughed at how dramatic the whole situation must look to onlookers. “Do not trouble yourself, Drake. Your sister is just tired, and Mrs Enys is irritable.” This earned him another smack from Caroline. Everyone laughed.

“Morwenna,” Dwight greeted her, placing a tender, friendly kiss on her hand, she smiled brightly at her oldest ally. “And hello, Loveday, look at you!” he chirped as he lifted Loveday from the ground and blowing a raspberry against her cheek. She squealed and grabbed a handful of Dwight’s lip in thanks, she loved Dr Enys, as did all babies.

“Hello, Caroline, ee be lookin’ well,” Drake complimented his friend as she stood, tall and radiant in her lavender gown, her newborn asleep peacefully against her chest.

Caroline leaned forward and placed a fond kiss on Drake’s cheek. If she would have thought fifteen years ago that one of her closest friends would ever be a blacksmith, she’d have laughed herself half to death; but she and Drake had a special rapport between them, which had surprised everyone, themselves included. “Dear Drake,” Caroline murmured in thanks. “Have you had a chance to make that fire guard I ordered?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he joked with a head bow; Caroline giggled. “It be ready and waitin’ for ye in the shop.”

“And you and Morwenna received the thirty pounds I sent you, yes?”

Drake blushed and ducked his head. “Yes, but ‘twas not necessary, truly I’d have-”

“I know you would have made it for nothing,” Caroline said with a laugh. “That’s precisely why I paid you in advance! Morwenna, please tell your husband that Dwight and I are certainly not among his charity cases, and ensure he accepts enough money to feed you all!”

Morwenna bubbled with laughter, the musical sound filling the air. “Why must our husband’s be so stubborn about money?” Morwenna wondered, glancing at Dr Enys, who still more often than not refused to accept money from the poor.

“My dear, they are stubborn about everything,” Caroline replied seriously, side-eyeing Dwight, who grinned unapologetically at his wife. “Now that we’re all here,” Caroline announced. “Shall we begin the service?”

“But Sam and Rosina’s be not here yet,” Drake pointed out, narrowing his gaze at the gate as though it would cause his brother to appear out of thin air.

“And where is reverend Odgers?” Demelza wondered, her head resting against Ross’ shoulder.

Dwight and Caroline exchanged a sly glance. “Sam is already inside,” Dwight announced. “We asked him to perform the christening.”

Everyone smiled widely at the news and made their way inside to celebrate their universal happiness that the birth of Sophie Enys had brought; she could never know how loved she was by them all.

One day, she (along with all of the children) would recognise what a blessing it was to be born into such a large, loving family - made only more loving by the fact that they had all actively decided to be one. But for now, Sophie Enys’ thoughts focused solely on her godmother’s pretty red hair, the nice lullabies her Mama sang to her and her father’s pair of blue eyes that looked upon her as though she had hung the stars in the sky.

[wistfulcynic]

Honeysuckle

Summary: Emma finds herself in a precarious position while trying to return some library books and shy librarian Killian comes to her rescue. He’s sweet and kind and Henry’s bookworm hero but there’s also something about him that she doesn’t know. 

(Something good)

a/n: All the thanks to @shireness-says for letting me borrow the adorable cinnamon roll that is Librarian!Killian, and also for inspiring this fic with her actual life. Librarian!Killian is a bit Deckhand Hook, a bit Lt Jones, which is a version of Killian I’ve never written before. It’s been fun, and not coincidentally this is the only thing I’ve ever written with a G rating. 

(Thanks also to @katie-dub whose beautiful fic Her Happy Beginning inspired me to try a new style of narration.)

@whimsicallyenchantedrose @captainsjedi @kmomof4 @thejollyroger-writer @darkcolinodonorgasm @winterbaby89 @ultraluckycatnd @hollyethecurious @teamhook

Rated: G

On AO3

Honeysuckle: 

Life, as some wise person once said, is just one damned thing after another. It’s full of frustration and elation and misery and comedy and so, so much embarrassment. And sometimes, on those most rare and exquisite of occasions, all of these factors coalesce into one grand, transcendent experience that makes the person living it wish simultaneously to die of humiliation and live in that moment forever. 

Dear Reader, such was the experience of one Emma Swan, medical assistant and single mother, on the third day of the sixth month of the twenty-eighth year of her life. 

The day began as an unremarkable one. Emma dragged herself from bed at the unholy hour of six-thirty am, banged on her son’s bedroom door on her way to the kitchen, and spent the next ten minutes mainlining coffee and forcing herself into full consciousness. When Henry appeared she poured him a bowl of cereal, kissed his forehead, and headed for the shower. So far so ordinary. 

Things didn’t start to go wrong until Emma, showered and dressed and with her still-damp hair pulled into a practical ponytail, took the opportunity of Henry’s regular morning dawdling session to reread the latest letter from her secret pen pal. 

(Secret only because Emma was perhaps overly conscious that having a ‘pen pal’ in this day and at her age might be seen by some as rather ridiculous. Not even Henry knew, although she’d had the pen pal far longer than she’d had the son. Since she was ten years old, in fact, and her fourth grade teacher had arranged a writing exchange with a class in England. For reasons Emma could never fully articulate she had bonded instantly and strongly to the boy across the sea known to her only as ‘K’ —again for ‘reasons’, these best known to themselves, they addressed each other by their initials only— and throughout her life of foster families and failed relationships he remained the only person who had never left her. Virtually anonymous though it may be, it was by far the longest and most stable relationship of Emma’s life and nothing but Henry had ever been more precious to her. But she kept it secret because it was ridiculous. Yep. That’s what she told herself.)   

But back to the letter. 

On my way to work yesterday I came across what I think must be some of the first lilacs of the season and I thought of you, it read. I always think of you when I see flowers and I can never decide which one suits you best, which probably makes sense since I have never seen your face. Are you sweet and springlike as lilacs are, or are you more of a full summer flower like a rose? Maybe you are a slim and elegant calla lily, or perhaps a tall and slightly terrifying sunflower? (Don’t laugh, E, sunflowers are scary! Have you ever seen one? They remind me of Triffids (that’s a book reference, love, and before you ask yes there’s a movie as well. Read the book first) and the way they move to follow the sun is creepy.)

(I know you’re laughing at me. Stop it.)  

It is true I regret to say that Emma had laughed the first time she read the letter, also the second time and possibly the third. But this being the sixth or seventh (tenth) reading the words elicited a smile that came less from mirth and more from a sort of sighing wistfulness as she imagined her never-seen dearest friend sniffing lilacs and thinking of her. 

She wished she knew what he looked like. 

She had tried many times to paint his face in her mind, one that fit the beauty of his words, but found she very literally could not imagine it. Emma’s experience with men was one that is sadly not uncommon among beautiful women whose positions in society are tenuous. As a single mother with only a high school diploma Emma had encountered more than her share of creeps and assholes, men who mistook her vulnerability for weakness and attempted to take advantage of her.

It was a mistake they did not make twice, but the sad result was that Emma had soured on men and relationships and all but given up hope that she would ever find someone who loved her. And as for a man so sweet and kind that he stopped to admire lilacs and wondered what kind of flower she might be, well, he was an impossibility in her experience, simply too good to be true.

She knew of course that K was real. Someone had been writing to her for nearly twenty years. She had no desire to meet him, though (she did) for fear of the crushing disappointment if he didn’t live up to the image she had of him in her mind. No, he was much better left to her imagination and the pages of his beautifully written letters. She couldn’t bear to lose those letters.  

She was just indulging in speculation over what sort of flower he might be when Henry’s voice and the thud of the books he dropped on the table in front of her brought her back to reality. 

“Mom, these books are due back today,” he said. 

“What? Why didn’t you take them back yesterday?”

“I forgot them at home. I didn’t even remember they were due until Killian reminded me. But we can return them now, can’t we?”

Emma tried to remember that he wasn’t trying to exasperate her, he was just absent-minded. “Henry, we are already late. Can’t you take them after school today?”

“No, I have D&D after school.” 

“I’m sure you can miss it one time—” 

“No, Mom, we’re in the middle of a campaign and I have to be there.” 

Emma threw up her hands. “Okay, fine, but you’ll have to take the bus to school.” 

“Mo-om!” 

“No, I do not have time to take you to school, then go to the library, then work. I’ll drive you to the bus stop then swing by the library and put your books in the drop. Hurry up now, are you ready?”

“Yeah, just let me grab my backpack.” 

He ran to get it and Emma absently slipped the letter into its envelope and the envelope into one of Henry’s library books before gathering the books in her arms and slinging her tote bag over her shoulder and herding her son out the door and into her car. 

(I wonder if you can spot where this is going yet?)

Ten minutes later Emma pulled into the library parking lot with as close to a squeal of tires as her creaky Bug could manage and grabbed Henry’s books from her passenger seat. Hurrying to the book drop she tipped them in…

And remembered. Far too late. 

“My letter!” she cried, and without thinking of anything beyond recovering the treasured words, Emma dove headfirst into the book drop, trying to catch the book that held her letter before it fell. She was a slender woman and the book drop more sizeable than most, but it was decidedly not designed to accommodate the ingress of any size of human, and so all she accomplished was to wedge her shoulders tightly into the narrow space with one arm stretched out in front of her inside the chute and the other sticking out of the drop’s opening at an odd angle. With the toe of one foot she could just touch the ground while the other one dangled helplessly in the air. She kicked with her leg to try to yank herself free but succeeded only in sending her practical flat shoe flying off her foot and landing with a splash in what she felt certain was a mud puddle, just as the sound of Henry’s books landing in the bin at the bottom of the chute reached her ears. 

Perfect, she thought. Just perfect.  

This, as I’m sure you have deduced my lovely Reader, has been the embarrassment and yes also the comedy portion of our tale. The former feeds the latter until it is fat as we all know from our own lives, and in the years to come Emma would learn to laugh when telling and retelling the story of her predicament. Though it must be said that, as is often the case with embarrassing things, she saw absolutely no humour in it at the time.

The frustration came into play moments later as Emma made further attempts to extricate herself from the drop, only to find that the position of her shoulders and her hands and her legs left her entirely unable to get enough purchase on any solid surface to provide sufficient counterbalancing force to un-wedge her. She was well and truly stuck, profoundly uncomfortable, and by that time almost certainly late for work. 

It was then that the misery kicked in. 

“Fuck,” she shouted, and the word reverberated down the metal chute, echoing back to her in a way she considered almost insultingly on the nose. She closed her eyes and let her head fall against the side of the chute and wondered just what the hell she was going to do now. 

(It will not, I feel certain, have escaped your notice that we have not yet had elation. Fear not, gentle Reader, for it is to come, and far sooner than Emma expects.) 

Fortunately both for Emma and our story a rescuer soon arrived, not on a white charger as in a fairy tale but aboard a practical secondhand Volvo in a rather nice shade of blue. 

Now Killian Jones may well have wished, deep in his heart, in that remote corner where he kept his love of adventure stories and even fancied himself a bit of a rogue, for something sportier, something a touch more dashing. But Killian Jones was a librarian, and the financial realities of our world dictate that librarians do not drive sports cars. So Killian had sighed for what was never to be and bought the Volvo —and adamantly rejected the silver one, he was not a vampire, sparkly or otherwise— and it had to be said that he’d never regretted it. 

All he regretted that morning was the broken shoelace that had made him too late to walk to work and smell the lilacs. 

As he pulled into the parking lot he was surprised to see a yellow Volkswagen Beetle parked haphazardly in the closest spot to the door that wasn’t reserved for the differently abled. It looked very much like the car that he’d frequently seen young Henry running to, the one that would naturally be driven by his mother…

Impulsively Killian pulled into the space next to the yellow car instead of continuing to the employee lot. His heart had begun to pound and his mouth was dry. 

It’s probably not her, he told himself firmly. There have to be other yellow Bugs in the neighbourhood. 

(There definitely weren’t.)

But if it was her he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to stutter a few incoherent words before excusing himself awkwardly and fleeing to a private corner where he might catch his breath, which was what happened every time he tried to talk to Henry’s mother.

Now Killian Jones, as, dearest Reader, you well know, was a handsome man, and one not so caught up in books and fantasy that he was unaware of this fact or of the effect it had on women. He could be smooth enough with the female species when he put his mind to it but something about Henry’s mother —he didn’t even know her name— tied his tongue and stopped his throat and robbed him of every shred of eloquence he may otherwise possess. 

This didn’t stop him from trying, though. The humiliation was worth it to see her smile. 

He got out of the car as quickly as possible, cursing as he caught the strap of his satchel in the door, then hurried to the library’s main entrance, looking around in a way that he hoped didn’t make it too obvious that he was looking around. Where would she be? he wondered. If she was here that is, if it was her. Come to think of it, why would she be here? Why would anyone? Who went to the library an hour before it opened to, what, stand around in front of the door and wait? 

His attention was finally drawn, after a moment or two, to the after-hours book drop when the person stuck inside it began banging and shouting loudly enough for even the most distracted bookworm to notice. 

Wait… the person stuck inside the book drop?

Killian turned to look, mouth gaping open in astonishment, too taken aback to even feel ashamed that he very definitely recognised that arse. 

So that’s where she was. This simultaneously answered several questions and posed a good few more. 

He hurried over, knowing that he ought to do something, but very uncertain as to what that something ought to be. 

“Um, hello?” he ventured. “Excuse me?”

Her voice was muffled but the annoyance came through loud and clear. “Oh thank fuck, I thought you’d gone,” she said.  

“Um. What?”

“I heard your car door slam so I started banging to get your attention, but then no one came and I thought you’d left, or gone in another direction or something.” 

“Ah. Er, no. I’m, uh, I’m here. What, um, what can I do for you?” He winced even as he spoke the words.

(She robbed him of all eloquence, you recall, even when all he could see was her backside. Perhaps especially then.)

She paused just long enough to make her opinion of his question clear. “Get me out of here!” she shouted.

“Aye, of course, lass, but, er, um—” Killian assessed the situation from three different angles just to be sure that there was no other option, that it wasn’t simply his physical attraction to her getting the better of him “—I’ll have to, uh, there’s no other way except to, er, touch you—”

“Yes, yes, I know that’s fine, just get me out!” 

“Aye, all right, um, can you push on the inside of the chute at all?”

“Yes, but I can’t get enough purchase on the ground to counterbalance, so I can’t force my shoulders out.” 

“Ah, yes, I see. All right, well you push and I’ll just, um—” Cautiously he wrapped his arm around her waist and braced his hand against the wall of the library. “I’ll brace you. Are you ready?”

“So ready.” 

“Okay, on three. One… two… three!” 

Killian planted his feet firmly on the ground and he could feel her muscles tense and flex as she pushed on the wall of the chute, and with her body braced against his she was able to un-wedge her shoulders from the narrow space and then with a final heave she freed herself from the drop, the force of it sending her stumbling backwards against Killian, whose other arm automatically wrapped itself around her and held on tight. 

She smelled like honeysuckle, was all he could think.

Too soon she was straightening up and he forced his arms to let her go, and she turned around with a smile that nearly ended him. 

“Thanks,” she said. “I thought I’d be in there at least until the library opened.” 

Emma was trying to be cool but the truth was that even from inside the chute she’d recognised the voice and accent of Henry’s favourite librarian, his hero really, the man who had recommended all his favourite books and who always had time to discuss them with him. Henry talked about him almost nonstop. 

“Ah, it’s Killian, isn’t it?” she said. “We’ve talked a few times before, I’m Henry’s mother.”

Killian swallowed hard and forced himself not to panic. “Aye, I remember. Er— sorry, I don’t know your name.” 

He’s so cute, thought Emma. She’d always thought so, if she was honest, not just his face but the adorable way he couldn’t quite manage to talk to her. It was sweet, and frankly a blessed change from the way men usually acted around her.

“It’s Emma Swan,” she said, and held out her hand. Killian took it gingerly, like he was afraid it might bite him. 

The jolt of sensation that went through both of them at the contact seemed to confirm his fears.  

They both pulled their hands away, laughing nervously, and thorough the haze of his confusion something prickled in Killian’s mind. E. Swan, he thought, just like…

“You must be wondering how I managed to get stuck like that,” said Emma, interrupting his thoughts, attempting to brazen through her own jumpy nerves by talking.

“Well, yes, I confess it did cross my mind.” A complete sentence in her presence, that was a first, he thought. 

“Yeah, it must be a pretty weird thing to encounter first thing in the morning.”

“I assure you, lass, we’ve seen weirder in this library.” Two complete sentences, what had come over him? 

“That’s nice of you to say. Okay, here’s the thing. I kinda… left something really important in one of the books I returned, and… look I’m so grateful to you for rescuing me but would you mind maybe going to see if you could find it?” She kept her face calm but he could sense her anxiety in the way she twisted her hands together. “It’s, well, it’s personal and I don’t want to lose it, or you know have strangers reading it—”

He waved his hand to cut her off. “Say no more, it would be my pleasure to retrieve it for you. Um, what is it?”

Her smile shone relieved and brilliant, and Killian’s powers of speech abandoned him yet again. 

“It’s a letter. In an envelope. I mean, just like a normal envelope. But… open.” 

He nodded, groping desperately for his words. “Letter. Envelope. Got it. I’ll, um, go now. Uh, stay here.” 

“Where else would I go?” she asked his retreating back. 

Killian hurriedly unlocked the main doors and raced down the stairs to the bin at the bottom of the book drop’s chute. He realised he’d forgotten to ask Emma —he felt a small thrill using her name— which book she’d left her letter in, but fortunately he remembered which books Henry had checked out during his last visit. They’d had a long conversation about each, after all. He ruffled through the first one but no letter fell out, the same result for the second. The third, however, produced its treasure, an ordinary, unremarkable white letter envelope. 

One that looked strikingly familiar. 

Killian stared at the letter in his hand, addressed to one E. Swan, in a firm, flowing, elegant script.

A script he recognised. 

Because it was his own. 

Bloody hell. 

(Be honest, now, kind Reader, you aren’t going to tell me you didn’t see this coming?) 

Killian wanted to hyperventilate. (Is it possible to want to hyperventilate?) His favourite patron’s mother, the woman he’d admired (and yes, done a bit of pining for) from afar was also, somehow, the pen pal he’d had since he was ten years old. His dearest friend. 

It was too ridiculous. It was impossible. 

(It was actually just a very strange coincidence, and who among us hasn’t experienced one of those? But Killian was feeling rather dramatic in that moment, so we’ll give him a pass.)

 (Now Reader, you are likely wondering how it is possible that two people who communicate via letter, a medium of communication that requires the knowledge of one’s recipient’s address as a matter of course, could possibly be unaware that they lived in the same neighbourhood of the same small town, mere blocks from one another as it turns out? The simple explanation is this: Both some years ago had arranged P.O. Boxes for their letters to each other, finding it easier (and if we are honest, more securely anonymous) to simply ask the post office to forward their letters as they moved around rather than keep updating each other directly. Killian’s P.O. Box was in Syracuse, NY, where he had gone to library school and his first port of call in the USA while Emma’s was in Tallahassee, FL, where she had stayed for two years after Henry was born.

Could they have saved themselves a fair bit of time and no small amount of loneliness had they just used their real addresses? Or, you know, their actual names? 

Yes. Yes they could. But then we wouldn’t have a story.) 

As Killian reeled from his astounding discovery, Emma was sitting on the hood of her Bug, wincing as her shift supervisor (and friend) laughed, so long and so hard Emma feared she’d give herself an aneurysm. 

After a while she began to hope for an aneurysm. 

“Oh my God,” Ruby gasped, once she was finally able to speak through her mirth. “That is the funniest thing I’ve heard in a long time. Years, probably.”

“Not helpful, Rubes. I only called to tell you that I’ll be in as soon as possible, I can probably get going in about five, ten minutes or so. I’m really sorry.” 

Ruby’s appreciation for a good joke did not affect her empathy for a friend in need. “Look, Ems, we’re not busy today, three patients have already cancelled their appointments. I can cover what’s left. Let’s just call this a sick day for you and if you want you can make up the shift this weekend. Go home and rest. You’ve had a narrow escape after all.” 

Emma groaned. “I hate you.” 

“You love me, and don’t forget I’m covering your shift today so you really shouldn’t be stuck up.”

“I mean, that’s just terrible.” 

 Ruby laughed. “Call me later. I’ll be waiting so don’t think you can wriggle out of it.” 

“You are the worst and I’m hanging up now. Goodbye. And thanks.” 

“Any time, doll.” 

Emma hung up the phone just as Killian came through the doors holding, she was relived to see, her letter. 

And with a very peculiar expression on his face. 

She felt her heart flutter. He looked… intense. It was a good look on him. 

She remembered how his arms had felt around her and the flutter became a gallop. 

He handed her the letter. 

“You’re honeysuckle,” he blurted. 

“I— what?” Emma blinked in surprise. 

“Honeysuckle. Not lilacs or roses, or sunflowers, thank goodness.” 

How could he… no! she thought wildly. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t have. He seemed so nice. 

“Did you read my letter?” she cried, somehow feeling more betrayed than angry.

“No! That is, I sort of did, but—” He ran a hand through his hair, looking distressed. “Oh, I’m doing this all wrong.”

“Just what exactly are you doing?” she snapped. 

He took a deep breath, and looked her in the eye. “Let me introduce myself,” he said. “We really haven’t been properly introduced. My name is Killian Jones. Killian with a K.” 

Emma gasped as the import of his name plus the fact that he knew what was in her letter hit home. K. Jones. 

“You— you’re K?”

“Aye. I mean yes, I am. And you’re E. Who smells of honeysuckle. I’ve always wondered.”

“You wondered what I smelled like?”

“I’ve wondered a lot of things about you, love.” He smiled, not the awkward, shy smile he normally gave her, but a bright and brilliant one full of joy and just a hint of mischief. It made her feel feather-light and ridiculously happy. This man she could definitely picture sniffing lilacs and thinking of her. He was real, and right in front of her, and her imagination had utterly failed to do him justice. 

“Listen,” he said, more confident than she’d ever seen him but with nervousness just creeping in at the edges, rubbing at a spot behind his ear and looking just over her left shoulder, “Would you, um, like to have a drink with me? You probably have to get to work now, but maybe later—” 

“I have the day off.” The words were out before she could stop them. 

Hope lit in his eyes. “You do?”

“As of five minutes ago,” she confirmed. “My boss said I’d clearly been through enough already today and told me to take a sick day. But, I mean, don’t you have to work—”

“I’ll take a sick day too,” he said hurriedly, pulling out his phone. “Just give me a minute.” 

The phone rang only twice before Belle picked up. She was nothing if not efficient. 

“Hi, Belle, it’s, er, Killian.” Of course she knows that you numpty she saw your name come up on the screen, he thought. 

(Killian is a terrible, terrible liar.)

He cleared his throat and continued. “I’m, um, so sorry but I’m not well today.” 

“Not well,” repeated Belle.  

“Er, no, I think I’ll have to stay home.” 

“You sound fine, Killian.” She sounded strict, when she was usually so kind. He forced himself not to panic, and attempted a little cough. “No, I assure you,” he said, “I’m very ill.” 

“Very ill, you say.” 

“Er, aye.” Why is she repeating everything?

“Too ill to come to work.” 

“Um, yes.” 

“Too ill to come to work and not in fact currently standing in the patrons’ car park with Henry’s mother?” 

He gaped. “How do you—”

She laughed, a familiar, warm sound, and Killian felt the knot of tension in his chest begin to melt. “I heard you come in through the main door and I came to see what was going on,” she said. 

Killian felt a stab of guilt. “Belle, I can explain—” 

“You don’t have to. At least, not yet. I’ll be demanding a full explanation tomorrow, when I feel certain you’ll be well enough to come to work.” 

“Of course. Thank you, Belle, you’re a treasure.” 

“Just be sure you actually talk to her this time.” 

“Aye, I think I can manage that.” It was easier now that he knew he’d actually been talking to her for the best part of twenty years. 

He ended the call and turned to smile at Emma who smiled back at him, and now, my darling Reader, we come at long last to the elation. The sheer, shining joy of experiencing something you’ve wondered about for years and finding it surpasses even your most elevated expectations. 

They went for coffee. They walked to the coffee shop, past the lilacs which were just beginning to fade, and they sniffed them together. 

Their conversation flowed with surprising ease, or perhaps not so surprising. In a way of course they had only just met but in another way they had known each other for years, and they were pleased to discover that there was no awkwardness between them other than that which results naturally between two people who are wildly attracted to each other and only just beginning to explore it. 

They explored it eventually. And thoroughly. 

And when the following year they stood in a country garden with Belle and Ruby and a Henry who was almost dancing with excitement and exchanged rings and promises of love and fidelity, the trellis above their heads was heavy and fragrant with honeysuckle in full bloom. And not a sunflower in sight. 

(Ah, I love a happy ending, I hear you sighing, beloved Reader. I do as well but I fear this is not one. It is of course a happy beginning.)

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Athazagoraphobia (Part 14)

Their outrage comes as no surprise when she announces the new destination. She is well aware that the prison is in the opposite direction and that they all resent the idea of backtracking. She is also painfully aware that she looks indecisive and quite foolish. An unreliable leader. Which is precisely why she needs to find her father.

Her tummy flutters at the thought of seeing him again. It is both an anxious jitter and a sense of hope. She misses the man even if he’d scorned her the last time she’d seen him. She tries not to dwell too much on the possibility that he is no longer alive, but she can’t put aside a vivid image of him prowling about with his flesh rotting in places and silver-blue wisps in his eyes. If a man as mighty and powerfully built as he could be reduced to nothing but decay then her lithe body doesn’t stand a chance.

“You alright?” Ruon Jian asks. He means well but the constant asking of that question is becoming almost patronizing, as though he thinks that she cannot hold her own.

“I’m fine.” She lies.

“Do you want me to…” He reaches out. She nearly swats his helping hand away.

“I can handle myself.” They already think her weak, she doesn’t need to flaunt it.

“It won’t pay to push yourself.” Li comments.

“It won’t pay to grow lazy either.” She counters. She is certain that there is a fine line between the two and that she is teetering between the two. It helps little that she occasionally finds herself feeling very faint. She wonders if it is the infection running its course.

The journey back to the palace has been especially drab without Xuia and her chipper demeanor.

“You’re quiet today.” Ruon gives another unsolicited observation.

“I’m always quiet.”

“More than usual.”

“What does it matter to you?” She asks.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess that I just don’t like seeing you like this.”

“You should worry about yourself.”

He lets a few minutes pass in peaceful silence before pestering her further, why are we going to the prison?”

Azula frowns, she can’t imagine that he would think highly of her if she revealed that she simply wanted the comfort of her father’s company. “Security.” She says at last. “The point of a prison is to keep things from getting out, it should work just as well to keep things from getting in.”

“But we’re getting further from the port.” Bujing interjects. “That was our end goal, was it not?”

“It was, but we weren’t fully prepared. Anyways we don’t need a port, we can use any body of w...”

“You weren’t fully prepared.” He cuts her off with a scowl and a gesture to her leg.

“Yet I was the one who put things back in order after your rash decision.”

“I wouldn’t have had to…”

Azula feels a frail hand on her shoulder. “Leave him to his rants, princess.” She frowns but ultimately decides to listen to her advisor.

.oOo.

Two hours in and Azula finds herself wishing that something would happen. The only thing worse than that feeling of ominous and unseen doom is feeling nothing at all. Nothing but a nagging sense of paranoia; the itching feeling of anticipation. It claws at her mercilessly.

The hushed chatter around her tells her that she isn’t alone in her discontent. Somewhere along the way, the group has become more compact. She hadn’t noticed how close Ruon and Li had inched towards her. Or maybe it was she who had closed the space. More likely, all three of them made some unspoken agreement to huddle closer.

She finds that she has her chi at the ready. Shinu has been wandering with his sword drawn and his arm protectively around a woman that Azula hadn’t taken much notice of until then. The woman is somewhat tall, on the heavier side, and with what has to be Earth Kingdom blood for her eyes are a blazing green.

Azula strains her ears for a whisper. A moan. A scream. Anything. But she only hears their foot falls and the slapping of fabric as a banner flaps in the breeze.

The breeze...Azula notes. She looks skyward. It is still blue, but the air tastes of rain. They are long overdue for a storm.

“Is that it?” The green eyed girl questions. The abruptness and volume of her remark causes a flinch to ripple through the group. The ripple stops at Azula who replies with a plain, “yes.”  She aims to keep chit-chat to a minimum until they are securely within the prison walls.

It is still a good distance away. Maybe an hour or so, but she can see its looming, smokestack.

“Maybe we should go back to the palace instead?” Someone else suggests.

She isn’t willing to write the idea off entirely. “If the prison doesn’t work out, we will.”

.oOo.

The storm breaks suddenly in a relentless downpour. Faintly, Azula hopes that it will wash some of the blood and gore from the streets. More likely it will just gather it in waterlogged clumps on the sides of the road.

The wind blasts her face and whips strands of hair into her eyes. They cling uncomfortably to her cheeks and neck. She squits against the onslaught of raindrops. Pushing forward is difficult between the force of the wind and the constant threat of her crutches slipping and sliding.  

“I guess that we will be staying in the palace again after all.” Azula calls over the wind. For once no one questions her judgement. She isn’t sure that she will be able to make it to the palace, much less to the prison. But the howl of gusts in her ears reminds her of the urgency. The same howling gusts instill a new fear. A dread that she won’t be able to hear the spectral parasites coming.

“Can I help you?” Shinu breaks away from the half blood girl.

She lets her pride get swept away on the breeze and nods, handing her crutches to Ruon Jian. This time when Shinu lifts her into his arms, Bujing keeps his mouth shut. At least the man knows to keep his mouth shut when it truly matters.

She finds only a hint of comfort in Shinu’s arms. Soaked to the bone, she feels completely miserable. Miserable, dismal and terribly stressed. Three emotions that seem to ebb off of each member of their pathetic party.

Perhaps that is why it had been so easy…

She sees only the faintest glimmer of silver-blue before Shinu falls to the floor. Her body topples with him. Having already been well and ambushed her sharp, echoing, and attention grabbing cry matters none. She can’t help the whimper that leaves her lips upon seeing the state of her leg. The angle at which he dropped her has left it in worse shape than it had been initially.  She thinks that she can see bone poking through skin. Her body shakes all over; the product of agony, rage, and fear.

She watches uselessly as phantom fingers branch out like roots, touching each member of her group. Someone tries to run; he doesn’t see the shimmering wall of spirits, but he certainly feels it as it drifts down like a blanket in the breeze, enveloping him entirely. His body seems to fade as it suctions to his skin, he contorts violently as it sinks in.

The green eyed girl screams for Shinu as Bujing tries to pull her away. His efforts are a waste, wormlike tendrils are already crawling from Shinu’s arm to hers. Though Bujing pulls her away just in the knick of time, the parasites fling up and latch onto her still outstretched arm. They look like stringy threads as they bury themselves within her skin.

Azula scrambles back on her remaining three limbs.

In such close proximity, Bujing doesn’t stand a chance. For a moment it looks as though they aren’t going to make a movie. “Put her down, Bujing!” Azula calls. The man hastily infected shoves the half blood away.

She scans him for silver-blue as he picks her up.

“Where are Ruon and Li?”

The man doesn’t answer as he sprints for the palace stairs. With her in his arms he struggles to push the mangled gate open. She expects him to set her down and save himself. Yet he holds her with a degree of tightness.

“Find the breech.” She rasps.

The man nods and scans the fence and finds the place where it has bent and collapsed. Her heart seizes when he puts her down. She turns her head and sees Ruon. He is bolting  in the opposite direction. “Ruon!” She shouts, her voice is buried beneath the storm sounds. She watches him disappear into an alleyway.

She hears a grunt and the grind of metal and she is in Bujing’s arms again. She is too numb to feel any sort of relief. The climb to the palace doors seems to pass in slow motion. She catches snippets of silver-blue and muffled cries. A rustle of clothes as someone or something rushes by. The sound of rain beating the pavement is amplified to her ears.

The door slams and Bujing sets her down. In a series of more huffs and grunts he pushes tables and chairs and suits of armor in front of the door. Never has she felt more worthless. This is her fault and she had done the least to fix it. She had done nothing at all.

With his barricade erected, Bujing comes to sit next to her. “It’s going to be a long night.” He mutters as something throws itself at the door. “I hope that you know of a cozy secret annex we can hide in.”

“There’s one in the hallway. Move the decorative vase on the left side of my bedroom door and firebend into the hole.”

The man carefully picks her up again.

“You should leave me here.” She suggests. It is what she has earned for herself. The price of incompetence. She awaits his eager reply.

Instead he says, “let’s get you somewhere warm and dry.”