#her own history with violence and anger

[spaceratprodigy]

one of my favorite things abt how faith reacts to max in fallbrook arc is her being directly faced with her own hypocrisy

[whirlybirbs]

— CAN'T WE BE SEVENTEEN? ; shoto todoroki ; 焦凍

summary: he's loved you since he was seventeen. pairing: f!reader x pro hero!shoto ; reader was a 1-A student tags: mutual pining, heavy make-out, thinly veiled sugar daddy shoto, reader does not go pro, touya might be a dick but he's a hero now, shoto is bad at feelings wordcount: 5.6k a/n: i do not fucking know what came over me, enjoy your food my little todorokinas. yes the title is what you think it is. no i will not elaborate.

You never did go pro.

Truthfully, you thought there would be more pushback when, in your senior year, you announced your plan to pursue a degree in early childhood education with a focus on non-conforming quirk development. 

The War changed a lot. It changed you, your classmates, and the world. But, through it all one thing stuck with you:

What if someone helped Tenko Shimura?

How different would his life have been? How different would history have spun? 

You graduated at the top of your class and joined the faculty at Chiba Prefectural Preparatory School for Quirk Specialties two years ago. 

Chiba Prep was opened eight years ago in response to a societal cry for more infrastructure around what was dubbed "non-conforming quirks": a nice way to say quirks that can injure, maim, or kill. Maybe even all three on a bad day. Some parents still see their child being labeled as a non-conforming quirk user in the national database as akin to social suicide. 

You see it differently.

Your quirk allows you to manipulate emotions — anger, sadness, betrayal, love, hatred. If you can feel it, you can sink it into another's psyche deep enough to drive them to act. You can even imbue things with feelings. For example, a cup of warm milk can transform into more than just a simple comfort, now it can hold the feeling of home and safety, or even exhaustion strong enough to put even the biggest foe to rest. 

You could easily use your quirk with nefarious intent. 

You could steep hatred in someone's bone so deep it drives them to harm themselves. You could sew fury so solid into someone's mind it drives them to violence. 

Just a touch and you can control others with something so intrinsically personal it only exists within themselves: their feelings.

What makes you any different from little Asuke, a shy little girl with a quirk that allows her to see people's greatest fears, and then manifest and control them? You're convinced she can use this for good, if only with practice. In your mind, her future is bright and glimmering. Perhaps she will become a therapist, focusing on exposure therapy? Or, maybe the most prolific horror novelist in their time? 

Or, bright and sunny Tao — a transplant whose parents sought out Chiba Prep's specialized education — whose heteromorphic quirk makes his bodily fluids, namely saliva, eat through nearly anything but his own biologics. A sneeze is quickly the most dangerous thing in the world for the cheery, lizard-bodied class clown. 

He's just a boy given a quirk that needs more care. 

He isn't a villain-in-training. 

None of them are.

It's important to teach them that young — and as their teacher for Year 3 of their elementary schooling, you aim to hammer that in as much as possible. They deserve to feel normal. To feel loved and supported. They aren't scary, they're children. 

So, you take it upon yourself to insist on pushing for privileges like field trips. There aren't many public spaces that welcome the classes of Chiba Prep with open arms. Over the years, there have been plenty of incidents. But, a day trip into the city to visit Tokyo's Hall of Heroes is green-lit with bubbling excitement from both faculty, the children, and their parents. 

You usually keep your history as a graduated member of Class 1-A quiet. 

After all, you never did go pro.

And even still, Shoto Todoroki never stopped thinking about you.

He remembers that weekend everyone moved back in for their last year before graduation. He remembers you smiling at him, and helping him drag up a duffel of luggage from the common room to his dorm. You made a joke about how you're sure he got taller over the summer, and how his hair is longer now. You said you liked it. 

It was the beginning of the end, then.

His crush was a silent, smothering thing. It made it hard to think. Shoto had enough on his plate thanks to Touya's acceptance into the Villain Rehabilitation Program and his father's insistence on staving off retirement. Not to mention his parent's divorce — no matter how amicable, it was still a separation. Add on training, tests, studying, finals, and j-term classes... And a desperate, writhing, burning crush on the nicest girl in class? 

Touya's elbow digs into Shoto's side.

It drags him back to reality — to the stifled quiet of the historical Hall of Heroes. 

Suddenly, the doors to the wing squeak open, and a tour guide ushers in the elementary school class. The buzzing excitement and wonder are visible on each of their faces as the attendant — one of the HoH's lead tour guides — excitedly explains the newest, in-progress addition to the Hall:

Endeavor's wing. 

There's a whisper of awe that ripples through the children as their teacher and co-teacher follow, and as the class moves through the large, open space. They're staring up eagerly at the gilded statue in the center of the room. It's larger than life and intimidating. Years ago, Shoto might have had to fight the odd tremble in his knees at the reminder it brings: to be small in his father's shadow again. But, things are different now. 

Very different.

Touya scoffs. "I thought this wing wasn't open to the public yet."

"They're just children," Shoto hums, turning his back on the gaggle across the way to inspect the large mural winding along the back end of the installation, "I'm sure it's—"

"Oh, ho, no way!"

Shoto quirks his brow at his brother's outburst. His elbow digs into Shoto's ribs again. 

"Ain't that the pretty girl you never got the balls to ask out your senior year?" comes the rasped drawl of his older brother's voice. Touya is clearly amused, his white hair hanging in his eyes as he leans forward to squint, "She is cute, Sho'—"

"Shut up," Shoto grits, turning his head over his shoulder; he tries to bite back the flurry of nerves that ignite in his gut, "Stop talking."

It is you.

You look... good. 

Happy. 

You're crouched by a small, timid girl in the back of the crowd. Your hand is in hers, and you're pointing upwards at the large paneled screens replaying Endeavor's most historic fights. You're explaining something to her, your knees bent as you squat. You look... the same. As if in the six years since they graduated, you sat still in time. 

For a second, it's like he's seventeen again.

It's his senior year, and he's stuck at the corner of the gym's edge with a half-empty glass of punch in his hand. The lights are low, and there's slow music playing. His tie feels too tight. Bakugo keeps telling him to 'ask her to dance already', and Kirishima is considering bashing his head through the wall. Even Midorya is trying to persuade Shoto. 

"It's prom, man! C'mon, this could be your last chance—"

Touya is about to be a real pain in the ass — his favorite pastime — and make some comment about your ass, but when he turns to lob the one-liner at his baby brother, Shoto's gone.

Shoto is on the move.

The crescendo of gasps draws your attention first.

Then, the cry of "WOAH, IT'S SHOTO!" leaves you dumbfounded. The rippling murmur of excitement bleeds into the children as their eyes — and the eyes of the tour guide — widen at the sight of the approaching Pro Hero. 

Shoto Todoroki.

He looks... good. 

Really good.

He's a bit older, and a bit more filled out than when you were both teenagers. You can see the strength in his arms and shoulders — it's a distant echo of his father's physique, though Shoto is so much more elegant and much... prettier. He's always been.

For a second, you're seventeen again.

It's your senior year, and you're sprawled across Momo Yaoyorozu's bed.

They had finally wrangled out of you who your crush was: something they hadn't been able to do in all their years as classmates.

There's a sticky, Miss Midnight-themed face mask clinging to your expression as you try to flip through the large magazine in your hands as nonchalantly as possible. Mina's voice, as she paints Ochaco's nails a bright pink on the floor, is sweet and saccharine as she looks up at you.

"I think you and Shoto would be, like, the cutest couple ever." 

You're still crouched when the tour guide nervously — like she was caught doing something naughty — introduces The Pro Hero Shoto to the already-aware crowd of elementary school students and their teachers. It's like igniting a match; the uproar of excitement leaves you laughing as three of your boys push forward to bombard him with questions about his quirk. 

Asuke is smiling shyly, now. That's a small win. She's intrigued by the appearance of a real hero, not the "scary statues" — and her big, fat tears stopped rolling the moment you laid a gentle hand on her to quell her anxiety over the new environment with a push of comfort through your quirk. She unhooks her pinkie finger from yours as you guide her towards your co-teacher. 

"Boys," you call with a crisp air of authority as you stand and lead Asuke toward the bulk of the field trip group, "What have we learned about personal space?"

"It's fine, really, Insight," comes Shoto's voice; as warm and placid as you remember. 

"Insight?" mutters your co-teacher at the presumed hero-name; a look of confusion plasters itself on her face, and her big, feline ears perk up. She leans in to whisper in a way that borders on conspiratory, "Do you two know one another?"

"Old classmates," you confirm, not daring to get into the finer details.

Shoto's attention is entirely rooted in the way you manage the kids. There's something beautiful about the ease with which you handle the bouquet of students; you quell the excitement into a manageable decibel like it's as easy as breathing. 

"Shoto," you start as you gesture to him, "Has a very special quirk — Toyamai, he has ice like you. And, fire like Tojiro. He can regulate his temperature. Can anyone tell me what that means?"

There's a wave of hands shooting up, a few me, me, me's rise from the gaggle. 

You're using him as a teaching moment.

Shoto's smile is soft.

You nod at Ogomi, excitedly nodding as the reserved child speaks up. Normally, he hates public speaking. But, recently, he's started working with the speech pathologist during lunch. The boy bounces a little as he answers. "He doesn't g-get too hot, or too c-cold."

"Exactly! Isn't that cool?" you grin at the lazy attempt at a pun, "This is why it's important to learn about our quirks as much as we can!"

Touya thinks this whole thing is just too cute. 

You're different than he remembers — but, granted, things were sorta different last time he saw you. He was a little too busy tryna kill his old man and lil' Shoto. He's different now, too. A changed man! A real licensed hero. Support items and all. 

He hangs back. 

He... I mean, he is a jack-ass but he isn't gonna ruin this for Shoto. 

...It's kinda cute.

Just about as cute as Fuyumi said it was. 

Apparently, Shoto had opened up to her and Natsuo about his feelings after graduation — about how he regretted not doing anything about it. Fuyumi then told their mum, who then off-handedly mentioned it to Touya... and well Touya dug in because, duh, he is a whore for good gossip. He might be the family's black sheep, but Shoto is the glue that binds. 

And he deserves to be happy.

Your co-teacher is ushering the kids to the next installation — a viewing of All Might's Legacy, a new documentary following the retired pro's teaching career. It will be a good wind down for them, in comfy seats and the dark. It's hardly the sort of content an elementary school student would find riveting, but it is All Might. And they love him.

You hang back. 

Shoto's heart is hammering in his chest.

"Hey."

"Hi," you greet back, closing the door to the theater and stepping forward as you weave your arms around you, "Long time no see."

"Yea," Shoto breathes, his hands in his pockets as he meets you halfway across the museum's marble floors, "I... I see you're teaching."

His eyes are as pretty as they were back then. Slate grey and piercing turquoise. "I'm in my second year," you confirm softly, fiddling with the material of your sweater, "Congrats to your old man."

You gesture up at the statue, then wave around to the rest of the installation.

Shoto inhales, then nods; he's staring at your face, blissfully realizing you're just the way you were all those years ago. Kind. "I'll pass it along."

"How's he handling it?" you ask, your eyes raking across his expression and trying not to stick to the sharp slope of his jaw, or the bob of his Adam's apple, "Retirement, I mean."

"He's happy, I think. Touya and I are working together and... things are...  good."

Last month, Endeavor finally retired. He cited his age, and his dedication to passing his legacy to his two sons: Shoto and Touya. Shoto has planted himself firmly within the Top Ten in the last year or so, and shockingly, Touya isn't far behind. People love an underdog's redemption story, you suppose. 

And the underdog in question can read a room. 

This is getting a little too sexually tense for even him.

"Heeeeey, girl," he rasps out, staggering backward with a thumb over his shoulder, "Nice t' see ya. I'll let you two catch up, yea? I'm gonna go pop my head into the theater, see how the kids are handling the snooze fest on screen—"

You jump.

How long has he even been there?

"Hi, D— Touya," you strain, wincing a little; the rehab'd villain doesn't seem to mind.

"Hi, teach'. That cool with you?" he asks, wobbling his thumb and quirking a pierced eyebrow; it's comical, like he's trying to disarm you with humor, "Don't want you thinkin' I'm corrupting your youths—"

"It's fine," you breathe, ignoring the sting of age-old mistrust. You know better. Shoto wouldn't be here, with him, if Touya Todoroki hadn't changed. Endeavor wouldn't be entrusting his legacy to the ex-League of Villain member if he didn't believe in his capacity for good, "Just don't be disruptive."

Casting judgment on someone whose life was nearly destroyed by his own non-conforming quirk would go against everything you taught the kids anyway.

"Touya's whole thing is being disruptive," Shoto grits as his oldest brother slips silently through the doors, "I apologize for him—"

"No," you wave him off, laughing a little, "Don't. It's... nice to see you two together."

Shoto's expression is soft as he wanders a little closer. "It took time — and a lot of therapy — but we've all managed to come out the other side."

"That's great to hear, Shoto," you breathe, your eyes flitting across his face, "I'm really happy for you."

There's a long silence, then — and you can't help but ignore the roil of butterflies in your stomach. The eye contact is heavy with some unspoken thing, and both of your tongues are weighted by secrets-never-turned-confessions. 

It's like finally this dance you've been doing around one another for years breaks — and the two of you throw caution to the wind at the exact same moment. 

"Would you like to—"

"Are you free—"

Hesitant, slow grins bloom on both your faces.

"Dinner?" is all he manages after a sweet moment of soaking up your soft smile, "If you're available...?"

You make yourself available.

Yaoyorozu almost dies when you call her that night — winded from tearing through your entire wardrobe. You explained you had nothing to wear a-and you needed something nice, and you only have an hour to get ready, because Todoroki — yes, stop screaming, Todoroki — is picking you up at 8pm.

Little bro is nervous. Touya can tell. 

From his spot on the sofa, the white-haired ex-degenerate scoffs. Natsuo is digging around for some cufflinks in Shoto's dresser.

"Seriously, Sho'? A suit?" 

"It's a nice restaurant," his brother says tightly, adjusting the collar of the black button-down, "I booked the upstairs dining room for privacy." 

"Who the hell told you t' do that?" Touya quirks a skeptical brow.

"Father was the one who suggested it."

"...That old dog." 

Natsuo rolls his eyes at the exchange before throwing his hands as he emerges from the closet. "Do you have any links that aren't emblazoned with U.A. High School's crest?"

The ones in Natsuo's hands have his graduation year on them.

Shoto winces.

"Want me to ask dear ol' dog of a dad?" Touya snarks from the corner, his posture becoming less and less upright as he scrolls on his phone.

"Already did," comes the soft voice of Fuyumi; she's smiling, padding into Shoto's room with a velvet box, "He offered up his nicest pair. He also says not to screw it up with Insight. He likes her."

Of course, he likes her. You worked under Endeavor for a brief work-study period during your third year. Shoto remembers hearing grumbled praise over dinner one night about your talent for de-escalation.

"You told him who I was seeing?" Shoto asks incredulously, taking the box and working the cufflinks on. He's starting to feel exasperated.

Fuyumi nods, popping down beside Touya. 

"He asked. I'm not gonna lie to him."

"Did y' tell ma?" Touya rasps, peeking up over his phone to inspect Shoto's outfit. Not half bad, honestly. He looks good in all black. A man after his own heart, "M'sure she's gonna be real excited—"

"Yes," Shoto grumbles, "I called her earlier—"

"Chiba Prep is a really good school, y'know," Natsuo buts in as he tries to find a tie that matches Shoto's outfit. Ultimately, though, the middle brother decides against it and tosses the options over his shoulder, "They're, like, on the leading edge for quirk therapies."

"Hey, nerd? Quiet down. The big kids are gossiping," Touya shirks, turning back to Shoto, "What did mum say?" 

"She wants me to call her after—"

"One, you're gonna call mum the morning after," Touya raises a finger, "Because if you don't get laid, I'll be so fuckin' disap—"

Fuyumi slaps Touya's chest. He lets out a pained yelp at the solid smack.

"Uh, ow," he rubs his sternum. "An' two, take a deep breath. You look like you're gonna shit yourself. Those are my pants and they're expensive."

Shoto lets out a long breath. 

Fuyumi's smile is sweet like honey. "Aw, Sho'! It's gonna go great. You two have known each other for such a long time, and catching up is going to be amazing. Just be yourself! Confident and kind—"

"—Hold the door open for her, and pull her chair out," Natsuo adds as he adjusts Shoto's collar for him, "Car door, too—"

It's Touya's turn. He's dead serious. "—And do not chicken out on kissing her at the end of the night. I swear to god."

Easier said than done.

You never did go pro.

Those years of hardened battle instincts have lost their edge. You try to remind yourself this is just Shoto, not The Shoto — but you're a little lost in the whole celebrity of it all when he picks you up in a very nice, sporty little car with ENDVRplates. 

You answer the door and he forgets how to breathe.

He has flowers for you. They're blue and blooming and beautiful. 

Fuyumi's contribution. 

You settled then you were going to kiss him at the end of the night.

The restaurant is... nice. Really nice. The sort of nice you could never aspire to experience on your teacher's salary. Even the valet is a concept that has your head spinning. But, Shoto handles it all with cool ease. The entire time, his hand is settled on your lower back. 

It feels like you've been lit on fire.

You're glad Momo was able to create a dress fitting for the occasion. It's sleek and black. Comfortable, too. Not much can be said for your heels on that front, but it's fine. 

Somehow, Shoto managed to book the entire upper floor of this place in all its glimmering glory — it's just the two of you alone in a sea of tables. 

The waiter is pouring you a glass of the chef's suggested pairing of sake.

You thank him, smile, and take a sip as Shoto unbuttons his suit jacket and watches you. 

For a second, you're seventeen again.

Sero and Kirishima were always in cahoots when it came to parties back then — somehow, between the two of them, they always managed to smuggle enough booze onto campus to obliterate any semblance of promised sobriety from even the most stoic members of 1-A. 

You remember one night, after a lot of hounding, you finally gave in and joined a few of your classmates on the back lawn for a few drinks. 

A few beers turned into a cup or two of wine, and then another big gulp of whatever deranged jungle juice concoction Kaminiari managed to cook up. It tasted terrible, but you were too drunk to really care. Shoto was no better. He was nursing his fourth drink of the night — a rarity he was even drinking at all — and seemed completely fine with the way your arms brushed as the two of you sat close in the grass. 

He was always so nervous around you. Now, he just seemed... happy. 

"I can't believe there is only one week left until graduation."

Graduation day was the last time you saw him. 

Until this morning, that is. 

You smile into your drink. 

"What?" you ask when his eyes never leave your face.

His fingers twitch towards his own glass. Shoto blinks, then rolls his jaw. He was caught staring. He clears his throat, looking a bit shy. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" you press playfully, cocking your head to the side.

"You..." he starts, then bawks. You're stunning, and it's making it hard to even think straight. He thought these feelings might have mellowed out over the years but seeing you again has just reignited everything. He feels like a hormonal teenager again, "You look beautiful."

Your expression falters into something lovesick. You chew your lip. "You're not so bad yourself, Todoroki."

He manages a half-smile. "Touya had me worried the suit was a bit much."

The idea of Touya offering him advice on his outfit strikes a chord in your heart. It makes you smile even bigger than before. "Well, you can tell Touya that I like it. A lot."

You rake your eyes up and down him. On purpose.

He notices.

Shoto's face feels hot. 

He tries to shake the bone-deep want that has swept his entire body up in its grip, but it's difficult when every single word out of your mouth reminds him just how in love he was with you back in school. You explain, excitedly, why you chose to teach at Chiba Prefectural Prep and catch him up on where you've been living since graduating. He's pleased to learn you're still in the area, living in the city, and decidedly in love with the commute to the school. 

Shoto's always been a good listener — but you can see how much he's changed when he begins to speak about his career. He seems so much more sure of himself than he was all those years ago. It wasn't that he was... unsure... but, no. He was shy. Quiet.

Now, less so. 

It's adorable. 

Dinner comes and goes with conversation over sushi that is far too good for you to even process. It's easy talking to him. It was easy talking to Shoto back, then, too but... Things are different. You're both different. Not in a bad way, but in a way that feels like coming home. 

While you both wait outside for the valet, Shoto shrugs his jacket off and puts it over your shoulders without a single word. Suddenly, you're cradled in a warmth that's very Shoto — his cologne clings to the collar and you bury yourself a little deeper into it. 

Shyly, you step closer and steal his hand. It's calloused and warm. He laced his fingers with yours as if practiced. You bite back a grin. You give his hand a little squeeze when you spot the car coming around the corner.

His silence is calming — and he squeezes your hand back. When you look up at him, you realize he's already looking at you. 

His face is close. It's so... intimate. Very. Nearly better than a kiss. 

But, you've wanted to kiss Shoto Todoroki since you were seventeen. 

The valet driver interrupts the moment with a respectful call of Shoto's name and offers the keys with a shake of the hand. With a little bit of hesitancy, Shoto remembers the thing Natsuo said — the car door, too — and moves around the passenger side to open the door for you. 

It's sweet.

Really sweet. 

The car ride back to your apartment is punctuated with easy conversation — you ask him about Bakugo and Midorya, and you're pleased to hear they're both doing well. He asks about Momo, and if you still keep in touch with Mina and Ochaco. He smiles to himself when you admit you did call Momo for help with an outfit. 

"She did a beautiful job," Shoto breathes, a palm moving from the gear shift to brush over the dress' fabric on your thigh.

His hand settles there. 

Your stomach does a flip. 

You chew your lip, swallow down a sudden burst of nerves, and let your hand rest over his. You squeeze it. Shoto tries to focus on the road. His gaze drifts for a moment at a red light, his heterochromatic eyes dancing across your figure. 

Keep it together. 

He isn't seventeen.

He's twenty-five. He's a Professional Hero. One of the Top Ten in all of Japan. He's more than capable of keeping it together in the face of physical touch from the woman he's dreamed about for years. 

...Right?

Green light.

His hand is still on your thigh when he pulls up to your apartment. 

The touch is relinquished in favor of putting the sports car in park. 

It makes your chest ache.

Shoto swallows thickly.

Do not chicken out on kissing her at the end of the night.

He'll never forgive himself. But, admittedly, he's bad at this. He's not good at reading body language, or even knowing himself enough to realize he looks mildly terrified as you blink up at him in the passenger's seat. His heart is hammering a mile a minute.

What if you don't want to kiss him?

When would he even kiss you? Now? Or at the door?

Why does he feel like he's going to die?

"This was really... Shoto, are you okay?" you ask as you unbuckle your seatbelt; you pause, your brows knitting tightly. 

"What?" he asks, blinking back to the present moment. The look of fear disappears, "Sorry. Yes. I'm fine."

You're working his jacket off your shoulders, gently leaning to fold it neatly in your lap. Your voice dips low, into something playful. "You didn't look fine..."

"I—" Shoto clamps his mouth shut as he leans an elbow on the center console, "Sorry. I suppose I'm just nervous."

"Nervous?" you grin, a little giggle punctuating your words as you wriggle in the red, leather seat, "Why?"

Your expression makes his expression crack. He ducks his head as he huffs out a laugh. You continue to egg him on via expression alone. "I... Stop it."

"Stop what?" you push some more, your back pressed to the door as you face him in the car, "You're the one being weird—"

"I'm not being weird—"

"Then what's wrong, Shoto?" you tease in a sing-song voice.

"I'm nervous because I want to kiss you."

His words are punctuated by a slow look that takes in every inch of your face. Butterfly wings kiss your stomach walls. And your knees. You feel a little tremble in your chest. 

It feels like someone has sucker punched you square in the sternum. Shoto's no better. He isn't entirely sure what the expression on your face means. Is that... good? Are you happy?

Your voice is a little quieter now. You duck your head and fiddle with his suit jacket as you lean back against the seat, a little closer now. 

"You don't need to be."

Shoto's breath catches at that.

So, he makes his move.

His hand comes first — his calloused palm settles nicely against your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone as his pointer finger brushes the underside of your jaw. Shoto is slow. Methodical. It's like he's trying to ground himself in the moment. 

Truth be told, he thinks he might be blacking out.

Your eyes flit up his wrist — a dark leather band around his wrist with an expensive watch face, a dark dress shirt with glimmering cufflinks, strong arms and a broad chest, and you can see the dip of his collarbone where the top two buttons of his shirt remain undone. 

He looks so damn handsome with his sharp jaw, pretty eyes, and his trademark white and crimson hair. Even his scar is beautiful. 

The touch pulls you in like he's got his own personal orbit.  

Your elbows are braced along the center console, your eyes flicking across his face as his fingers continue to brush along the soft expanse of your cheek. You wring your fingers together. 

Then, his eyes stick to your lips.

"Can I kiss you?" he whispers, his breath fanning across your face. 

You never did go pro.

But, Shoto did. 

It shows. 

Because, at this moment, all you can do is nod feebly before you're swept into the sort of kiss people go to war for. It's the sort of kiss that sticks to your ribs, that feels like warm, fresh food. It's the sort of kiss that would drive you to the brink, that would make you nod and agree sure, let's get married and have three kids, let's name one after your father, and paint the house blue like your mother's favorite flower—

His mouth is eager, but not in an overbearing way. It's gentle. Slow. As if he needs to remind himself this is real and not some midnight fiction that leaves him aching and alone. Shoto reminds himself to be tepid, pliable, and easy, which is easier said than done when somewhere deep inside of him there's a seventeen-year-old screaming in victory. 

It's better than anything he could have ever imagined. 

And then you whimper. 

It's a sound tied between bliss and relief and it's muttered against his mouth as you lean in and let your fingers brush the fabric of his dress shirt. The tips of your fingers brush his abdomen and he flexes, the feeling foreign and warm. It warrants his other hand to drift to your face and you break for a breath; he doesn't care that there's lipstick smeared across his mouth. He's kissing you again — this time a little bit more feverish, a little bit more aching. 

You melt against him, this time your hands trembling to grip his wrists.

He needs to slow down.

He is not having sex with you in his father's car.

That's shameless.

He needs to slow down.

He has to, or he'll lose himself in this and he refuses to fuck this up. 

Shoto's breath is ragged when he finally peels himself away, his lip parted and eyes half-lidded. His grip on your face is still so soft, so gentle. It's very him. 

You're glad you didn't do this when you were seventeen.

It would have permanently altered your brain chemistry, you're sure of it. How could you ever kiss someone else again after that? 

He's rubbing your cheek with his thumb. You swallow, and try to level out your breathing. It's hard when he's still so close, when he's so... perfect. 

"I've wanted to do that," he murmurs against your cheek, "Since our last year at Yuei."

A well-kissed smile breaks across your face. You reel back, your nose wrinkling as you shake your head in disbelief. Shoto is smiling. A real smile. The sort that's so rare you can count on one hand the amount of times you've ever seen it in person. 

"Are you serious?"

"Very," he says, chastely pressing another to your other cheek as he leans back.

"Me too," you admit shyly, "Can we... do it again sometime?"

Shoto's eyes widen incrementally. Then, his smile eases back onto his face. 

"Are you free this weekend?"

"I can be," you reply easily with a honeyed look, "And I will be. For you."

"I get off patrol on Saturday around seven," he explains before asking timidly, "We could... do dinner again?"

"Works for me," you breathe as you move for the handle of the car door, "After all, I never went Pro. Weekends are free."

Shoto scoffs. 

Then, as you open the door and swing a leg out:

"Oh, and tell Touya I thought the suit sexy."

Shoto's laugh is dry. You leave his jacket on the seat and scurry into your apartment with a lovesick wave. He swears he sees the silhouette of a familiar ponytail greet you at the door, but he doesn't dwell on it. He waits until you're inside and the lights to the front door are shut off.

Then it hits him. He has another date with you this weekend. 

Not so seventeen anymore, Shoto Todoroki. 

[darkbluekies]

Yo hear me out

Ludwig reaches the age to find a bride. A ball is hosted and women are invited. Darling gets scared and gets flashbacks of her time and doesnt attend.

Here we go again

Yandere!king x fem!reader, yandere!prince, yandere???princess

Summary: it's time for the crown prince to find a wife, but it is more complicated because of his family's disturbing history

Warnings: violence, trauma from earlier ball, mother scared of her own child, conservative views, twisted family

Word count: 1.7k

Read this oneshot to get a better understanding

It’s normal for girls to have one, but Edmund has insisted that Ludwig should have one too. He needs to be put out in society, to find a queen worthy of the Vesanus-house. You doubt any one deserves to be in this house. They deserve so much better. 

All noble families and aristocracy have been invited in hopes of finding a wife for the future king … or what is left of it. You have no desire to join. It all is too similar to that ball — the one where Edmund decided you were going to be his. When many of your family friends died. When many of your personal friends died. The blood bath was a tsunami, and had given you nightmares for months. You have learned to love him. It’s not like you’ve had any other choice but to accept him. 

You can’t see this ball ending in any other way than it did that night.

“Come on, darling”, Edmund says as he walks into the room. “People are asking for you. You have to come now.”

“I’m not going out there”, you reply shortly, feeling panic set in your body. 

You’re not even wearing the right clothes. Dressed in your nightgown, sitting on the bed. You haven’t planned on leaving any time soon. The mere thought of entering the ball room makes your skin crawl. You haven’t been in there since that night. You’re not planning to either. 

“You have to”, Edmund says, walking closer to the bed.

You can’t control it anymore. “No! I’ll never go in there again!””

He stops. He isn’t used to people telling him ‘no’, and you can’t help but feel a bit cocky about it. 

“If you’re not there, people will talk!” Edmund insists. “They’ll talk about you more than of Ludwig and that will defeat the entire point of the ball!”

“I’m not going out there and I’ll take whatever punishment you come up with because I refuse!” you say through gritted teeth, even though you want nothing more than to scream at him. “It’s exactly like that night! I know that something will happen! He’s just like you.”

You hate to admit it, but Ludwig scares you. Your own child scares you. 

Edmund sighs and nods slowly. 

“Okay, I get it”, he says. 

You don’t look at him. 

“I’ll let you stay here”, he says. “You don’t have to come with me. Get some rest, okay, darling?”

You nod shortly.

“I’ll come check on you every now and then”, he says.

“Okay.”

Edmund walks over to you, cups your cheeks and kisses you gently. He gives you a small smile before he walks out and closes the door behind him, returning to the ball. Maybe this is for the better, he thinks. If you’re in the bedroom, no one will be able to put their filthy eyes on you.

“Father!” Ludwig says loudly to be heard over the crowd of laughing people. “Where is she? Where is mother?”

“She’s not feeling well”, he lies to not cause suspicion among the guests. “She’s resting.”

Ludwig scoffs. Resting? During his debutante ball?

“Not on my fucking watch”, he mutters and makes his way out of the ball room. 

He storms down the great corridors, getting further away from the music and laughter. The dark corridors are colder than the heated ballroom. He marshes towards the king’s and queen’s chamber with an anger roaring in his chest. He doesn’t bother knocking as he enters. You look up at him from the bed, a look of shock and confusion. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Ludwig spits and stops right in front of you. “Why aren’t you out there celebrating me? This is a gigantic day for me, mother!”

“I know, Ludwig, but I don’t feel well about it”, you mumble uncomfortably and avoid his intensive eyes. 

The same eyes as his father’s. 

“Because father fucked up?” he scoffs and presses his hands to his chest. “How's that my problem? Why can’t you support me?”

Because you’re like him. 

Ludwig knows about that night. He knows everything. Edmund hasn't understood why he should hide it when it's a big part of the family history.

“I’m sorry”, you say. “I have to rest.”

Ludwig doesn’t waste any time, doesn’t hesitate, before he grabs your wrist and yanks you up from the bed. A painful wave shoots through your arm. He’s holding your wrist in a hard, tight grip that is sure to leave behind bruises. He drags you out of the room, out into the big corridor. 

“Ludwig, stop!” you exclaim. 

He doesn’t listen, doesn’t answer, as if he hasn't heard you. You look around for anything to help you. Your eyes land on a maid carrying table cloths. 

“Get the king!” you plead. 

You continue to fight against Ludwig until Edmund storms over. He ran directly from the stood the second the maid reached him.

“Let her go this instant!” he orders. 

And Ludwig does. You fall down on your knees, clutching your hurt hand to your chest. Your entire body is trembling.

“Have you no shame?!” Edmund roars. “Your mother is in a nightgown! Should the entire aristocracy see her in this state, do you think?”

Ludwig’s ears have gone red. It’s extraordinary, you think, how Edmund is the only one that can make him seem human. The only one that can make him feel pure regret and shame. 

“If you can treat your mother like this, how do you expect any of the men in there to have respect for you?” Edmund continues and gestures back towards the way to the ballroom. “Do you think any of them will let any of their daughters marry you? Answer!”

Ludwig seems to struggle to talk. “No, father …”

“Ask your mother for forgiveness.”

Ludwig turns to you. You force yourself to meet his eyes. 

“Forgive me, mother”, he says. 

It sounds weird to hear him ask for forgiveness. You don’t answer him. Your voice have didappeared. Edmund helps you up gently and wraps his arm around you. You can’t help but cry as he starts to lead you back to the chamber. How could your own child be such a monster? Did he inherit nothing from you? Did you fail as a parent? Could you have done more for him?

“It’s okay, my jewel”, Edmund comforts you. “I will punish him. Did he hurt you?”

“No”, you answer. 

You clutch your painful hand tighter to your chest. 

“Good”, Edmund replies. “I will put guards outside your door to make sure that he won’t return.”

He tucks you in and gives you a sorry smile. He burns with anger. That child. 

“Edmund?”

“Yeah?”

“Where’s Victoria?” 

Ludwig storms down the corridor. Fuck everything. Fuck it all. 

He feels something hit him on the leg. He stops. He looks down, then around, but can’t see anything. Another small blow to his leg. He bends down and picks up a small stone. A small smile spreads on his face. 

“Shoot me one more time and I’m taking back the slingshot”, he says. 

“Not fair!” a voice whines from behind one of the heavy drapes by the large window. 

Ludwig walks over to the window and pulls away the heavy, red curtains, revealing a small child sitting on the floor. She giggles up at him. Ludwig crouches down in front of her and knocks on the wooden slingshot. 

“You’re supposed to be asleep by now”, he says. “I thought your governess was supposed to look after you. Where is she?”

“She fell asleep”, Victoria replies and giggles. 

Ludwig scoffs with a smile and picks her up, carrying her on his hip. 

“Alright, let’s go”, he says. “Back to bed.”

“No!” Victoria complains. “I want to dance too.”

“You’re too small. You can dance when you’re older.”

The thought breaks his heart. Reality is, he doesn’t want her to become older. He wants her to stay the little size she is now, innocent and cute. For now, she is the only person that doesn’t dislike him. 

“Have you found a wife yet?” she asks. 

“No, not yet”, he answers. “But the night is young — for me, not for you.”

Victoria hugs her brother's neck and rests her head on his shoulder. 

“I want a debutante ball too”, she mumbles. 

“You will have one, when you're older”, he says. “And I will make sure that no stupid men come to take you. They’ll have to go through a long and hard process with me before I let them come close to you.”

“Will you shoot them with the slingshot?”

“I’m the crown prince, I can do whatever I want.”

He carries Victoria back to the nursery. In the rocking chair, the governess is sleeping with a book in her hand. Ludwig rolls his eyes. He tucks Victoria into her bed and walks over to the rocking chair. He grabs the book out of her hands and hits her on the top of the head. She gasps and shoots up. 

“Hi, good morning”, Ludwig says sarcastically. “Do you know what time it is?”

“N-No, what?” she asks with a raspy, scared voice. 

“Ten. At night. Guess who I just found out in the corridor shooting people who walk by with a slingshot?”

The governess looks around wide eyed, searching for the little girl.

“Do your job before I make father find a new governess”, Ludwig threatens and throws the book in her lap. 

She blushes and apologizes profusely. Ludwig rolls his eyes. 

“Ludwig”, Victoria says from the bed.

“Yes?” Ludwig asks in a softer tone.

“Can you tell me about the ball tomorrow morning?”

“Sure.”

“Will you pick a nice girl? Someone that wants to be my friend?”

Ludwig feels his heart ache. He has friends, some at least — some that have been chosen to be his side when he'sking — but Victoria has none. It's not important. She has her tutors to teach her etiquette. A girl to be married off for connections doesn't need friends. 

“Yes”, he replies quietly. “I will.”

Victoria smiles and hugs her doll, closing her eyes.

Ludwig says goodnight to his little sister and walks out, making his way back to his ball. He will find someone tonight, someone worthy. And if he doesn't, he’ll have these balls until he finds one. 

[galactic-rhea]

you know, maybe I'm wrong, but my interpretation of Anakin/Vader and Redeemed Anakin is that he pretty much is aware he's terrible. He pretty much thinks of himself as a monster even before becoming Vader, he considers himself one as soon as he had to leave Shmi to survive as a slave alone while he got to become The Chosen One and travel the stars (his basic understanding of love is self-sacrifice), he knows the tusken massacre was bad, he knows murdering disarmed Dooku was bad; he knew turning against the jedi and helping Palpatine was bad; he's extremelly self aware of his violence and hates himself for it.

I think it's easy to think of him as nonchalant or as sort of a shameless dick about it all because his General At War Persona was to be jokey and pretend he's having fun. He's very confident on his ability for Murder (tm), he (tragically) became one of the Best general jedis in the order by becoming good at murder, he's useful when he's being murderous at the right people; so he has no doubts on his abilities on this regard; that doesn't mean he isn't aware of how fucked up and cruel it is, but he keeps doing it, and it's all he knows; he was born in violence, raised in violence, taught to yield a extremelly dangerous weapon, groomed into violence, rewarded for violence, cheered for violence, with Ahsoka then he had to teach violence, and then violence just became something that ran in his blood, it came to him easily, too easily because he was never given the means to deal with such a extreme hyperviolent paradigm. So yep, he knows he's good at murder and little self-preservation.

And he probably despised himself for it, he saw himself as less than a being with human rights, he saw himself as a weapon and he hated not being seen as a person, and at some point he became apathic about it, the fight left him as soon as he had no future with a family. As Vader his hate and anger is just cold fury, is mostly apathy and a void of emotions, there's just pain and self-disgust and regret and old anger, there's not even trying to be something else anymore, it's all he's ever been good at and all he's being asked to do.

So redeemed Anakin (which canonically just means Ghost Anakin lmao) acting oblivious or playing the dumb or victim card it's just something I can't even imagine him to do; like Anakin is aware of being violent and messed up and Bad, but he is completely unable to concieve the idea of having been a victim because besides violence, Anakin's other big trait is that he never ever processes trauma and he horrifically has a history of blaming himself instead of the people who owned him.

This guy, when he was at his best as a Jedi, was pathologically prone to suicidal missions even when it wasn't a necessity, he thinks he's an asset, a means for his superiors to impose their stance and chose to own it, instead of blaming his superiors he just hates himself because he can't stop pathetically reliving when he left his mom behind, when he carried her corpse, when he retaliated against even innocents including kids, when he hurt Padmé, all the times he failed, and the he lived in his personal, fitly created just for him, inferno and had no plans to escape it until one certain sunshine farmer showed up, and all because he thinks he deserves the torture and the abuse and being owned because he's just good at murder and nothing else.

So yeah, no one probably hates him more than himself. Someone could tell Ghost Anakin he's a monster, the worst thing that ever happened in the galaxy and he would say "Yes." And no attempts at arguing or whatsoever, his dignity couldn't be lower if he tried, he would half-heartly agree if someone like Luke said the emperor did him wrong by, y'know, torture him? But then he would also say something like "Well, yes, but cruelty is the way of the Sith, what else could be expected", he's just terribly messed up and couldn't stop himself from defending, at least a little, his literal groomer and abuser and master, and he certainly won't expect forgiveness, like,,,,at all. He can, and will, make excuses for people directly hurting him, but he also would retaliate in terrible ways against anyone, guilty or not, if it meant doing it for someone he cared about.

So Anakin is just...used to being used, and falls easily into being used because it's what he knows best, freedom feels useless and uncertain after he lost padmé.

It's an increíble vicious circle: He worked himself hard to be useful because being useful it's what makes people like him and a means of survival, he then hates himself for being just useful and loosing his personhood, and because he hates himself and thinks he doesn't deserve any sort of...human rights, he keeps on being a mere weapon, an object, but what a good and expensive weapon at least, repeat.

So nope, this guy would be completely unable to even dare to play the victim or excuse himself, even less act as if he doesn't understand he did wrong.

[seungminsleftear]

Six Years, Five months and Two days | FIVE X READER

pairing: five hargreaves x reader

Word Count: 5470

Genre: angst

General Notes: Lila x Five did happen here folks :/, sexual themes, crude language, this does not correlate with whatever happens during seasons 4 other than Lila and Five jumping into a different timeline together for seven years,, Reader is referred to as female and wife,

Trigger Warnings: Infidelity and Betrayal, Emotional and Psychological Trauma, Unresolved Grief and Loss, Intimacy and Relationship Issues, Family Conflict, Self-Worth and Identity Crisis, Anger and Violence, Emotional Isolation, Suicidal Thoughts or Self-Harm, Intimate Relationship Details

Author’s note: I have not watched season 4 and yet I know about Five x Lila… Kms

Spoiler: All you get is, There will be a part 2

Click here for part Two!

I MOVED ACCOUNTS THE REST OF THIS FIC WILL BE PUBLSIHED ON @seungminsbaldspot !!

They had been missing for a few hours now, and the anxiety was beginning to gnaw at your insides. You could only guess that Five and Lila had gotten caught up in a different timeline—something your husband was well-acquainted with doing. You tried not to think the worst. After all, Five was skilled, perhaps the most skilled among you, but the worry persisted like a shadow clinging to your every thought.

He had told you stories about when he was young, disobeying his father, and jumping through time. He saw the apocalypse, lived through it, unable to return to his original time. He would speak of the chaos and destruction, the sense of being unmoored in a fractured world. Then he told you about the moment the Handler found him, plucked him from that desolation, and invited him to join the Commission. And that's when he met you.

And oh, how he hated you.

You were, and still are, the complete opposite of that grumpy old man. You were always precise, a stickler for the rules, never one to color outside the lines. The Handler loved you for it—your discipline, your meticulous attention to detail, your unwavering commitment to the Commission's goals. You were reliable, the perfect agent, the kind who made her job easier.

He, on the other hand, was a wildcard. Reckless and unpredictable, he saw rules as suggestions rather than absolutes. He didn't care about the consequences, not when there were bigger things at stake—things only he could see in the chaos of time. He was a man who thrived in the midst of uncertainty, a constant challenge to your carefully ordered world.

But that was part of what drew you to him, wasn’t it? That contrast. The way he lived life like he was on borrowed time, like every moment was his to seize. You hated how he would disregard protocol, how he’d show up late to missions or disappear altogether, chasing his own ghosts through the folds of history. And yet, there was something about that fearlessness that fascinated you. Something about the way he could stare into the abyss of time and laugh, as if daring it to swallow him whole.

The Handler loved assigning the two of you missions together. You were the perfect team, each of you balancing out the other's weaknesses. She liked to say you were two sides of the same coin—your precision and his improvisation, your strategy and his audacity. Together, you were unstoppable, a force to be reckoned with.

It wasn't always smooth, of course. He had a way of getting under your skin, pushing your buttons in ways no one else could. He loved to rile you up, to watch that carefully maintained calm of yours crack, just a little. He’d tease you mercilessly, call you names, question your every move. But you never let it show, not in front of the Handler. You knew she was watching, always assessing, always deciding where her next move would take her. And despite your irritation, you couldn't deny that he had a knack for getting results.

And you hated that. Hated that he could bend the rules, defy protocol, and still come out on top. But the more time you spent together, the more you began to understand him, to see the method in his madness. He wasn’t just a reckless fool; he was smart, sharp, and had an uncanny ability to read a situation and turn it to his advantage. There was a reason the Handler kept pairing the two of you up, and it wasn’t just because she enjoyed watching the sparks fly.

You had never thought Five had cared so much about you—not until that one particular mission.

It had been a long day, the kind where the hours blurred together, each minute weighed down with tension and danger. You were both exhausted, having fought your way through the tangled threads of time, dealing with threats at every turn. Endless close calls, contact after contact, each encounter more chaotic and draining than the last. You were used to this kind of work, but that day felt different. Maybe it was the weight of the mission, or maybe it was something else—a premonition, a sense that something was off.

You and Five had been tracking a target across multiple timelines, chasing down a loose end that the Commission desperately needed tied up. The mission had seemed straightforward enough at first, but complications arose as they often did, turning what should have been a simple extraction into a drawn-out battle. After hours of fighting—ducking bullets, dodging blows, and navigating through the chaotic flow of time—you were growing weary. You prided yourself on your precision, your ability to remain sharp under pressure, but even you had your limits.

You weren’t thinking straight. The fatigue was getting to you, and in a moment of distraction, you let your guard down. It was only for a second, but that was all it took. A sharp pain tore through your side, and when you looked down, you saw the knife buried deep in your abdomen. The world seemed to slow around you, a haze of shock and disbelief clouding your vision.

You staggered, clutching the wound, trying to maintain your balance, but the pain was overwhelming. You heard Five shout your name, his voice cutting through the fog of agony. There had been a strange edge to it, a raw urgency that you hadn’t heard before. You had always thought of him as the consummate professional—gruff, detached, always in control. But now, there was something different in his tone—something almost frantic.

He was at your side in an instant, his figure blurring with the speed of his movements as he dispatched the remaining threats with a brutal efficiency that was startling even to you. His face was tight with concentration, but his eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes that were usually so unreadable—were filled with something you couldn’t quite place. Fear, maybe? Or was it… concern?

“Stay with me,” he had commanded, dropping to his knees beside you. His hands moved quickly, one pressing against your wound to staunch the bleeding, the other rummaging through his coat pocket for something—bandages, maybe, or some kind of first aid. He was muttering under his breath, a stream of curses and commands, as if he could will you back to health with words alone.

You tried to speak, to tell him you were fine, but your voice came out in a weak, strangled gasp. The pain was spreading, a hot, searing sensation radiating from your abdomen and up through your chest. You could feel yourself slipping, the world around you growing dim and distant. But even through the haze, you could still hear his voice, sharp and insistent, pulling you back.

“Look at me,” he snapped, his tone leaving no room for argument. You forced your eyes open, focusing on his face—his furrowed brow, his clenched jaw, the way his lips were pressed into a thin, determined line. “You’re not dying here, got it?”

There had been a fierceness in his voice that surprised you, a kind of raw intensity that you hadn’t heard before. You’d seen him angry, sure, and you’d seen him frustrated plenty of times, but this was different. This was personal. And it was then that you realized: he wasn’t just afraid of losing a colleague. He was afraid of losing you.

“Five,” you managed to whisper, your voice barely audible over the sound of your ragged breathing. You wanted to say something comforting, to let him know you’d be okay, but the words wouldn’t come. All you could do was reach out, your fingers brushing against his, a silent acknowledgment of his efforts, of his fear, of his care.

He grabbed your hand, his grip firm and unyielding, his gaze locked onto yours. “I’m not losing you,” he said again, his voice softer now but no less intense. “I’ve lost too many people already. Not you. Never you.”

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath, the chaos around you fading into the background. It was just the two of you, caught in this strange, suspended moment, connected in a way that was deeper than words, deeper than time.

He worked quickly, efficiently, binding your wound with a piece of his own shirt, his movements precise and controlled despite the tension radiating from him. You could feel the energy building around you, the familiar sensation of time beginning to warp as he prepared to jump you both back to the Commission. His hands were steady, but there was a tremor in them that betrayed his calm façade.

“Hang on,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Just hang on a little longer.”

And then, with a blinding flash of light, the world around you shifted, the familiar pull of the time jump tugging at your very being. The pain in your side flared, a sharp spike of agony that ripped through your consciousness, but you held onto his hand, your grip tightening as you were pulled through the fabric of time.

When you opened your eyes again, you were in the Commission’s infirmary, the sterile white walls and the faint hum of machinery a stark contrast to the chaos you’d just left behind. Five was still there, his hand still holding yours, his face pale but relieved. He didn’t say anything, just sat there, his eyes never leaving your face, as if making sure you were really, truly okay.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” he muttered after a moment, his voice rough, but there was a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “You scared the hell out of me.” Despite the pain, you managed a small smile. “Didn’t know you cared so much,” you replied, your voice weak but teasing.

He rolled his eyes, but there was a softness in his gaze, a kind of tenderness you’d never seen before. “Yeah, well, don’t let it go to your head,” he said gruffly, but you could hear the relief in his voice, the unspoken gratitude that you were still here, still alive.

And in that moment, you knew that things had changed. You’d always been a perfect team, but now, you were something more. You had seen a side of Five you’d never seen before, a vulnerability he’d never shown anyone. And you knew, without a doubt, that he cared about you—deeply, fiercely, in a way that went far beyond mere partnership.

As you lay there, your hand still entwined with his, you felt a strange sense of peace, a quiet understanding passing between you. Whatever happened next, whatever dangers awaited in the tangled web of time, you knew one thing for certain: you wouldn’t face them alone. Not as long as Five was by your side.

Since that day, he had been inseparable from you. At first, you found it strange—his constant presence, the way he seemed to hover just a little too close, always watching, always ready. Five had never been the type to show affection, to offer comfort. He was all sharp edges and quick wit, a perpetual storm in human form. But now, there was a softness to him, a quiet protectiveness that he tried, and mostly failed, to hide. And you no longer minded. In fact, you found it endearing. You came to cherish his closeness, his silent support.

You liked the constant teasing and the bickering that filled your days, a steady rhythm of banter and back-and-forth that felt more like home than any place you had ever been. It was comforting to have someone with whom you felt so... normal, someone who could keep up with you, match your pace, challenge you in ways that no one else could. The loneliness you’d once felt in the vast corridors of the Commission faded away with him by your side, replaced by something you never thought you’d have—companionship. Friendship. Love.

Many years later, during a quiet moment in the middle of another mission, Five finally confessed that he loved you. It wasn’t a grand declaration, nothing like the romantic stories you’d heard growing up. It was simple, almost matter-of-fact, the way he said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. You had been stitching up a wound on his arm, your fingers deft and practiced, when he suddenly blurted it out.

“I love you,” he had said, his voice gruff but sincere, his eyes not meeting yours. For a moment, you thought you had misheard him. But then he looked at you, really looked at you, his expression more open and vulnerable than you’d ever seen. “I’ve loved you for a long time,” he added, softer this time, as if testing the words.

Your heart had skipped a beat, and you found yourself smiling, a real, genuine smile that you hadn’t felt in years. “I love you too,” you replied, your voice barely more than a whisper. It was the truth, the simplest and most profound truth you had ever known.

Not long after, he asked you to marry him. It was as unceremonious as his confession of love, almost awkward in its delivery. You were in the middle of cleaning your weapons, preparing for yet another jump, when he looked over at you, his brow furrowed in that familiar way of his. “We should get married,” he said, as if he was suggesting you grab a cup of coffee.

You blinked, taken aback by his suddenness, but then you laughed—a soft, genuine laugh that felt good, felt right. “Yes,” you said, without hesitation. “Of course, yes.” There wasn’t a doubt in your mind. The life you’d built together, the bond you shared—it was more than enough.

The two of you quietly eloped, keeping your marriage a secret from the Commission. It wasn’t their business, after all. They didn’t need to know about the life you were building together, the small moments of happiness you stole between missions, the way you found comfort in each other’s presence amid the chaos of time. You had your little secrets, your private world carved out of the madness, and you intended to keep it that way.

And when Five decided he needed to go back to his family, “The Umbrella Academy,” you didn’t hesitate. You went right along with him, standing by his side as you always had. You knew how much he had sacrificed, how much he still carried with him—the weight of his past, the ghosts of his mistakes. But you also knew that he had found a new purpose, a reason to keep fighting, to keep moving forward. And wherever he went, you would follow.

And with that, you find yourself back into the present. You’re pacing around the room. Every minute feels like an hour, and every second that ticks by without a word from Five or Lila makes your heart pound harder in your chest. The silence is broken only by the occasional murmur of conversation or the soft shuffling of footsteps.

Then, suddenly, the air around you seems to shift. A low hum fills the room, and the familiar tingling sensation of a temporal disturbance ripples through you. Everyone turns toward the source, eyes wide with a mix of hope and apprehension.

A flash of blue light erupts in the center of the room, and for a moment, it’s blinding. You shield your eyes, your heart leaping into your throat. When the light fades, you blink, trying to clear your vision, and then you see them—Five and Lila—standing there, slightly disheveled but very much alive.

The two of them share small, strained smiles, a strange new tension between them that wasn't there before. Diego rushes at Lila, hugging her tightly, his strong arms pulling her close. "I thought I'd lost you," he whispers, his voice breaking, betraying the tough exterior he usually maintains. Lila laughs softly, but it sounds different—almost forced—as she returns the embrace, her eyes darting briefly to Five.

Five stands apart, his expression carefully neutral, he struggles to make eye contact with anyone — especially you. He scans the room as if searching for a distraction, his posture stiff, his hands clenched at his sides. "Good to see you're all still in one piece," he mutters, his tone flat. When his gaze accidentally meets Lila's, he quickly looks away, as if the sight of her is too much to bear.

You smile at Five, offering a small nod. You both aren’t much for public attention, and you hoped a subtle acknowledgment would be enough to connect, to let him know you’re there. But Five never meets your eyes. His gaze is distant, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. Your smile fades, replaced by a furrowed brow. What’s your deal, Five?

You feel a knot of worry tighten in your stomach. Something is off with Five, more than usual. You’ve known him long enough to recognize when he’s hiding something, but this is different. It’s like he’s shut down entirely, locking everyone out—including you.

The others, caught up in their own reunions, don’t seem to notice the tension radiating from Five and Lila. Diego pulls back from Lila, holding her at arm’s length to look her over. “What happened to you two?” he asks, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the subtle changes in their appearances—the slightly haunted look in their eyes, the way they seem older somehow. “You’ve only been gone for like 4 hours”

Lila’s smile is tight, almost brittle. “Feels like a lifetime,” she says with a small, hollow laugh that doesn't reach her eyes. Her gaze drifts back to Five, and for a moment, there's something almost like longing—or maybe regret.

Five flinches at her words, just barely, but enough that you notice. He looks down, his jaw clenching. “Doesn’t matter,” he says quickly, cutting off any further questions. “We’re back now. That’s all that matters.” But his voice wavers slightly, betraying a crack in his composure.

You step forward, unable to keep the concern from your voice. “Five…what happened?” you ask softly, hoping to reach him, to break through whatever wall he’s put up.

He finally looks at you, but there’s a hardness in his eyes that makes your heart sink. “Drop it,” he snaps, a sharp edge to his tone that makes everyone else in the room go quiet. The silence that follows is heavy and uncomfortable, the unspoken tension between him and Lila now impossible to ignore.

Lila clears her throat, shifting uncomfortably. “Yeah, maybe we should all just… take a breather,” she suggests, trying to lighten the mood, but there’s a nervousness in her voice that makes it clear she’s not as relaxed as she’s pretending to be. She glances at Five again, and you see it now—how her eyes linger on him just a moment too long, and how his jaw tightens in response, his expression guarded.

Diego, picking up on the strange atmosphere but not fully understanding it, frowns. “Did something happen between you two?” he presses, his eyes narrowing as he looks between Five and Lila. His gaze drops to Lila’s wrist, and his eyes widen slightly. “You hate wearing bracelets,” he points out, suspicion creeping into his voice.

Lila instinctively pulls her wrist closer to her side, but not before Diego catches sight of the handmade leather bracelet. “No, I like them,,” she says but her voice lacks conviction. Diego shakes his head, his frown deepening. “Yeah, you do. You traded the one I gave you for a vacuum, remember?” His voice is heavy with accusation, his eyes now fixed on the bracelet. “Where’d you get that one?”

Diego’s eyes narrow even more, his gaze shifting to Five. "Did you make that?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous, cutting through the tension in the room like a knife. The question hangs heavy in the air, charged with accusation and disbelief.

Five’s expression hardens, his eyes narrowing as he glances at Lila, then back at Diego. His jaw is set, his posture rigid. “I sure as hell didn’t make that bracelet for you,” he replies coldly, his voice slicing through the silence like a blade. There’s a finality in his tone, a hint of something unresolved but unapologetic.

Your breath catches in your chest, a painful tightness forming there. He made it… For her…? The thought is like a dagger, twisting in your gut. You blink, trying to process the revelation, the reality of it sinking in like a stone. A handmade bracelet—something so personal, so intimate.

You glance at Five, but he’s not looking at you. His gaze remains locked on Diego, unwavering, as if bracing for whatever comes next. A storm of emotions swirls inside you—betrayal, hurt, confusion. The room seems to close in around you, the walls pressing in, the air thick and suffocating.

Diego’s gaze shifts from Lila to Five, and you can see the pieces slowly clicking into place for him. His face hardens with a mix of realization and fury. “Did you screw my wife?” he demands, his voice a low, dangerous growl. The words explode into the room like a bomb, the air suddenly charged with tension.

Five’s eyes remain steady on Diego, his face an unreadable mask. He opens his mouth to speak, to say something—anything—but Diego’s not interested in hearing it. His fists are clenched at his sides, his entire body radiating a barely restrained fury.

“You did, didn’t you?” Diego’s voice rises, each word heavy with the weight of betrayal. "All this time, and you—you were cheating on me?” His accusation shifts to Lila, his eyes burning with hurt and anger.

Lila quickly steps between them, placing a hand on each of their chests as if trying to physically push them apart. “Guys, let’s not do this right now,” she urges, her voice firm but laced with a hint of desperation. “This isn’t the time or place.”

You stand frozen, disbelief washing over you. Your mind reels at the weight of Diego’s words. Cheating? The idea feels like a punch to the gut. You’ve spent countless years with Five, fought battles by his side, faced the end of the world more than once. And he gives it all up—for what? For his brother’s wife, over the course of seven years in another timeline?

Your breath catches, a sharp pain blooming in your chest. You try to swallow it down, but it’s too much, too fast. The reality of what you’re hearing—of what Five has done—feels like a betrayal deeper than anything you’ve faced together. The walls seem to close in around you, the weight of the revelation pressing down on your shoulders, threatening to crush you.

You look at Five, searching his face for some sign of denial, of regret—anything that might soften the blow of this new reality. But he’s still staring at Diego, his expression unyielding, almost defiant. His jaw is set, his eyes cold and distant. There’s no apology there, no remorse—just a cold, hard acceptance of what’s been done, of what can’t be undone. The sight of his indifference twists the knife deeper into your heart.

You feel your chest tighten, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps. Your hands are trembling, fingers curling into fists at your sides as you fight to keep yourself together. You want to scream, to cry, to lash out and demand answers. But you know it won’t change anything. The damage is done, and the betrayal runs too deep. You feel tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. Not here. Not now. Not in front of them. Not in front of him.

You shake your head, unable to look at Five any longer. The pain is too raw, too intense, and being in the same room with him feels unbearable. You can’t handle this—not now, not like this. The walls are closing in, the air thick and suffocating. Your heart is pounding in your chest, each beat a painful reminder of what’s been shattered between you.

Without another word, you turn on your heel and leave the room, your steps quick and unsteady. You feel the eyes of the others on you as you push past them, but you don’t care. You can’t stay here—not in this room, not with them. Not with him. The hallway stretches out before you like a lifeline, and you move toward it, your movements frantic and desperate, as if putting distance between you and Five might somehow ease the ache in your chest.

You stumble into the hallway, your vision blurred by unshed tears. You don’t know where you’re going—only that you need to get away. Away from the pain, away from the betrayal, away from the suffocating weight of it all. Your feet carry you down the corridor, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as you fight to hold back the sobs threatening to break free.

You finally reach an empty room, but as you reach for the door, you realize with a jolt that it's the one you and Five share. The one where you slept beside him last night, completely unaware of the storm that was about to hit. The memories of your shared moments—whispered conversations, late-night confessions, stolen kisses—flood back, now tainted with a sense of betrayal and loss. You hesitate, your hand hovering over the doorknob, but then you push it open and slip inside, closing it behind you.

The moment the door clicks shut, you collapse against it, your legs giving out beneath you. You sink to the floor, your back pressed against the wood, and the tears finally come. Hot, angry tears spill down your cheeks, and a broken sob escapes your lips. The room is quiet, painfully so, and the sound of your cries seems to fill every corner, bouncing off the walls and echoing back to you.

You wrap your arms around yourself, as if trying to hold the pieces of yourself together, but it’s no use. The dam has broken, and the flood of emotion is too strong to contain. You bury your face in your hands, your shoulders shaking with the force of your sobs. You cry for the loss of trust, for the betrayal, for the love you thought was unbreakable. You cry for everything you’ve lost and everything you can never get back.

The bed looms in the corner of your vision, a cruel reminder of the intimacy you once shared with Five. It’s still unmade from this morning, the sheets tangled from where you both slept. You remember the warmth of his body beside you, the way his hand would always find yours in the dark. The way he would hold you when you were scared, whispering promises of forever. Promises that now feel like lies.

You lift your head, your eyes red and swollen from crying. You look around the room, and all you can see are the remnants of a life that no longer feels like yours. The books on the nightstand that you read together, the photos on the wall of happier times—all of it feels like a cruel joke, mocking the trust you placed in him. The room, once a sanctuary, now feels like a prison, filled with ghosts of a past that will never return.

As the tears flow, you realize something with a cold, hard clarity that cuts through the haze of your grief—nothing will ever be the same again. Not between you and Five, not between any of you. The damage is done, and there’s no going back. You feel a hollowness settle in your chest, a void where your love for him once lived. You wonder if you’ll ever feel whole again, or if this betrayal has shattered you beyond repair.

It’s been a few days since the cheaters blinked back to your timeline. Each day has dragged on, an endless cycle of numbness and pain. The initial wave of tears has subsided, replaced by a slow-burning anger that simmers just below the surface. How could he? How could she? The questions run through your mind on a loop, feeding the fire that burns inside you.

You try to go about your daily routine, but everything feels off, wrong. The house feels different—colder, emptier. The others tiptoe around you, unsure of what to say, how to act. They’ve seen the hurt in your eyes, the way you flinch whenever Five enters the room. They’ve heard the way your voice trembles when you speak, how your words are laced with a bitterness you can’t seem to shake.

And then there’s Five. He moves around the house like a ghost, his presence a constant reminder of the betrayal. He tries to talk to you, but you can’t bear to look at him, let alone hear what he has to say. His words mean nothing now; they’re empty, hollow, like the promises he once made. You’ve built walls around yourself, high and impenetrable, to keep him out—to protect what little remains of your heart.

Your anger grows each day, festering like an open wound. It fuels you, giving you strength when the pain becomes too much to bear. It’s the only thing that keeps you going, that stops you from collapsing under the weight of it all. You cling to it, because without it, all you’re left with is the emptiness, the loss, the heartbreak.

We have been married for years, you think bitterly, and yet we never even once slept together, let alone him see me naked. How in the hell could he have fucked Lila over the span of seven years? The thought is a searing ache, cutting through the numbness that has settled over you. He always said we were too busy for such nonsense.

The double standard gnaws at you, a relentless, cruel irony. All those times he claimed there was no time for intimacy, no room for such personal moments because of their dangerous, high-stakes missions. And now you have to grapple with the fact that he found time for Lila—time to build a relationship, to share moments that were supposed to be sacred between the two of you. It feels like a betrayal of not just your love but the very essence of your marriage.

You remember the conversations where he would dismiss your need for closeness, brushing it aside with promises of better times to come. “We’re too busy,” he’d said, “We have a world to save.” Yet here was the proof that when it came to Lila, the rules were different. The lies, the excuses, all of it crashes down on you, leaving you gasping for breath.

The anger is raw, a jagged edge that you can’t seem to smooth over. It’s not just about what Five did; it’s about the betrayal of trust, the violation of promises made. The fact that he could share himself so completely with someone else, while withholding even the smallest gestures of intimacy from you, cuts deeper than any physical wound could.

You pace the empty room, the anger simmering, demanding an outlet. It’s a fire that consumes everything in its path, burning through your hope, your trust, your love. And it leaves behind a desolate landscape, a place where you’re forced to confront the stark reality of what’s been done.

How could he justify this? you wonder. How could he reconcile the intimacy he shared with Lila while claiming there was no time for us?

[zepskies]

The Honorable Choice - Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC 

Summary: June 1872. Captain Dean Winchester of the U.S. Cavalry is tasked with one job: break a wild mustang. He just didn’t expect the woman who infiltrates his camp, intent on freeing her tribe’s horse.

AN: I got inspired after a recent rewatch of Spirit: The Stallion of the Cimarron (literally a perfect movie), as well as having Yellowstone in the back of my brain. I thought this idea might be a good fit for this @jacklesversebingo prompt.

Disclaimer: I’ve done extensive research for this one, both on the American Indian Lakota tribe, and on American history during this time in the late 1800s (AKA: the Old West, during the American Indian Wars and the Sioux Wars). Of course, one of my main goals is to avoid inaccuracies, both historical and cultural.

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: Western AU

Song Inspo: The Spirit Soundtrack

Word Count: 4.6K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only to be safe. Racism/racial slurs, attempted sexual assault (not successful), protective Dean, angst, some violence and some action.

🐎 Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

🎙️ Listen to the podfic version here!

Part 1: Pride & Prejudice

June 1872

Dean hears some of his men shouting, along with the telltale cracking of bone that would make a less seasoned soldier wince. He spares a look to Benny, his Lieutenant, and sets down his glass of whiskey.

Dean’s path takes him brusquely out of his office and toward the stables. He grabs his gun and his hat on the way there, setting the latter on his head.

Is it too much to ask for one night where he can drink in peace?

Dean comes to find a young woman being detained by two of his men, Kline and Novak. Roman sports a bloody nose and his eye is already beginning to swell. The woman fights against their hold.

Even under the pale moonlight, Dean notes the way she’s dressed: a deer skin dress cinched at the waist, over thin pants and shoes. He surveys her tan skin, her black hair that blends into the night, twisted into a long braid, and the anger in her dark eyes.

“What have we got here?” Dean says. He stows his gun in its holster as he approaches her, resting his hands at his belt.

“I caught her breaking into the stables, Captain,” Roman says. He prods with a hiss at his busted nose while trying to stem the bleeding. That’s going to be a bad break.

She remains tight lipped, stubborn. 

“Probably doesn’t even understand English. Savage bitch,” he says. Dean shoots him an impassive look to cover up his annoyance.

“Put a cork in it, Roman,” he orders. Then, he focuses back on her. “You’re a Lakota, aren’t you?”

Aside from their main mission here in the Dakota Territory, the Colonel has been fixed on fighting back against the Lakota Indians, especially after they sabotaged the supply line last month.

The proud tilt of the woman’s chin is her only answer to Dean’s question. Her gaze drags down his form with disdain, like he’s the savage. His mouth twitches mirthlessly. 

“The Lakota rear up their own horses pretty damn well. Why would you want to steal one of ours?” he asks.

She glances away from him, first at her feet, then over at the camp’s latest “guest.” Dean, Benny, and a few of his men wrangled up a horse a few days ago. He’s a beautiful Kiger mustang with a nasty mean streak. He barely got through a trim this afternoon, and almost took a chunk out of Rufus when he tried to brand the horse.

The Colonel ordered them to tie the horse up to a post just outside the corral—no food or water for three days. He’d turned to Dean with a firm set to his face and issued a single order.

“Break him.”

Now, Dean catches the furtive look the Lakota woman gives the horse, who flicks his tail. The animal stares right at her, as if into her eyes.

“Oh, don’t tell me you here for him,” Dean says with a chuckle. “That thing’s a little too much for you, sweetheart.”

That earns her attention, steely and unimpressed.

“He is too much for you,” she says. Her voice is smooth, and would even be pleasant, if not for the circumstances. “He is one of ours. You will never break him.”

Dean's eyes widen a fraction. He glances back at the mustang.

So that's why she's here, he thinks. She's trying to mount a rescue. Dean feels a twinge deep inside, but he can't allow himself to care about that. They've collected a strong horse that will be a good support for their objectives here, once he's broken.

“Ah, well see,” Dean says, tipping his Stetson up to meet her gaze. “That’s kind of our specialty.”

“Sir, should we take her to the stockade?” Novak asks. He seems reluctant to do so to a woman, even an Indian, but he’s always been good at following orders.

Dean opens his mouth to reply, but another voice cuts him off. Colonel Asmodeus Sanderson steps out and takes a look at their captive.

“Not the stockade,” he says, with that Southern drawl that betrays his Kentucky roots. “Not yet.”

He approaches her with a slow, calculated gait. His hands gather behind his back. Dean gives her credit for looking Sanderson in the eye. She seems rightly wary, but not afraid.

“We won’t hurt you. I give you my word,” the Colonel says, “if you’ll lead us to your people’s camp.”

He takes a hold of her chin, turning her face this way and that, like he’s examining a dirty animal, and all that he’ll have to do to make it clean. She spits in his face.

Dean bites the inside of his lip against a smile. She’s got as much fight in her as the mustang. However, he has to school his face back into stoicism when Sanderson rears back in anger.

The harsh smack rings out in the clearing, along with the woman’s cry. Dean doesn’t allow himself to outwardly react, but inside, his spine tightens as he fights his instincts.

Only Kline and Novak’s hold on her arms keeps her upright. She pants for breath, but again, she meets the Colonel with a face that doesn’t give away anything, despite the reddening mark on her cheek.

“The post,” he barks. “Three days. No food or water.”

Dean is kept busy by his duties. He makes sure the camp is running in order, accepting shipments of supplies and ammunition, among other things. Cas Novak is in charge of the stables, caring for the horses and putting them through their training. Jack Kline is young and strong and a good assistant, along with others in his unit.

Right now, Dean and Benny are going over the plans with Colonel Sanderson for continuing construction on the railroad, from here to the Black Hills. It’s a path that cuts straight through Sioux territory—the bands of Dakota and Lakota Indians that occupy the land.

“The natives are fightin’ us tooth and nail,” Sanderson says. “But maybe our guest will be able to help us…negotiate.”

Dean remains quiet, ignoring yet another uneasy twinge in his gut. He didn’t join the army to fight the Indians. He doesn’t always understand their way of doing things, but he understands why they fight—to protect their land, and to protect their own. It’s the same reason Dean fights, when he has to.

He joined the army because…well, it felt like the right thing to do at the time. His father had been a Cavalry Major, and he’d died an honorable death, now about a decade past.

Has it really been ten years? Christ.

Dean wipes his brow. Even with the windows open, the office is humid and smells like ass. He glances outside, where both the mustang and the woman are tied to their posts under a sweltering sun at high noon.

Not for the first time, Dean wonders what his dad would think of him now. 

After the meeting, Dean and Benny fall into step together to inspect the camp. The summer sun shines hot on their blue uniforms, and occasionally they raise their hats to mop the sweat from their brows.

Things are running as usual, but many of the men’s eyes occasionally turn to the posts. Dean’s attention wanders there too without him realizing, catching on the woman’s dark hair. It shines even blacker in the sunlight, like a raven’s wing. He knows the shade because his dad used to have a feather kept in his journal, like a bookmark.

“You okay, brother?” Benny asks. Dean realizes what he’s doing, and his attention returns to the task at hand. Get it together.

Always forward, never backward.

“Just fine,” Dean replies. Benny gives him a knowing look.

“A bit unsavory, ain’t it?” he says. “Keeping her chained up without even a lick of water.”

“The Indians are getting smarter, bolder. They’re ambushing our men, going after our supply lines, and now, stealing our horses,” Dean says. “This is strategy.”

Benny shrugs slightly, making a sound of agreement. Dean hesitates, his gloved fingers flexing against his sides.

“If she was a man, you guys wouldn’t give a shit about putting a bullet through her head,” Dean says.

Benny’s gaze shifts downward. He doesn’t reply, but he concedes the point all the same.

They continue their route, and Dean keeps the rest of the conversation on the work at hand.

Mila has gone far longer without drink, but the sun is particularly unforgiving today. She’s prayed and prayed for even one cloud to glide overhead and shield her for a while. It’s not much better for her companion. He paces in place, occasionally tugging his head against the rope that binds him to his post.

She makes a clicking sound at the horse, getting his attention. She calls him by his name, and his ears flicker in her direction. He offers her a short whinny in response.

“I see you, Mato. I am with you,” she says in her native tongue. She hopes the sound of her voice will soothe him. He looks tired and hungry, but his eyes flick hard and untrusting on any man who comes near him. His spirit isn’t broken.

“Hey! Shut the hell up over there,” Roman shouts at her from where he and Cas are taking a short lunch break. Cas gives him a certain look, crossed mostly with annoyance.

Mila resists the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she closes them and tilts her face back to the sun. In a way, it feels cleansing. Maybe it can wash away the stench of the White Men’s hands on her body, manhandling her, checking her for weapons.

She spends the rest of the day watching the camp. One of their leaders, the Green Eyed One, called this a fort. It does look fortified, with tall walls made of thick wood constructed to form a cage—whether to keep others out, or to keep the men and horses in.

She identifies the Colonel as their chief, of a kind. Green Eyes is second in command, followed by the Bearded One with a strange voice. Even the scruffy Blue Eyed One has some authority, mostly over the Child Faced One. There are too many others to rank them all, but she knows the Loud Mouthed One is arrogant, even after she broke his nose. The way he carries himself, he clearly thinks he has more power than he actually has.

In her mind, Mila conjures up different plans of escape. All of them fall short in some way. The men didn’t find all of her weapons; a small knife is hidden deep in her boot. She could saw at her binds within an hour, but even with Mato to carry her out and away, the problem is escaping this camp without alerting the men. Without getting shot.

She has three days to think.

That night, the moon refuses to give her clarity. Her stomach is too empty, her throat too dry, her tongue thick in her mouth. Her attention shifts in and out of consciousness, until the sound of boots crunching in the dirt trills unease down her spine. More alert, she sits up straighter.

The Loud Mouthed One. The one they call Roman comes to taunt her, offering her water, then drinking for himself instead. He comes closer to examine her. He has a small bind over his broken nose.

“You know, you’re a pretty one,” he says, taking another cold sip as his gaze drags over her form. “For a wild thing.”

His face nears hers, clean shaven, though his thin smile reminds her of a rattlesnake. Dread and repulsion churn at odds in her stomach as she realizes what he's really here for. It doesn't matter if he truly wants her, or just wants to pay her back for his face. Either way, he means to take her here in the dirt.

She looks away, not wanting to let him see her fear, or the dread tightening her stomach, rising into her throat. He winds long fingers into her hair. At first the hold is gentle, deceptive. Then it's tight against her scalp. She hisses in pain when he tugs her head back and forces her to look at him. Her breathing quickens as she tries to pull away.

He draws in close to try and claim her in a kiss, but she head-butts him, hard.

He cries out and stumbles back, his flask falling to the ground.

He angrily grabs her and hauls her up to her feet. He pushes her hard against the post and unbuckles his belt, just to stuff it in her mouth. With his free hand, he begins to undo his pants.

She refuses to cry out, even though she spits out his belt and fights him, trying to kick out his knees.

Suddenly, the man’s body is ripped away from her. Mila loses her footing and falls to the dusty ground, sliding against the wooden beam she’s tied to. The wind is knocked out of her, but when she raises her head, she watches with wide eyes as the Green Eyed One beats the other man into the dirt. It doesn’t take much, just a few well-placed fists.

Roman lies there catching his breath, and he spits a wad of phlegm and blood. His left eye will match his nose, that’s for sure.

Green Eyes looks angry and disgusted. He huffs and puffs while staring down at his subordinate. He pushes back his short brown hair and points an ungloved hand at Roman.

“Get back to the goddamn barracks. You’re gonna be mucking out stalls until shit’s coming out of your ears,” he growls.

Roman doesn’t argue, though it’s obvious that he wants to. He just picks himself up, makes a show of straightening up his open uniform jacket while catching his breath. He walks past Green Eyes with a resentful, angry look. Green Eyes watches him until he disappears inside.

Then, he turns to her. His gaze softens somewhat, but it’s still unreadable. He crouches down in front of her, resting his arms on his thighs. Mila’s gaze briefly falls to his hands. They’re calloused, the hands of a laboring man. He carries himself like a warrior.

“Sorry about that,” he says.

It’s not what she expected. Mila eyes him warily when he moves closer. She presses her back against the post until it hurts her spine. He raises up his hands placatingly.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says.

“That is what your Colonel said,” she says. Her voice cracks with dryness. “I didn’t believe him either.”

His lips flicker at a rueful smile. It wrinkles crow’s feet around his eyes, breaking his stony face.

“Fair enough.”

He reaches for his belt and retrieves a flask, similar to the one his subordinate carried. He extends it out to her.

“It’s water, unless you prefer whiskey. I know I do,” he says.

She raises a brow at him, but hearing the sloshing inside the flask, her thirst takes over her wariness, and even her pride. She tentatively leans forward. He brings it closer so she can press her lips to the opening. Despite his Colonel’s orders, he lets her drink as much water as she’s able. When she’s done, he pockets the flask and sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

That, she will not give him. Names are sacred to her people, and this man, while seeming to have a shred of honor, isn’t worthy.

“Don’t wanna even tell me your name?” he says. He nods slightly. “Okay, well, I’m Dean. Captain Winchester, to this band of delinquents.”

He gestures around the camp with a dismissive hand. Mila only watches him. She’s never seen a White act like this, breaking his leader’s rules, being…kind.

What a strange man.

But if he had any real convictions, he would untie her and let her go, along with Mato. She won’t hold her breath.

Dean’s brows raise up toward his hairline, and his full lips form a pout. Realizing he’s not going to get anything more from her, he lets out a tired huff and straightens up.

“Well, goodnight,” he says.

He finally leaves her alone, but she can’t help but follow the swaggering path of his bowed legs and heavy boots. They carry him away and back indoors.  

A strange man.

By the morning of the third day, Dean is ready to do what he does best. Or at least, one thing he does best.

He’s no stranger to horses. He grew up on a farm in Lawrence, Kansas, where he and his brother would help take care of the animals. Dean was older, so he helped his father till the land and train the horses. Sometimes he and Sam would sneak off and race their favorite ones, until their mom called them back for dinner.

In fact, part of what earned Dean his rank in the U.S. Cavalry was how well he could command a horse. His own is resting in the stables.

Today, he’s getting in the ring with the mustang.

…Well, not right away. He lets a few of his guys go first to tire him out. Even after three days of no food or water, the horse is living up to his bad attitude. He bucks each of them off after just a few seconds in the corral. Dean can tell it’s becoming a kind of game for the horse. His dun-colored coat shines in the sun, his brown socked legs kicking up dust and manure as he brays angrily at whoever tries to mount him.

Dean notices the Lakota woman watching with an amused smile on her face while she sits with her hands tied to her post. She’s enjoying the show, like she knew this would happen. It seems to give her energy every time another man is thrown off the horse and limps out of the ring.

Dean shakes his head. Pitiful.

He puts two gloved fingers to his mouth and whistles the entire clearing to attention. He saves Kline the chance to bruise his spine and pats him on the shoulder. Dean steps into the corral and positions himself into the stirrups, wrapping the reins around his hand. The horse is breathing hard, but he’s not done. He’s still got fight in him. Dean sees it in his brown eyes.

“All right, mustang. You’re big and bad. I get it,” Dean says lowly. “But I don’t scare easy. Gimme your best damn shot.”

Cas and Benny give him wary looks from where they stand outside the gate.

“Hold onto your hat, Cap,” Benny mutters.

Dean adjusts his hat and rests his gun on the post for safe keeping. He wants to feel as natural as possible, like it’s just him and this horse, out back in his family farm. He holds on tight to the reins. He’s fully prepared for how the mustang takes off at a galloping clip around the ring. He twists and bucks, but Dean claps his thighs tight and holds on for the ride.

The horse gets smarter.

He runs for the water trough just outside the ring. He slams Dean against the side of it once, twice—and manages to throw him off, with Dean landing right in the water trough.

He bursts out from the dirty water, sopping wet and spluttering in anger. He looks over at the horse trotting around, whinnying and tossing his head like he’s laughing. Dean can’t help it. His anger fades, and he smiles.

This guy’s got some brass balls, I’ll give him that.

The Lakota woman laughs. Dean hears it and his head swivels toward her. She bites her lip, but she knows she’s been caught. Despite his injured pride, Dean’s lips curve with a smirk. Just gonna laugh at me, huh?

“I see things are going well,” comes a familiar drawl.

Dean’s face falls as he looks up and finds Colonel Sanderson. Dean pulls himself out of the trough and tries to squeeze some water out of his uniform. He clears his throat.

“Well, uh, it’s going, sir. Just gonna take a little more time than I thought,” Dean says. He quickly reclaims his hat from the ring, giving the mustang a smart berth. After he climbs back out, he goes over to the post where he left his pistol.

“Hold him steady,” Sanderson barks out the order, but not at Dean. The other men wrangle the horse back into the pen, where Sanderson climbs up and mounts the horse himself.

To his credit, he stays on longer than even Dean thought he would. The mustang gallops and circles. He tries slamming Sanderson on the sides of the corral, tries bucking him and bucking him, but the man clings on, even when his hat falls into the dirt.

The horse is exhausted. He eventually stops in the middle of the ring, panting for breath, his legs shaking slightly. Dean straightens at attention.

So does the Lakota woman, he notices. She looks worried, her brows furrowing.

Sanderson swipes a hand over his graying hair and moustache to collect himself. He raises his head with an arrogant smile.

“You see, gentlemen. Any horse can be broken,” he says. He kicks the horse with his spur. “Move along, mustang.”

To everyone’s amazement, the horse obeys him. He moves forward at a slow clip. All the men applaud, even Dean, belatedly.

“There are those in Washington who believe the West will never be settled,” Sanderson continues. “The Northern Pacific Railroad will never breach Nebraska.”

His gaze draws over to the woman. Her eyes are filled with tears as she watches the Colonel makes his rounds.

“A hostile Lakota,” he says in derision, “will never submit to providence.”

She stares back at him with steel in her watery eyes.

Dean doesn’t realize his jaw is clenched tight until he feels the strain in his jaw. He forces himself to relax, with his hand on his dampened belt.

“And it’s that kind of small thinking that would say this horse would never be broken,” Sanderson says. “Discipline, time, and patience. That’s all you need to level a wild thing.”

Just then, the horse stops abruptly.

“Mustang?” Sanderson asks in warning.

Dean tenses. He knows what’s about to happen.

“Sir!” he calls out.

But it’s too late.

The stallion revs and charges, bucking even wilder than before. He swings his head and rears back high on his hind legs with a powerful bray. Sanderson yells in fear and strain, but he stays on the creature’s back.

The horse’s angry eyes take on a darker shade of conviction. When all four of his hooves hit the ground, he finally bucks hard enough to get the Colonel off his back, though he still clings to the reins near the animal’s head. He comes face to face with the horse’s crazed eyes. His own are wide and full of terror.

Hot breath heats Sanderson’s face. Then the horse swings his head and tosses the man out of the ring. In the process, the horse falls on his side and shatters a section of the wooden beams that fenced him in.

While he shakes his head and gets his hooves under him, Dean and Benny help the Colonel up to his feet. His uniform is a wreck, and now, with a bruised body and likely a couple of broken ribs, the man is fuming.

Kline and Roman wrangle the horse’s reins and keep him more or less in place. The Colonel shoves Dean and Benny off of him. He reaches for his gun at his belt and aims it at the mustang. Dean goes rigid in shock, but he knows he can’t interfere. If he does, it could warrant some major discipline.

The Colonel pulls the hammer back on the revolver, but before he can pull the trigger, the sound of cutting rope and a feminine yell breaks the silence in the clearing. The Lakota woman pulls the Colonel’s arms down, and the gun goes off into the ground. Her elbow comes up quick to strike the man between the eyes. He careens back into Benny, who catches him.

Meanwhile, the woman swings up onto the mustang. She grabs a stronghold by the neck and barks something in her native language. It spurs the horse onward, and he breaks through the crowd of men at a gallop.

Dean watches with widening eyes and furrowing brows. “Shit!”

He runs to the stables where he finds Baby waiting for him. Her black coat ripples as she stamps impatiently.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he beckons. He leads the mare out of the stable, and after grabbing a coil of rope from the supply bench, he mounts her smoothly. With a subtle kick of his heel, she picks up speed to follow the mustang and his rider.

They’re already approaching the gate where the men are quickly trying to close it. There’s still a window of opportunity for escape, but not only is Dean on their heels, Roman also stands on a pile of crates filled with iron parts that are due to be shipped out in the morning for continued construction on the railroad. Roman holds a rifle. He trains his weapon on the woman, taking deadly aim.

Dean’s jaw clenches and his brows furrow. He knows then, in the breadth of a few seconds, that he has to make a choice. If he does nothing, both she and the horse are as good as dead.

Sam used to call him reckless, stubborn as the horses he spent long hours taming.

Right about now, his brother is probably right.

Dean reaches for his gun, aims, and shoots within the span of those seconds. Roman goes down before he even knows what hits him. His chest plumes with blood after he slides down the crates and flops heavy to the ground. His eyes stare unseeing at the crisp blue sky.

The mustang tears through the narrow opening in the gate, and Dean isn’t far behind. The woman is an excellent rider, far better than he expected her to be. She clings to the horse’s neck and mane, and she doesn’t even use the stirrups. She clings on when the horse leaps over rocks, and when she notices Dean tailing her, she urges the horse at an even faster gallop.

Dean’s face furrows with determination. Baby is built for speed too.

He gives her a little kick with his heel. “Come on, Baby. Go!”

He’s able to keep up with the mustang just a few yards behind, even when they reach rougher terrain, going further up and into a canyon. He follows them through every curve and dip, guiding his horse just as much as she's guiding him.

Dean takes his rope in hand and turns it above his head, but his attempt to lasso the mustang's neck fails; the woman saws straight through the rope with her knife.

"Damn it!" Dean mutters.

He's forced to let go of his frayed rope when he and Baby nearly careen off the edge of a cliff. His heart settles high in his throat as he grits his teeth, but he pulls back on the reins hard and leans in the opposite direction. Baby's able to bank left, saving them from a long way down to certain death.

They continue up the narrow path the mustang has trod ahead. It carves around and through the mountain.

Dean mentally grasps for a plan, aside from just keeping up. Without even a bit of rope, he doesn’t know how he’s going to slow the woman down without hurting her or the horse. He doesn’t want to have to use his gun.

Eventually, the canyon breaks into a patch of desert, and then, grassy plains and tall forest trees. The mustang begins to tire and slow to a stop. His rider murmurs soothing things to him, stroking his neck. She turns back to look at Dean over her shoulder in dismay. She knows she’s caught.

“All right, sweetheart. That’s enough,” Dean says.

He sidles up next to her and intends to grab the mustang’s reins.

That’s when her swift kick comes, dead in his forehead.

AN: And here we go! 😅 Feels right that November is Native American Indian Heritage Month. 🫶🏽 For that reason especially I've done my best to do the Lakota people justice, even in this little series and complete work of fiction.

There's a lot packed in this first chapter, and yep, I did borrow a bit of scene from one of the best scenes in Spirit as an homage. From here on out, we're literally going off road...

Next Time:

Dean falls out of his saddle with a yell, landing hard in the grass. The impact knocks the air out of his chest and his hat off his head, not to mention the pain that rattles down his back.

“Son of a bitch,” he wheezes, while trying to get back up.

The woman jumps down from the mustang’s back and all but leaps on Dean. Straddling his waist and grabbing a fistful of his collar, she lets out a battle cry and raises a small knife at him. It’s probably no more than two inches long.

Dean may be on the ground with a smarting forehead, but he’s still got the upper hand. He grabs her knife-wielding arm and whips out his pistol from his belt. Her eyes widen, and she stills above him. The gun lies between them, aimed for her chest. They’re both breathing hard.

Dean has a problem.

Looking into her eyes, soulful and brown, the slope of her nose and her full lips, parted with shock… 

▶️ Keep Reading: PART 2

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[redskull199987]

Concubine

Paul Atreides x fem!reader Part II

Word Count:1.6k

Warnings:!SPOILERS! for Dune II, canon typical violence

Summary:"This princess will carry his name and yet, she will be less than a Concubine. She will never spend a moment of tenderness with the man she is tied to. But we who are called concubines - in the eyes of history we will be wives…"

Part I / Masterlist

She was pretty. You had to give her that. Your gaze closely followed each and every move that the Princess made. You knew that her head must have been chaotic at the moment, going through every possible scenario, how this situation could end. And you also knew that her first and last goal of this day would be to save her father’s life and secure the continuous reign of her bloodline.

But from the way she looked at you, you knew that Princess Irulan was aware of the fact that if she did marry Paul, she’d never get to share a bed with him. Would never bear his heirs or even receive an ounce of warmth from him.

She knew that even though you'd officially be Paul’s concubine, his loyalty would lie with you. And only you.

Chani’s hand on your shoulder pulled you out of your thoughts. It reminded you that before it ever came to that, Paul would have to beat the Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha.

You took a deep breath in, as you glanced over to the Harkonnen. You had heard stories of him back on Caladan. Stories of his thirst for blood and his enjoyment of Pain. His reputation preceded him, but his appearance clearly matched it. He looked almost eerily as he stepped forward, proposing to fight for the Emperor and defined his honor.

A small frown appeared on your face, when Paul accepted the proposal. Too fast for your liking. You heard Chani sigh next to you. You looked over to the Fremen. The Woman who had become like a sister to you, who had taught you the ways of her people. You remembered it as clear as day, when she had first told you, that you’d earned her trust.

It was the day you had joined the Fedaykin among their ranks, The day you became one of them.

You were high on adrenaline. You didn’t know how else you could’ve explained it. You didn’t know how else you would’ve pulled it off. Your eyes wandered over the many Corpses of the Harkonnen Warriors, that were supposed to protect their Harvester. Almost like in slow motion, you raised your hand, your fingertips wandering over the specks of blood that littered your face. You knew it wasn’t your own blood, but the thrill that the situation itself brought you, was indescribable. 

You needed a few moments to fully return to the present. The Spice in the Air was clouding your senses, making it feel like you witnessed everything merely from the eyes of a spectator and not as one of the Fremen who ever so fiercely attacked a Spice Harvester of the Harkonnen.

The Explosion pulled you out of your Trance.

You spun around, spotting Chani and Paul. They were fighting off a few Harkonnen warriors. But you quickly realized that Paul wouldn’t be able to defeat them all alone. You’ve never felt slower than in this moment, when you started running towards him. It felt like the Sand was pulling you down, seeking to swallow you whole.

But you didn’t let it. A scream left your lips, as you dashed forward, deeply burying your Crysknife in the back of a Harkonnen Warrior that was about to attack Chani from behind. You sank to the ground together with his Corpse, as Chani spun around, her eyes widening as she realized what had happened.

Only seconds passed, as you looked up to her, Anger and Determination all, that was on your mind. Chani gave you a small nod before Paul finally reached the two of you again.

“Re-load!”, Chani yelled at him and he quickly did as told, pulling out another round of Ammo, reloading Chanis Missile Launcher. 

You glanced past the Mainstay that the three of you were hiding behind. When you spotted the Ornithopter in the air, you gulped harshly.

“The shields only lower when he’s shooting!”, You shouted towards your companions. When you locked eyes with Paul, you immediately realized that the two of you had the same Plan.“We’ll distract him!”, Paul explained to Chani who gave him a court nod as she understood.

“Wait for our sign!”, You yelled, as you got ready to sprint over to the next Mainstay to distract the Sniper.

“Ready?”, Paul asked as he got into position next to you.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”, You grinned, despite the Seriousness of the Situation.

You took in one last deep breath, knowing very well that it could be your last one, before you felt Paul tap your shoulder, signaling you to start running.

Almost immediately, your instincts kicked in and it felt like you were a spectator again, watching how your feet carried you through the hot sand. You saw and heard the shots that rang in the Air as you sprinted through the Desert.

“Shit!”, You heard Paul yell next to you and you quickly realized what he meant, when you saw the Mainstay in front of you start to move further away from you.

“Run!!”, You shouted, as if it wasn’t obvious. 

You knew that from that moment and the point where you reached your destination, only seconds passed but it felt like hours as you ran through the sand. Mere moments before you reached the safety of the Mainstay, you heard Paul yell at Chani to launch the Missile.

 You were knocked over by the Force of the Explosion as the Ornithopter burst apart into the air, signaling to the Fremen that were hidden on the cliffs nearby that they could launch their attack on the Harvester, destroying it entirely. 

“Hurry!”, Paul yelled, as he pulled you to your feet and back over to Chani who was already making her way towards the nearby Dune. You had to disappear in the Desert again, before more Harkonnen would come and attack you.

That night you sat with the other Fedaykin, drank and laughed with them as Paul and you joined their ranks as respectable Warriors of the Desert. You received your Fremen name and you realized that your Heart, your soul and your entire being was with them now. You would fight for them as long as you breathed, would even go to death for them.

And Chani seemed to realize it too.

The young woman had always acted cold towards you, but when you saved her life on that day, risking your own for hers, she realized just how much of a loyal friend and fighter lay in you. From that day on, You knew that you could always count on each other.

“He will survive…He will win.”, Chani whispered into your ear and squeezed your shoulder as you watched how Paul and Feyd-Rautha got ready for their Fight. As the Gaze of the Na-Baron crossed yours, you sucked in a deep breath. What you saw in those eyes scared you.

It was a thirst for Blood and Power that you had only seen in Paul as he drank the Water of life.

You quickly looked over to Paul, giving him a firm nod, signaling him that you were on his side. His eyes told you more than words ever could. It was a silent promise. A promise to come back to you, to survive this battle and to put his plan into action.

It was a Promise that he would become the Emperor.

“I must not fear”, You mumbled to yourself, as the fight began,”Fear is the Mindkiller.” 

Your eyes followed every little move of Paul as well as Feyd-Rautha. The two men were equal fighters, both born to be the One. But only one of them would win, only one of them would come out alive.

“Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration.”, You whispered, as you watched Paul get knocked over the head, Blood trickling down his temple,”I will face my fear.”

“Is she your pet?”, Feyd-Rautha mocked as he gave Paul a moment to collect himself. The Na-Baron grinned wickedly and pointed his knife at you. You paid him no mind, as your eyes only rested on Paul, silently telling him not to let himself be provoked.

“I will permit it to pass over me and through me”, you mouthed as Paul got up and the Fight commenced anew. 

Your breath hitched as Feyd-Rautha swiftly disarmed Paul, ramming the Crsyknife into his ribs. A guttural groan left Paul's lips as the two fighters stood close to each other. Wheezing breaths were the only noise to be heard in the room.

“And when it has gone past I will turn to the inner eye and see it’s Path”, You whispered desperately, the Mantra being the only thing that kept you from panicking.

All your senses were focused on the two men in front of you as you witnessed how Paul silently pulled the Crysknife out of his Body, getting ready to attack. Feyd-Rautha barely had time to react as the holy knife of Shai-Hulud pierced his armor and therefore ended his life by the hand of the new Emperor. 

“Where the Fear has gone there will be nothing”, You mouthed as Paul got to his feet again. His steps seemed to carry the weight of the Universe as he walked over to the old Emperor, demanding him to kneel in front of his new Master.

Reluctantly the old man did as told, as he accepted his defeat. Princess Irulans gaze slowly wandered to you, as her father fell to his knees.

“Only I will remain.”

[utterlyotterlyx]

The Fox and The Fawn

High Lord Eris x Rhys!Sister!Reader x Azriel

Part Four

Summary - The consequences of your defection to the Autumn Court become clear as you realise how deeply rooted the betrayal of your family lies within you.

Warnings - angst, self-doubt, trauma, depression, fluff

Part One Part Two Part Three

Nesta's toes curled uncomfortably.

Rhys was pacing before her and Lucien who was sunken into the seat beside her, Azriel and Cassian stood as still as stone to the side of Rhys' desk as he walked the length of the room behind it. Anger burned in his eyes, the violet orbs that Feyre loved so much now blazing with infantile fury at what he had lost.

The power pulsating around the High Lord was nothing compared to yours, but it was still uncomfortable to swim in; it was migraine-inducing, it made her eyes feel heavy and limbs weak, and she knew the power within him was teetering on the edge of unleashing.

Rhys, as calm as he was portraying, lay his palms flat against the table surface, staring Nesta and Lucien down, but neither of them relented, neither of them would dare falter in front of him, "Tell me where my sister is," his lips curled into a smile, a sadistic thing of psychotic beauty, his eyes were demanding, and Nesta stole a glance to Lucien whose fingers were ripping at the leather arms of the chair.

You had disappeared from Helion's birthday gathering, your scent floating away in the breeze, and you hadn't told a soul of where you were going. Rhys had assumed you were ashamed of yourself and had returned to Velaris, that he would be able to deal with you later. But when Eris' note had landed in Lucien's lap that evening, he had never felt such simmering relief.

There was history between Rhys and Lucien, they weren't exactly the best of friends, but they weren't enemies, Lucien dealt with him for Elain and Rhys delt with him for Feyre, but if he had it his way Lucien would cease to exist.

"Y/N," Lucien bit, to remind them that you were y/n, your own person, and not just known to be his sister and executioner, "Has denounced her place in the Night Court, she is residing elsewhere."

Azriel scoffed, his finger trailing along the sharp edge of Truthteller, "She can't denounce her place so easily."

"Well she has," Nesta smirked, her stare barrelling into Azriel whose pupils flared in response, "I suppose this is what happens when you raise a female to be nothing more than your dirty little secret."

Rhys bristled, "I would watch how you speak if I were you, Nesta."

Rolling her neck, Nesta drawled, "I think you forget how little I care for your opinions, Rhysand," Lucien hummed low in agreement, legs lax and open against the confinements of his seat, "It seems as though y/n finally realised what you've done all these years."

"And what's that?" Rhys challenged.

Nesta could have smacked that smirk from his lips, but she restrained herself from doing so. Unfortunate.

"Lie," Rhys' eyes darkened, "All you've done is lie to her. You had never hidden her to protect her from what happened to your mother and sister, you used it as an excuse so that no one would find out just how powerful she is. You hid her so that she would never realise her full potential, you never trained her abilities and yet her power still drowns you, and instead of caring for her and helping her, you locked her away in this city and silently forbade her to ever leave."

Lady Death rose to her feet and approached the desk, paying little mind to the daggers shooting from Cassian's eyes. Fuck the male who would let their master manhandle their precious mate. Nesta mirrored the High Lord, palms flat across the table and leaning in so that she could feel his breath on her cheeks, "You have raised y/n to be your executioner, you have spread this vile word of her ferocity and violence so that no one would ever wish to be around her. You created the image of a bloodthirsty monster that lays dormant in the Night Court until her master calls upon her, and y/n has realised just how much you have betrayed her. All she knows is what you reared her to be, not what she actually is or can be."

Lucien shuffled in his seat, opening his mouth and voicing, "You stole away her chance to choose her own path by manipulating her into believing that her place in the world was to be nothing but the Feared Princess of Velaris," he leaned forward in his seat, smirking at the way Cassian took a step forward, "The mere mention of her name strikes fear into the souls of every traveller, they sing songs around fires of her, she is the monster in the nightmares and the one dying men wish they never meet on the other side, and she has been allowed to be depicted like that because you wished it."

It was masterful really, how Rhys had manipulated everyone to believe that you were an awful abomination of a thing when in reality all you wanted to do was see the world and curl up with a good book. You hadn't experienced anything good or soul-awakening, Amarantha had stripped your essence from you the moment she carved your wings from your body, and that had been the moment that Rhys had wrapped his talons around your mind and bent you to his will.

"Tell me where she is."

Nesta cocked her head to the side as she scrutinised his face with horror laced in her orbs, after all they had said all he cared about was knowing where you were, he had no interest in acknowledging or accepting anything he had done. She looked to Cassian, "Do you not understand how disgusting this is? She grew up with you, you said she was like a sister to you that you loved her as much as him," Nesta pointed at Rhys who pulled back from the desk, "How could you stand by and allow this?"

"Y/N's power poses a threat to us all, I did what was necessary to ensure our safety."

"If that's truly what you think then you are no mate of mine," she spat and his eyes rounded as his forehead creased, his façade was cracking. Nesta turned her attention to Azriel, "You. You're supposed to be her best friend, she loves you more than anything, there's nothing she wouldn't do for you, Az."

Azriel shrugged, "My duty is to the Night Court."

"You're a pig," she took in the sight of Rhys who had taken a step or so backward and had found a place to lean against the fireplace, her anger bubbled and there was little she could do to stop the truth from stabbing him in his soul, "Y/N is in the Autumn Court. The one place you physically can't go, where none of you can and I'm so glad she got out of this shitshow of a city because she would have died if she had been locked away for another moment longer being treated like nothing and no one."

"Watch it."

Nesta chuckled lowly, "Or what, Rhys? You'll kick me out of the Night Court? It's a good thing that I'm already leaving."

What have I done?

The thought was on repeat in your mind, an overlapping record jolting with the same phrase.

A pit had opened inside of you, a gnarly black hole full of anger and hatred that had dampened the moment Eris had wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into a flurry of light, and you could distinctly see the world as you knew it warp before your eyes.

The dress you had worn was draped over a standing mirror, the skirt of it brushing against the glass in the breeze swelling through the room Eris had led you to that night. Flowing water from a babbling brook sounded from beyond the window, harmonising with sweet birdsong and the rustling of autumn leaves. Sunlight speckled through the room and streaked across the thick brown carpet that made you feel like you were walking on clouds.

For a moment, you stopped thinking of how your life had momentously changed in the space of one decision. It was a peace you welcomed before the reality of it came crashing down on you.

Rhys would be furious once he found out that you had denounced your home court and title, so furious that he may not allow you back which wasn't exactly a bad thing. But nothing would made that vein in his forehead pop more than when he realised where you had gone. To Autumn. With Eris.

Your heart raced at the thought of it, your hands went clammy and damp, and you couldn't stop thinking about what exactly would happen to Nesta and Lucien because of your reckless decision.

You are the author of your own story.

A soft knock rattled on the door, pulling your mind back into the present. Lifting yourself from the larger-than-life bed, you padded over to the door, knowing that Eris would never just let himself into the safe space he had gifted to you.

Eris stood on the other side, the sunlight brushing over his face and turning his eyes into molten shimmer bronze, he looked handsome, dressed in tight taupe pants that were tucked into his riding boots, a cream shirt loosely poked into the waistband.

His gaze travelled down your figure that was half-hidden behind the door, specifically at the shirt he had leant you that barely fell to your mid-thigh which left the rest of your leg exposed to him. Your hair was messy from the night full of tossing and turning, but he thought you looked radiant, that it made you look rather adorable actually.

"Good morning," he told you softly once he was done examining you, there was a box in his arms along with a few folded pieces of fabric, "I went out this morning and got these for you," he offered, "You don't have any clothes here so I thought these would do for now until I could take you into town."

Taking the box and tower of clothes from his arms, you smiled, "Thank you," you suddenly felt naked in front of him, the breeze drifting inward and up your legs reminding you of that fact.

If he knew of your realisation he didn't let on, "Our fashion isn't like that of your former court, but I'm sure you'll look incredible in it regardless," his eyes sparkled and your racing heart began to relent, "I'll be in the gardens when you're ready, Fawn."

Eris left you after that, he left you with the lingering speckles of his scent, the same scent that you had drifted to sleep bathed in thanks to the large shirt he had given you. The arms of the shirt drooped on you and you knew that it was due to his large arms perfectly fitting in the fabric.

The clothes were lovely, a mixture of dresses in a variety of styles and hues that you knew would mould against your skin perfectly, tailored shirts and tight leather pants, feminine waistcoats of forest green and red wine with golden embellishments, and undergarments that you knew Eris wouldn’t dare pick himself. Even the thought made heat rise to your cheeks.

Deciding to embrace your defection, one that Eris had been careful not to voice directly, you dressed yourself in a pair of high waisted black pants and a fitted artic blue blouse. It was so unlike anything you had ever worn, but it was beautiful in its own way. Turning to the box, you lifted the lid and gasped at the oyster coloured riding boots that must have cost a small fortune considering the intricate stitching. They weren’t just regular riding boots, no, when you slid them up your calves and found yourself adjusting them to your thighs, you knew they were a statement piece if you’d ever seen one.

Pulling your hair back into a low and messy bun, you found your reflection and grinned.

Eris was right, you did look incredible, like Velaris had been dispelled from you long ago and was nothing but a horrible dream.

Fir Manor was a special place, you could see why Eris chose to live there over the Forest House. It was light and bright and full of warmth from the whispering sun, ornate furniture was littered everywhere, the library was the personification of comfort and grace, exposed wooden beams loomed overhead and the windows were large and clear enough that you could see to the edge of the estate and the woodland beyond.

Your sun-starved skin cried in relief as you stepped outside, drinking in every vitamin offered to it, a low whistle caught your ear and you found Eris stood before a pair of large but stunning stallions, his hounds chasing one another and running between their legs which didn’t phase them at all.

“You look,” he trailed off as he approached, a jacket now completing his outfit and fingers raking through his red hair.

“Like Autumn threw up on me?”

“Something like that,” you huffed out a laugh and looked to the beasts, “I thought you’d like to explore the woodland today, get you out of the manor for a few hours?”

It was an offer than you wanted to say yes to, but at the same time couldn’t, ashamed of your oncoming admittance, “I would love to. It’s just,” you faltered, your eyes moved from Eris to the towering midnight black stallion that had craned its neck to look to you inquisitively.

Eris caught on, “You don’t know how,” a solemn finish to the sentence you were trying to voice, his heart clenched slightly at the defeat in your eyes, yet another thing that had been taken from you, “Well I can teach you,” he spoke, “Today you can ride with me, learn the basics, and you’ll be on your own stallion in no time.”

The High Lord of Autumn stood beside you, elbow to elbow, and even through the fabric of your clothes, you could feel his fire prickling across your skin and work its way into the woven fibres of your soul. He stood there seemingly unknowing of it, and when he looked down on you, waiting for your answer, all you could do was nod.

The stallion, Axos, shuddered under your touch as your fingers drifted over his side and around the curve of his saddle. Hands curled around your hips and you almost fell backward at the touch, Eris was behind you, his chest moving against your back and you glanced backward at him, "Don't get too excited," he smirked, and you wished you could have seen the muscles in his arms rippling as he lifted you up, instructing you to swing your leg over before he settled in behind you with ease.

The reigns became wrapped between his fingers, his breath was hot against your neck and Axos was moving onward after a curt click from Eris' mouth, his hounds trotting happily alongside you, "You have to roll your hips with each step he takes," his voice was gruff in your ear, low enough to send shivers flowing down your spine, "Like this," he unwound one of his hands from the reigns and placed it on your hip, gently moving it back and forth to the steps of Axos beneath as the stallion carried you both into the woodland, through the arched hanging branches and grasslands.

Awareness washed over you at how close Eris truly was, you were nestled at the centre of his open legs, his thighs encased your own, his entire chest shrouded you, and a shadow fell over you from the sheer size of him. He was pressed up to your back to the point you could feel his heart beating through his shirt, a thing you had become extremely aware of but didn't dare shudder away from in fear of him pulling away from you.

The landscape was picturesque, mounds of fresh earth, dainty flowers and fallen branches, leaves of orange, brown, and red, and water flowing through the small brooks, trying to find their way to the river. Even the sun felt surreal, it streaked through any respite of bark that it could, its golden glow spreading and infecting the land. Soft scampering of tiny paws ran through the trees, squirrels jumped from branch to branch, following you and paying no attention to the swarm of hounds keeping an eye on them.

It astounded you how a place so beautiful even existed.

It scared you how place so beautiful could turn into the most vicious of battlegrounds.

"Are you afraid, of Rhys coming here?"

Eris tensed behind you, his hand still lingering on your side, "We don't have to talk about this, y/n."

"I know," you told him, smiling softly as you watched a small bunny poke its head above its burrow, "I just know him, and I don't want to put you or your court in danger."

"I'm not afraid of him, and he will never step foot in my court. I won't allow it," he was stoic, and you knew he was telling the truth, Eris had faced worse than Rhys, he had endured worse.

"I can go, I don't have to be here, Eris."

Axos stopped moving, your brows itched together in a frown and you turned to capture Eris' gaze which was riddled with confusion, "I would never dream to keep you from doing whatever it is you wish to you, even if you wish to leave, I would not stop you. But I would like you to stay, and I think you would like to stay too."

Eris' amber pools softened and he smiled sadly at you, knowing that you didn't wish to leave but wanted to protect him and his home from whatever it was that Rhys could inflict upon it, "You will always have a place here, y/n. No one can take that from you, whatever you wish for is yours."

"Who knew that the fox could be so sweet?"

Eris tilted his head back and laughed, a pure thing of serenity, he moved his hand to your thigh and squeezed it gently before grabbing at the reigns once more, "Keep going, Fawn. You're getting warmer."

The hours ticked by, idly chatter filled the air, he told you the names of his hounds, you had unmounted Axos and delved further into the woodland, touching every tree that you could as if you wouldn't see them again all whilst Eris trailed you with a distant grin on his lips. Sunlight began to wane into its mid-afternoon position, the warmth replaced with bristle breezes and the birdsong drowned out by the emerging chirps of crickets.

Golden hour.

A moment you had heard of, when the sun reached its most comfortable resting place before it beckoned the moon to start its ascent, where the world was coated in the golden autumn glow that consumed the land. You had heard the stories of its beauty, but nothing could prepare you for it as you watched the light shift to a different angle and a shimmer cling to everything that moved. The waters glistening, sparkling and reflecting against the bodies of the trees, and that sparkle bounced all over the clearing where you stood.

"It's beautiful," your voice was a whisper but your eyes floated about the clearing, your body turned where you stood and you drank it in.

"It is," Eris confirmed from where he stood, dry branches creaked under his feet as he approached, "It's something that I take for granted, when you see it every day you forget how special it is."

"I wish that you could see it again for the first time."

A weight shifted at your feet and you peered down to see one of Eris' hounds, Willow, perched atop your toes, looking up at you with a lopsided grin as she panted. Reaching down, you scratched the spot beneath her shin and between her ears, your heart swelling as her tail swatted at the floor and her eyes screwed closed as she accepted your touch, "She likes you."

Willow was an elegant beast, long brown lashes, deep brown eyes, shining fur of tan and black, and shaggy ears that fell down the sides of her face, "I like her too."

Eris' eyes glowed, with what you couldn't quite tell, "We should head back to the manor, you must be starving."

When you thought of it you were hungry, you didn't remember the last time you ate, perhaps the morning of your departure but you couldn't be sure of it. The ride back to the manor felt too short, you were relishing in his company far too much, so much so that you wished that the day wouldn't end.

Fir Manor approached in the forefront of your vision and you sighed, ready to be in more relaxing clothes, but also ready to eat something. You could only imagine how incredible the food would be if even the landscape alone brought you happiness. Eris dismounted first and held his hands up to you, not even straining as they gripped your waist and placed you back on the ground delicately.

Eris' finger reached to tuck a strand of your hair behind your pointed ear, one that must have fell loose from the effortless bun you had thrown your hair into that morning. That same finger lingered, ghosting over the curve of your jaw and you felt your breath hitch in your throat. His eyes were on you, waving themselves over your face.

You could have stayed there for much longer, in his arms with his fingers dusting over your skin. It seemed that others were too impatient to allow the moment to continue as the door to the manor swung open and you turned your head to see Nesta and Lucien stood on the porch with Elain in the doorway.

"Nes?" Eris' grip on your waist tightened slightly but relented as you moved away, pacing up the pathway and flinging yourself into her open arms which wrapped around you tightly, "What are you doing here?"

"Our place is with you," she muttered and you pulled away, looking between her, Lucien and Elain as Eris fell to your side.

"What about Cassian?"

Nesta shuddered, she took a moment to glance at Eris and the apprehension he wore as he inched closer to you, "I can't be mated to someone who could allow something like this to happen."

"I'm so sorry, Nes," guilt pooled within you and she could see that as clear as daybreak, she took a step closer to you, taking your head in her hands and stroking your cheeks with her thumbs.

"Don't be," she shushed, "I chose you. I will always choose you."

Lucien placed a hand on your shoulder and offered more detail, "Rhys is furious, but he knows that he can't get to you here," he glanced to his brother and his lips tilted downward, "He's asked for you, for a meeting at the boarder."

The High Lord growled under his breath and took a protective step to you, it was clear that Rhys was going to attempt to barter for your return, that he was going to use his manipulation tactics to steal you back, "Fine," your blood ran cold and Nesta's fingers gripped at your wrists as Eris rounded your figure to stand beside her, "You're not going anywhere, alright? It's in our best interests to see what he has to say. I'll never let him take you," Eris turned his head to peer over his shoulder at his younger brother and Elain who had drifted from the doorway to entwine her fingers with his, his eyes faltered in want before he spoke, "You'll accompany me."

Lucien nodded stiffly and once, "For her, I'll do whatever you need me to."

"Thank you," Eris' words were sincere and he found Nesta's gaze, "You can all stay here for however long you'd like," then he found yours and he reached for your hand, his calloused fingers brushing over your knuckles, "Forever if it suits."

The sun hung low in the sky, the moon was pushing itself through the clouds and your heart raced with anticipation for the moment Eris and Lucien would both leave for the boarder, "Please be careful."

Eris nodded, rubbing your clothes arms in his hands to allow his warmth to run through you, "We will. Go and get changed, I'll see to it that food is on the table for you three by the time you're back."

"Us three?"

"The boarder is hours away," Lucien spoke for his brother who couldn't bare to tell you that they would have to leave imminently in order to meet with Rhys, "If we don't leave soon then we risk missing the window altogether."

"You're safe here, y/n. They can't get in."

In that moment, all you wanted to do was throw your arms around him, just to bask in his scent and warmth for another moment longer, but you couldn't. Instead, you nodded and allowed Nesta and Elain to lead you inside, and you continued to look over your shoulder up until the moment when Lucien closed the door with a tight lipped smile cast in your direction.

It would not be the last time you'd see him. If it was, then you'd decimate the entire of Prythian with your fury.

Author's Note

Here we are!

Hope you love it x

Someone told me that 'Who's Afraid of Little Old Me' by Taylor Swift is so The Fox and The Fawn reader coded and I cannot stop thinking about it

Taglist

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[moonlight-prose]

RIGHT WHERE YOU LEFT ME

➛ 07. BENEATH THE STAINS OF TIME

a/n: wow i stalled on writing this chapter until the last minute. i think i really just didn't want to put them through this, but also i love the angst so it's an internal war i fought with myself. this is the pinnacle of the entire series. the one thing i plotted when i first came up with the story. so grab your tissues, a blanket, and a comfort fic for afterwards. because i am sorry for what's about to happen.

summary: he never liked the variant from your universe; the be all end all hero. but in the depths of anger and pain, logan howlett is forced to make a choice his variant self once made. save your soul and the people you might harm...or save the you he loves.

word count: 9.5k+

pairing: logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: DARK THEMES AHEAD BE WARNED, angst, pain, ptsd, talk of drowning, insanity, tw: torture, tw: blood, tw: death, grief, violence, wade wilson breaking the fourth wall, deadpool & wolverine energy, laura kinney has enetered the chat y'all, father daughter bonding, wade wilson's commentary, sacrifice, time.

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He couldn't breathe.

Logan had been underwater before, felt the press of the ocean against his chest and struggled for oxygen. Battling for breath, no matter how small. He understood what it felt like to drown—sink to the bottom and never get up. His adamantium skeleton had been the cause of him drowning far too many times in his life; until he'd grown accustomed to the sensation of fighting for air.

This felt magnified. As if he'd been at the bottom of the Atlantic—straight down the Mariana Trench—for centuries.

Was this how it felt to be buried alive? To find yourself in a grave six feet deep with no way of clawing to the surface.

He never thought he'd understand the sensation that kept him up at night; the prospect of death was too little a threat for him to actually worry about. Unimportant to a man who had spent two centuries of his life barely finding any meaning to it. After all, what was the fucking point when he wound up right back here. In the shallow end of his grave, waiting to lay down and exhale his final breath.

Time fell back into place the moment you left. Fortuna. Someone he never thought would find him here; now brought him to his knees with one simple act.

There was misery in love. He knew this the moment he fell in his own universe. He understood the cost of what might come from you using your powers without restrictions; what Charles told you. Yet he fell anyway. He allowed his heart to open up and give you leeway into the broken pieces of his mind—a part of himself he chose to ignore.

He should have fucking known better than to repeat history here.

He should have ignored the strings that bound his heart to yours and left you alone.

He should have, he should have, he should have...

But he didn't.

Now he bore the brunt of consequences he knew would one day show up.

Your apartment door slammed open, nearly getting torn off the hinges as a familiar echo of heavy boots thumped across the hardwood floor. He felt his spine tense where he still knelt—hands clutching the pieces of your shattered mug. Fortuna wouldn't be returning. He knew her tricks, knew her endgame, and coming back to the scene of disaster was never her forte.

The scent of vanilla and Ambrose filled his senses, stinging his nose, as a familiar dark browned girl rushed to his aid. A backpack hit the ground, sunglasses discarded on the counter, as his variant's daughter clutched his hands in hers. He couldn't bring himself to look at her. Not when he broke right there in a place that held such happiness.

She seemed to understand. Peeling the porcelain out of his palms and placing it back on the table; finding what other shards she could to put them all together. The silence felt safe. Familiar.

Logan found himself suddenly thankful for the variant that once existed in her world. She could see the cues before they even washed across his face; the bitter grief that her father once went through. He knew from when he met her in the Void, he couldn't be that person for her. But when she looked at him like that—a daughter willing to fight alongside her father—he hoped that maybe...he could.

"Althea called me," she said softly, hands wrapped around his wrists. "Whoever she is attacked Wade's place first."

His head rose, anger trickling in his chest as Laura's brown eyes mirrored his own. "She's..."

"I know," she muttered, pulling him to his feet. "Wade filled me in."

"Is he-"

"Takes a lot more than that to kill a Deadpool." She grimly kicked shattered glass to the side, shoving it to a corner as he staggered to his full height. He wore a neutral expression—somber even. But Laura could see the pain in his eyes; an exact replica of the older man she once clung to as a child—begging him to live for her sake. "He sounded pissed. Althea hung up before he could fill me in on the gory details."

"Fortuna," he sighed, eyes fixed on the demolished window. He'd have to help you fix it after all was said and done—after he apologized for dragging you into a mess that was never meant to touch you. "She found me."

Laura's nose scrunched, brows furrowed. "You're ex? I thought she could control time, not...multiverses."

"Charles's theory was that she wasn't exactly controlling time. More like what made up the universe as a whole."

She nodded. "Time included."

"Time included," he repeated. "I didn't think she'd...get this bad."

"You left her behind," she stated, rummaging in your fridge for something to drink. "I guess a part of me can understand her anger."

He knew she wasn't talking about him, but rather the man she once looked up to. Nonetheless the words still stung the same.

In a different world Logan could picture her here on nights not spent at the mansion studying and training. He could see you bonding with Laura—teaching her the history of the X-Men. Showing her the love of a mother she never had.

The image punched him in the chest until his breath became nonexistent and suddenly...he was drowning again. A choked noise echoed in the back of his throat. Laura's head snapped in his direction with concern etched across her face. Any other day he'd loathe that look, but tonight he couldn't dig his way out fast enough to care.

The soda can she tossed his way nearly smacked him in the head; effectively snapping him out of whatever fucking stupor his own mind was intent on trapping him in. He caught it, breath rushing back to his lungs, and gulped down the shitty sugary crap his own kid loved.

"That's fuckin' disgusting," he bit out, watching her smile into her own can.

"I like it."

He winced as the taste hit the back of his throat. "You're a kid. You'll grow out of it."

"You've said that before Dad. And I'm not a kid-" She tensed as the word left her mouth. The title that was never meant to fall upon his shoulders; never supposed to tie him to another person.

Something hesitant flashed in her eyes, mouth now a thin line as she waited for his inevitable reaction to her slip up. The words he uttered beside the fire no doubt on the tip of his tongue: Whoever you think I am...you got the wrong guy. But standing there, watching his kid hold hope in her eyes that he might say something different this time, made him finally understand what the fucking point was.

He didn't want to be the wrong guy.

He just wanted to be what she needed. What you needed.

"No," he sighed, lips curling into a smile that said enough. You can call me Dad. You can give me that responsibility and know I'll fight like hell to make sure I live up to his legacy. "I guess you're not."

They allowed the silence to sit in their chest for a brief moment. A moment of understanding passed in their grim smiles that held so much more. He'd tell it all to her one day. How he once longed for a life exactly like this, for a kid of his own. How he never believed himself worthy of the title Dad. How he'd lay down his entire being if she asked it of him.

Today though, they shed the titles of father and daughter and donned one they knew all too well. Wolverine. Ironic that the one thing he loathed would one day be given to a girl who wielded it with pride.

"What are you gonna do?" she asked, pushing off the counter and reaching for her bag.

"Find her."

"And when you do?"

His heart paused as the realization of what was to come began to reenter his mind. Fortuna had you captive, dangling you on a string in the hopes he would latch on to rescue the person who held his heart. Logan felt the urge to leap. Save you from the clutches of someone willing to kill you just to bring him unimaginable pain.

To get even for what he couldn't do that night.

But he also knew...Fortuna didn't deserve what happened. The humans destroyed what the X-Men built. They were the cause of everything that occurred since he left. He couldn't let their trauma bring down the woman he once loved. Even if she was so adamant on watching him give over his life for a version of her not yet broken by unimaginable pain.

"I don't fuckin' know," he admitted.

She took another sip, crushed the can in her palm and tossed it to the bin in the corner of your kitchen. "Wade's gonna want to speak to you. Find out what happened here."

He nodded. "You got everythin'?"

"I'm set."

"You know you don't have to do this kid. It's not your fight."

Her eyes narrowed, the firm set of her mouth so much like his own. She was a fucking mirror he never thought he'd have; showing him pieces of himself he once thought too ugly to be seen. Yet they were the reason she shined so bright. He could see the stubbornness ingrained into her very own DNA. A testament to his own unwillingness to let things go; to take on the battle for someone else as long as they didn't get hurt.

So much like him. So identical.

He felt a streak of fear run down his spine at that thought alone. She'd have to suffer for it. Just as he did. But goddammit if he wasn't going to do everything in his power to save her from the pain of bearing the title Wolverine.

"You love her," she stated plainly, as if nothing else mattered in this world but those three words. "Which means she's my family. We protect our own."

She didn't give him a chance to respond, scooping up her sunglasses and propping them on her nose with a huff. Maybe she didn't notice how he stood there, eyes wide as something pricked his heart. Maybe she ignored it for his sake—so uncomfortable with being vulnerable like him. But either way he couldn't deny the fact that stared right at him in big shiny letters.

She was his daughter. Through and through.

"She took my arms!" Wade's voice echoed down the hallway, giving Logan pause as Laura took the lead. "Do you know how petty that is? When I find that Scarlet Witch carbon copy I'm gonna shove my katana down her throat as I dance to dub-step-"

"Hi Wade," Laura said, cutting him off from what was about to be an impressive rant.

He spun, baby arms swinging limply at his side. "Oh good. The clone of the man I actually need. Tell me, did you find your father cause mommy has to speak to him."

Logan took that chance to follow her through the open door. His eyes took in the destruction of a once nice living room. Burn marks stretched from floor to ceiling in multiple places where Fortuna's whip had made contact. He spotted two limbs in a pile by the couch, blood pooling on the carpet as Wade steamed with enough fury to sharpen his senses.

She’d come here first looking for him. Which means she somehow knew exactly where to find him.

"Peanut!" he shouted, eyes narrowed and baby fists clenched. "Did you have a nice morning? Get some good head? Because I was attacked by the long lost daughter of Princess Diana."

Laura's head cocked to the side, brows furrowed. "Diana Prince."

"Whatever!"

"Wade." His greeting could have been better. Though he was never one for handing out sympathy to the nearest victim.

Wade ceremoniously collapsed to the floor on his back, thumping his head against the carpet as Logan stepped further into the room. The window was ripped clean out of the wall, glass scattered everywhere which showed how Fortuna found out about her variant self. Logan could practically see the fight happen in the present time.

It made his stomach sour—his heart a rapid beat against his chest.

"How long will it take for those to finish?" He gestured to the arms that currently pointed two middle fingers in his direction.

"Couple hours. Why do you ask? Want a handy?"

"Ew," Laura sighed. "I'm gonna find some food. Want anything?" When Logan shook his head, she quickly dipped back out into the hallway, leaving him to deal with the wallowing lump on the floor.

He sighed, stepped over Wade and grabbed him. "Alright c'mon."

"I'm half the man I used to be. Literally. She took the only good thing I had until Ness got back." The limp wave of small hands in his face had Logan cringing back.

"So she came here first then."

Wade barked out a laugh. "Oh you mean your ex? Sabrina the teenage BITCH!"

Logan huffed, dragged him to the couch that had long chunks ripped out of the fabric. "She's a lot older than you think mouth."

"Sorry my bad. We didn't exchange your preferred blowjob tips and trade secrets about you when she was cutting off my arms!" The roll of his eyes was involuntary, barely there, but Wade latched onto it like a dog with a bone. "Did you just-"

He turned his head, exasperation bleeding into the air. "Did he just roll his eyes at me?"

The room went still as the gears in Logan's head began to turn. The fear was now palpable enough for Wade to figure out exactly what was happening. He sat up straight, gaze latched onto the apartment across the street. The wall gaped like a wound, leaving a trail of ghastliness in its wake. Wade was surprised to see minimal bloodshed, merely the path of destruction left by a being with too much power, but the inkling of you in pain made his stomach churn.

The amount of information he extracted out of Fortuna was slim to none, but it didn't take a genius to figure out what she went after once she was done wreaking havoc in his home.

"Logan," he started, anger trickling into his heart. "Where is sweet angel?"

He sagged into the couch—grief cutting into his chest as images of your smiling face plagued his mind. No answer would have been good enough to explain what happened. His face stricken with despair—the way he clutched his hands into fists on his knees—told Wade everything he needed to know.

Fortuna wasn't here to only kill Logan. Why dismantle one life when she could bring an end to the memory of Logan Howlett in this universe too? She'd take all of them down with her if it meant enacting her revenge.

Starting with you.

"No," he breathed.

"I don't know where they would have-" He bit down on the inside of his cheek until copper burst on his tongue. "Where they'd be."

The longer he sat there, the more he felt himself sink into the despondent pit in his mind. Yet no matter how he struggled to claw at the ground, it continued to drag him in earnest. The sharp peal of laughter—of taunting words that set his teeth on edge—mimicked the sound of Fortuna.

He wanted to scream, but who would be there to listen? Who would be there to drag him from the darkness now that you were gone?

A bag was tossed to the couch, barely breaking through the murkiness in his own mind. Laura dragged the only working chair in the kitchen closer to the couch. The snap and hiss of a Coke being opened filled the dire silence. Giving Logan something to latch onto. He might tell her one day how being near her settled the raging storm in his head; the calm he could never quite acquire somehow flowing through her with ease.

He had people to help him find you; people who cared for your well being.

People who would die to bring you home.

There would be no end for them where you weren't safe. Where they didn't offer themselves up on your behalf. You were the best of them. It certainly wasn’t your fault you fell in love with a man too twisted and mangled by pain to offer you even the illusion of peace.

"I know someone who might be able to help," she said, chewing thoughtfully on a granola bar. "You may not like it."

Wade's sigh was deafening, his body flopping back onto the couch with a groan. "We are not dragging McAvoy into this. Not when Stewart is better drama wise."

She took another bite, distant gaze stuck to a busted picture frame of Wade and Vanessa on an anniversary of some sorts. Wade wore red, Vanessa wore black. They resembled a couple others might look up to. Logan used to stare at it often in his fitful nights of sleep. More so when you wandered into his life; thoughts of a future tantalizingly close to the tips of his fingers.

He wanted that with you. A life worth more than every battle he fought, every scar that didn't stick. All the fucked up things he did evaporated like steam floating off water the second he met your eyes.

You and your honey-like smile; your hand a soft yet sturdy grip in his.

"Is your universe similar to this one?" Laura inquired, back in the moment as her mind reeled with possibilities.

"Somewhat."

"In what way?"

"Places and people still exist. It's pieces of time that are different. History isn't the same here." He could recall you begging him to explain his past. What wars he fought in, what happened for him to get to this point. Yet whatever you recorded wouldn't match the history books housed in your library.

Laura nodded, downing the last of her soda. "So places. Anywhere special she might have gone that might mean something to you?"

His mind fell to the one place even he couldn’t approach. The space that housed so many memories—so much agony. But going back there would mean facing the other X-Men and Fortuna wasn't stupid enough to risk falling into that trap.

"The mansion is too risky."

He thought back to your shared room. The walls that once flickered blue with Fortuna's power as he held her through the nightmares. He thought of a small two story farmhouse that sat on the outskirts of the property line. A home Charles offered. One he intended to rebuild with the promise of holding onto a love so permanent.

His heart dropped, laying in the base of his stomach like a stone he never intended to swallow. "I know where they are."

Wade perked up, arms an inch longer than before. "Mind sharing with the class peanut?"

Logan couldn't hear him over the noise in his head; the knowledge that Fortuna would pull such a heinous act of revenge. Taking you to the place he promised her. It made for the perfect ending to her already tragic story. Logan wasn't sure if he wanted to rip his claws into the couch below, or charge out the door with no plan.

He settled for heading to the hall closet, yanking the door open with more force than intended. It slammed against the wall as he tugged free a black unlabeled duffle bag from the top shelf. After the battle to save Wade's universe, he didn't think he would need this old yellow suit anymore. At the time he was tempted to throw it out and forget it existed.

He eventually came to his senses.

Salvaging what he could and rebuilding small pieces in case the time came formed an amalgamation of what once resembled an X-Men suit. His fingers traced the silver X attached to the belt. The symbol that once held so much hope. Fortuna wore the same. A tie that kept them forever bound; forever each other's equal even in a different universe.

"You're going after her," Laura said.

"Of course he is." Wade stumbled to his feet. "We're finally getting that family road trip."

"Would now be the wrong time to say Avenger's Assemble? Or should we wait for the third act battle sequence?"

Logan felt the gaping maw of his heart grow the longer you were apart from him. An itch formed beneath his skin. The source was indeterminable but he knew what caused it to start. His entire being called out to you, begged you to survive until he managed to carry you to safety. Yet the biting horror of reality began to settle like a frozen chill in his veins.

What if he finally destroyed the only good thing about his life?

What if he was too late?

What if...you didn't survive?

You couldn't differentiate night from day anymore. After the first two hours, you were left with a stabbing pain in the side of your head—turning your vision blurry. After what felt like five or six (or perhaps eight) you gave up on trying to keep count. The veins were prominent against your hands as blood steadily dripped to the floor.

A pool of crimson agony that you could practically see yourself in.

If you opened your eyes, would you see the broken parts of a soul she seemed intent on dragging out? Would they match hers? The sound of her gravel lilted voice murmured in the corner of the room where she waited. A stoic figure of patience. Seeking penance for the harm caused to someone so innocent.

You both knew this was a fight meant for Logan. You knew only one of them walked away from whatever age old hatred still burned bright enough to burn the skin off your body.

That didn't stop you from wishing you could shoulder the burden for him. The words collateral damage didn't mean anything to you before. Merely things spouted to harm your already vulnerable and emotional state. But the longer you gave them time to sink in, the more you accepted her veracity. You would cease to exist one way or another come tomorrow morning.

This was the ugly undeniable truth.

The one thing Logan could not save you from.

"I know you're awake."

Fear curled around your heart like a fist as your eyes cracked open sluggishly—triggering a dull pain in your skull. The ability to speak was stripped from you after an hour of screaming. The hoarse echo of your voice sent a throbbing knife down your throat you chose to ignore.

So you stared at her; watched while she paced the floor in front of you—blue rolling off of her like waves from the ocean.

"He's gonna come for you," she muttered more to herself. "He'll show up."

You groaned and watched her stiffen—milky eyes flashing cerulean. The burn of the rope on your skin counteracted the searing ache in your torso. Her whip hung around her waist—coated in a dried layer of your blood. The sight sent bile up your throat even though your stomach remained empty. She stared at you as if you were someone else entirely; someone from a past life you'd never know about.

The need to inquire—to know more—began to build under your skin. But your body would no longer respond to what you wanted. The depletion of your energy affected more than your ability to speak; it tore at what little movement you had, ripping everything to shreds on the inside. You knew you looked half dead—felt like it too—but she could see the slight twitch of your mouth almost ready to open.

"Charles would have liked you," she revealed as if it were a small secret meant to be kept between the two of you. "He always had an affinity for those interested in mutant powers."

Sucking in a breath, you managed to force your voice to work. "I-I know the history."

"I bet you would." She glanced at the window where dusk crept into the late afternoon sky; brilliant hues of orange and red mimicking the pain in your body. "I didn't think I'd exist in this universe."

"You don't," you croaked. "I'm not a mutant."

Her lips curled, a small laugh exhaling from her mouth. "Yeah. I guess you're not. Maybe that's what he likes about you."

Logan's face seeped into the back of your mind; the tender smile he wore when you woke up together. The hope in his eyes that this might remain a consistent part of his life. That he may have lucked out on the prospect of getting to have you for as long as you chose to keep him.

Suddenly that part of your life felt a million miles away. Just barely out of reach, growing further in distance the harder you tried to capture it.

"I-I'm you," you mumbled, head tipping to the side. "That's why."

"No. You're not me." She regarded you with a look of pity, lips down turned in a mock pout. Ire burned in your chest with the embers of a flame lit by Logan. "You're weak."

You huffed, digging your nails into your palms to divert your attention from the pain. "I survived you."

The slap that whipped across your face was unexpected. You cried out—head falling back against the chair—as she stood over you. Power emanating from her stance. This wasn't someone to toy with. You could see how she craved to rip your tongue from your mouth; the need to silence her variant crawling beneath her skin.

But something held her back from approaching that final line.

Something scared her.

"You won't die if you do it," you wheezed, struggling to breath through a nose so clotted with dried blood. "That's not how this works."

She sneered. "And you're smart enough to know how all of this works."

"So it seems."

Her fingers gripped your wrist, nails boring into your already sliced open skin, as she leaned over you. "The Logan in this universe is dead." You stuttered out a halfhearted breath; body ringing with a plea to stop. To put an end to this fucking torture. "How did he die?"

You winced, leveling her glare with one of your own. "He sacrificed himself."

"You're fucking with me," she laughed, the sound shrill and hoarse.

Neither of you heard the creak behind her. You could barely register anything other than the rush of blood that pounded against your eardrums. She seemed to be enjoying how your body slowly deteriorated beneath the strain of the pain. Far too distracted to notice the person creeping into the house—sunglasses on her face—claws extended in a stance of defense.

"Who garnered enough fucking attention from Logan Howlett for him to sacrifice himself?" she jeered.

"His daughter."

Fortuna spun whip in hand, as a young woman stood mere feet away. Her head was cocked in interest as if she'd never quite seen two identical people in the same room. You knew her name the second your eyes locked on her form. The same dark hair, same grim tight lipped frown. The same silver claws and stubborn streak.

The sight of Laura Kinney took your breath away.

She stood before you every bit the girl that Logan made her out to be as he spoke about her in shared conversations at your kitchen table. You could see the mirror image of her father in each expression, each small twitch of her body that prepared to fight. And something flared to life in your chest.

You were angry that Fortuna was about to hurt her. Logan's daughter was ready to put her life on the line to rescue someone she'd never met before.

A missing detail which didn't appear to matter to her. Logan loved you. That was certainly enough for her.

Fortuna gaped at her—astounded by the familiar details and hints that Laura was indeed telling the truth. Not only had Logan Howlett died in this world, but he left behind a legacy that would live on for him. He saved the only important thing in his life so she could one day do the same for the version of her father who would stay.

"He's here isn't he?" she asked calmer than you expected. The whip snapped to the ground. You flinched at the sound. A fact that Laura clocked within seconds—her head tilted in your direction.

Though you couldn't see her eyes behind the pink sunglasses, you knew that fury burned in them as they would her father's.

"He sends his regards." Laura's fingers curled into fists.

"A child," she spit. "He sent a child to do his bidding?"

She shrugged, lips curling into a false grin. "Don't worry. I'm more than capable of killing you."

You felt pride flicker in your heart as Logan's cocksureness bled through her words. Where Laura went, Logan wasn't too far behind. You pulled at the restraints, the burn of ropes dragging along open wounds, but you refused to let Laura do this on her own. It seemed that the both of you had turned to the same page—her head nodding in your direction subtly.

"Well." Fortuna stepped forward, sapphire pouring off her body. "I suppose Logan's legacy won't last long in this universe."

Laura charged forward with a scream, claws slicing at Fortuna's middle only for the whip to wrap itself around her arm. With a shout, Fortuna flung her to the side—watching with an unhinged smile as Laura hit the wall hard enough to make you wince. You tugged at the rope—a hoarse cry ripping from your throat when a boot slammed into the legs of the chair.

"Don't tell me you're ready to leave," she shouted. "We were bonding."

"Fuck you," you snapped.

"Ouch." Her hand gripped your chin, lifting you to meet her expressionless eyes. "Is that the best you can do, human?"

"No," you gasped, hand scrambling for the knife at her thigh. "This is."

It embedded in her arm, slicing open skin as she shouted in rage, stumbling back into Laura's vicinity. Claws ripped through the back of her leg, cutting open her calf, as a familiar dark head of hair slid past her, crouching in front of your chair with a roar.

"You bitch!" Fortuna tossed the blade to the side, her hand forming around the open wound.

It clattered against the floor seconds before the door burst open—a man in red bursting through and flinging yet another baby knife towards Fortuna's healing body. She ducked, whip coiling like a snake in the air, slamming down with a crack. Wade shrieked, flipping to the side and ducking behind the broken couch as the familiar click of a bullet falling into the chamber resonated in the air.

"I'd say I'll put my hands up but you'd probably tie them together huh. You kinky minx!"

You winced through the grin, Laura's eyes tracked Fortuna's movements like a predator waiting when to strike. Whatever the plan was, Logan was sure to make sure someone was on you at all times. If only to get you out of the house and into the forest safely. From there it was quick to disappear.

Wade seemed to be the distraction in this case. Fitting.

His head peeked over the couch—the whip slicing over him with a sound that pierced through you. "You die tonight Deadpool."

"You don't want me. You want my buddy right outside this house." He stood, finger pulling the trigger quicker than you expected. Only for a silver and blue whip to slice through it—the fragmented pieces of a smoking bullet hitting the floor and rolling away.

"Surrender you walking condom."

"Pump the hate brakes Wanda Maximoff." Another bullet slid into place. "Peanut junior? Would you like to take it away?"

Launching herself into the air, Laura toppled Fortuna to the side with a scream, her claws slashing to get her pound of flesh. Wade laughed, striding towards you—boot effortlessly kicking his knife up and into his hand. You’d never wanted to hug the man more.

He winced at the sight of your puffy face; your right eye was nearly swollen shut from where Fortuna decided to land her hits. A pastime she seemed to enjoy, simply to hear you scream.

You wondered if you took off the mask, would you see Wade's face bleeding with rage. Or did he too wear an expression of pity.

"Logan's gonna kill her," he muttered, crouching in front of you and sliding the knife through the ropes with ease. "I've got ya sweet angel."

"W-Where is he?" You staggered to your feet, Wade's arm wrapped tightly around your waist to keep you upright. "He can't be here. She'll kill him Wade."

He clicked his tongue, leading you to the front steps, past where Laura was busy twisting Fortuna's whip around her own neck. "He knows what's at risk, angel. Believe me. I offered to be the noble sacrifice but I played that card when it came to saving this universe and there's no take backs."

"He's gonna die," you rasped, your knees buckling as he got you over the last step. "H-He can't die."

Wade gripped your arms, settling you to the ground with a grunt. "You forget who you're fucking sweet angel. He's the Wolverine."

"But she's-"

"A toxic ex who can't seem to take no for an answer. We've all got one of those."

You huffed. "She's more than an ex."

"I know." Pulling the gun free from his thigh, he made sure you were safe before stepping back to the front stoop. "But that doesn't mean this isn't a daytime soap opera." He turned to the treeline with a sigh. "You coming, your majesty or should I roll out the red carpet?"

A glimpse of the man in question stopped your heart, the breath catching in your throat, as Logan finally stepped forth. His suit was sewn with pieces of black leather (no doubt from Wade's leftover stash), a yellow X stretched across his chest now became the sole focus. Yet that isn’t what filled your body with warmth.

This time he wore the suit with pride. A glint of determination was in his eyes that once never used to exist. He stepped forward the X-Man this world needed; ready and willing to take on the legacy of a man he once loathed. You felt your heart twist violently at the sight—love pouring into your chest faster than you could stop it.

"Honey," he breathed, rushing over—hesitation and a storm of outrage clashing together in his hazel eyes.

"I'm okay."

He huffed through his nose, hands gathering you gently in his arms. "Don't bullshit me honey."

Wade's cough was exaggerated, his hands gesturing to the doorway. Laura's shouts and the crashing of furniture being demolished spilled through the broken windows—her rage matching her father's right down to the familiar lilt of her roar. She was a fighter. Just like the man who held you as if you were glass. Your pain, now a reflection in his eyes as he took in what Fortuna did to you.

"You can't kill her. She’s too powerful," you stated.

“You’re safe.” He didn’t seem to comprehend your words. Opting to press you close enough to feel his body heat sink into your frigid form. “That’s all that matters.”

Wade ducked down, pressing his face close to Logan's. "Yeah. I don't mean to interrupt your romantic hero kiss the girl moment. But what the fuck are we gonna do?"

"She can't keep going like this," Logan replied. "Eventually she's gonna have to tap out."

"Of course! Makes perfect sense. Mind elaborating for the audience honey badger?"

Logan sighed, his hand cupping your face with a pained noise in the back of his throat. "Her energy will run out. Same as Charles and...Jean. They couldn't keep up the fight forever."

"Okay but the whole freezing time business." He glanced to the side, shoulders lifting in a perfunctory shrug. "I know right, we really could have explained this earlier."

"Mutants are aware." Logan rose to his feet, leaving you to sit on the ground, your hand outstretched to keep him here. "We have to struggle but we can break free if she's weak enough."

"Wow." Wade sagged, a muffled groan coming through the mask. "That's just lazy writing."

You gripped Logan's hand, forcing him to step closer. "You're not going in there."

"Honey-"

"No." Gripping the stair railing, you struggled to your feet—eyes blazing with a headstrong fighting spirit Logan loved you for. "She'll kill you Logan. I can't lose you. I-I won’t."

His breath was heavy, hand curling around the back of your neck to press his forehead to yours. "You're not gonna lose me alright? Not today."

"Logan-"

Wade gripped your arm, drawing your gaze to him. "Don't worry sweet angel. He's got a bodyguard." You leveled him with a glare that would have sent him six feet under if his mutant power wasn't regeneration. "Have I ever mentioned that your eyes are the perfect shade of rage and violence. It's like a beautiful fucked lava lamp from the eighties."

You weren't sure if he was paying you a compliment or trying to lighten the mood. Logan sighed against your cheek, disappointment practically bleeding through his words.

"Seventies Wade."

"He would know. He's from 753 B.D." He turned. "Before Deadpool."

"A.D.," you spit, fighting the hint of a grin that threatened to bloom across your face.

"Not in this universe."

A shout tore through the small sliver of peace as Laura was thrown from the house, landing in a bloodied heap on the grass. Mere seconds passed before she was flipping to her feet again, claws extended and glasses forgotten about in the dirt. You wondered if the surge of warmth in your chest was pride or something else entirely.

Perhaps one day you'd get the chance to figure it out.

"Time to go do what heroes do," Wade said, nudging Logan as Fortuna floated through the open doorway, landing mere feet away from where you stood.

"Wolverine," she crooned, her boots a steady thump against the wooden porch. "Come to rescue the human I see."

Logan gripped your waist, moving you away from the house with quick steps. You clawed at his back to get him to stop. To keep him from leaving you behind. But Laura's hands on your shoulders forced you to remain calm—to remain on the edge of the property and watch as the man your heart screamed for walked away.

"Logan!" you shouted, fighting against the girl's hold, but the wasted energy was all for naught. There was no breaking away from a determined Wolverine.

He rejoined Wade with a darkened grimace. His claws ripping through the flesh of his knuckles as Wade pulled free the katanas strapped to his back. Your voice shouting his name set his entire body on edge; the urge to go to you, comfort the panic that filled your veins, nearly breaking his spirit.

But this was not your war and Logan would go down fighting before he let another person he loved fall into the hands of death.

"Alright," Wade grunted, cracking his neck. "Maximum effort."

Fortuna's whip snapped in the air, slicing a gaping hole in time as Logan and Wade charged. She leapt forward, boot pushing off the railing and toppling into them with a shout—a stolen knife carving into Logan's shoulder. He shoved her off, claws swiping for her neck, teeth bared in a snarl.

She ducked, foot slamming into Wade's stomach, rupturing the surrounding area with a blast that sent Logan sliding back into the dirt. He grunted, claws burying into the soil as Wade reached for his guns. A single katana forgotten on the ground.

"Pathetic," she sneered.

"Look who's talking McFly." Wade fired off three rounds, watching her roll to avoid the bullets, her hands crushing the dead grass beneath her.

She pointed to Wade. "You're first."

He laughed. "Bring it on you witch bitch."

Fortuna scoffed, glancing at Logan. "Does he ever shut the fuck up."

"Ha! Good luck with that. I can go on forever."

The whip unraveled from her wrist, rapidly slicing towards Wade—wrapping around his arm in a dramatic rendition of what already happened. This time he was prepared. Sprinting towards Logan, he rolled to the side as claws dragged down your arm. Opening a wound in her arm; blood pouring down her skin, dripping onto the grass.

“Fuck!” she snapped, knife lodging into Wade’s back as she leapt towards Logan.

His knee met her stomach, slamming her a few feet back until she landed on the ground. A groan reverberating in her chest.

Time flickered, punching them in the chest as they fought to move. Air rushed to his lungs as she stumbled to her feet—time falling back into place. Wade grabbed the second gun strapped to his thigh with a huff. The shot went off, the bullet finding its mark in Fortuna's wounded arm.

She screamed, falling to one knee—waves of blue pouring into the ground, forming a bubble of safety. She plucked at the fabrics of the universe, pulling them towards her as Wade pulled the trigger until the mag was empty. A pile of bullets by her body now trapped in light.

"Fuck!" Wade tossed his gun to the side.

Logan turned to see Laura holding you back, your face stricken in fear as you watched them battle it out. It was a struggle to have you here. To keep himself sane. He longed for you to be you close. What he wouldn’t give to take you away from all of this carnage. But you weren't safe as long as Fortuna was around.

She would always be a step behind, ready to chase him to the ends of this universe simply to watch him burn. He knew what he had to do. But the cost of making that choice weighed heavy on his chest—choking the very breath from his lungs. Wade could see it clear as day even as Fortuna began to build enough strength to keep herself going—to pull one final move.

With a shout, she swung her arms out, forcing enough energy their way to fling them into the air. Logan watched as spots began to form on his skin—time ripping away the very makeup of his DNA as she swung her whip in the air. It latched to his waist, dragging him forward until he was on his knees—body struggling to heal from something so unknown.

"Is she worth it?" she sneered, fingers curling into his hair to maneuver his head to keep his eyes on you. The struggle you put up to free yourself from Laura's grasp. "I'm going to kill her next Logan."

"No." He pushed against the vice of your whip, eyes latching onto the white streak hidden in your hair. A sign of what Fortuna had already started.

"I'll age her day by day, year by year, until she's dust."

"NO!"

She laughed, her lips brushing his cheek. "And you? You will have to live without her."

Tears stung his eyes when you finally managed to slip through Laura's hold, legs trembling as you forced your body to sprint his way. The sight of Logan's hair graying, wrinkles carving across his skin, brought you to the edge of your sanity. It ripped at your chest until blood poured from your heart. Staining the ground beneath you.

You couldn't lose him; you didn't know how to breathe without him. And you refused to watch him die from the sins of his past; actions he did not commit.

"Wait!" Laura shouted, running after you as Wade staggered to his feet.

"Angel!"

There was no thought process to your actions, no sense why you did what you did. All you could think about—all that filled your heart with dread—was the knowledge that Logan wouldn't survive this. He wouldn't be there to love you, give you the future you desperately ached for. He would never know you loved him.

That alone drove you forward with a pained cry.

Flinging yourself onto Fortuna, you sent the both of you flying a few feet away as Wade and Laura ran to rip her off you. But time stopped. Every sound stilled, and they were forced to stand and watch as Fortuna straddled your waist—her hands reaching for your throat.

"What do you have huh?" she snarled. "What the fuck do you have that I don't?"

"Please!" You punched her wherever you could reach, desperate to get her off of you. "He-"

"He what?"

"He wouldn't want you to do this Fortuna."

She laughed, manic enough to chill your heart with fear. "Who Logan? You think I fucking care? I would kill him in a-"

"CHARLES!" She froze, eyes flashing sapphire as her grip loosened. Giving you a chance to suck in air. "H-He loved you. Logan told me."

"Charles," she mumbled—a glimpse of your shared original color of her eyes coming through the expanse of white. "He's..."

"Dead." You gasped, turning to see three people you'd die for struggling against time—their bodies battling the power of someone far too corrupt. Someone who forgot where they came from; who their home was. "Your family...my family...they wouldn't want you to become this. P-Please. Charles, Jean, Storm. They didn’t want this for you."

She turned, gaze softening. "You would die for them."

Hot tears burned your frigid skin—falling down your temples and into your hair. "I would."

Stuttering out a breath, she fixed you with a gaze of someone you might have recognized in the mirror. A woman so broken by what time did to her. What the humans caused all because of her DNA. You wanted to promise that life might have turned out different if Logan stayed; that she would be safe. But even you knew it would be a lie.

There would be no saving her from the one thing that created her.

Time.

Leaning down, she pressed her forehead to yours—defeat curving around her shoulders, weighing heavy against her heart.

"Tell him I'm sorry," she murmured.

Pain detonated under your skin before you could open your mouth to respond, forcing your body to convulse in her tight grip. Scarred hands pressed tightly to your face, pinning you to the ground as her whip latched around your chest. Logan's roar became a distant buzzing sound that surrounded you as blue washed over your twisted bodies.

Her brows furrowed, eyes bleeding white as her iris began to form once more—the long lost color that matched your own gaze.

A mirror you wanted to shatter. Damn the bad luck that might befall you; this remained too agonizing to endure.

Her lips pressed to your ear, the pain ebbing from your veins with each pulsing wave. You clawed at her wrists, nails slicing through calloused skin as a scream erupted from the depths of your chest. Piercing the air and slamming directly into three chests.

People who were ripping at the ground to get to you—pulling their bodies across dirt as the curse of time began to lift from the air.

"Do better than me," she whispered, the hot drip of her tears mixing with your own.

Someone yanked her off of you, hurling her to the side with a familiar rumbled growl. You gasped for air, dragging your half limp body away from where Logan stood over her—claws a silver shine emanating with a promise.

"No!" Laura and Wade's hands clamped on your shoulders—keeping you at a safe enough distance. This time refusing to give you any leniency in your movements.

Logan lowered himself to one knee, chest heaving with stunted breaths as Fortuna lay before him—eyes wide with fear. He knew you were behind him. He could feel the burn of your gaze. But all the pain Fortuna caused began to splinter at what little mercy he might have held onto. Yet still the familiar fist of grief wrapped around his heart, reminding him of who Fortuna was.

The woman he once loved.

The woman he couldn't save.

"P-Please," she sighed, hand gripping onto his wrist, tugging his claws against her chest. "Before I hurt you Logan. Before I hurt her."

"I-" He squeezed his eyes shut to the sight of a you so broken—so defeated. "I'm sorry."

She grinned, eyes clear for the first time—weightless after such suffering. "It’s okay. I-I’ll get to see them again. Charles. Jean. Storm."

A sob wracked his body as he dragged her into his lap, hand cupping her face with the tenderness she deserved. "Tell them I'm sorry. Tell them..."

"I will," she murmured, allowing him the freedom to break the final vow of their love. "Till death huh baby?"

Your shouts of his name echoed in the background—Wade's voice mixing with Laura's—and suddenly Logan understood why he found himself here. Why he would stay.

They weren't just his family. They were pieces of his heart sliced open and bared to the ravages of the world. And he would be their protector. The one to meet what danger threatened them head on; willing to fight till his last breath.

He'd be the person he could never be for her.

"Of course," he sighed, tears streaking down his cheeks. "Till death."

"Love her," she breathed, cupping his cheek and forcing his claws to pierce her chest. He sliced through her with a choked shout, the warmth of her blood spilling over his hands. Tainting him further; breaking his already tormented heart. "Love her how you couldn't love me Logan."

"I will honey." Her eyes dragged to how you lay on the ground, Wade's body practically covering yours to keep you from getting any closer. "I promise."

Light flickered in her vision—white and blue and perfect—as Logan clutched her close. Sobbing over a woman he would forever hold the memory of. The last of his family that he couldn't save. Her lips curled into a smile—serenity glistening in her eyes—as a familiar voice echoed in her mind. Tugging her close into welcoming arms.

"Hello Fortuna."

She stuttered out what little breath remained in her chest, a tear slipping down her cheek. "Charles."

"I like it," a voice mumbled, breaking through the darkness that shrouded your body. "And not just cause Ness has one."

A girl hummed. "It's cool."

"Very superhero."

You groaned, body battling any slight movement as your eyes fluttered open with a wince. Light streamed through a grand window, the bed too soft to be yours, yet you knew who sat beside you. Even through the blurred haze of vision, Wade's face was unmistakable. Shifting, you felt everything in you lock up—a hoarse cry falling past your lips.

Hands pushed you back down, steadying you gently as you were finally able to see the other person sitting on a table, munching on some fries. She had a shake beside her—feet propped up on the back of Wade's chair. The sunglasses she lost in the dirt were back atop her head, keeping her hair back.

"Whoa there angel face." He fluffed the pillow violently, jolting you slightly. "You've got two broken ribs and a wound across your torso that would give me being ripped in half by Juggernaut a run for my money."

"W-Where's-"

"Shhh." He raised a crystal glass of water to your lips. "Nurse Wade is here to take care of you. Sorry I don't have the outfit. I couldn't get to a Spirit Halloween in time."

Laura snorted into her food. "It's July."

"That doesn't matter. Those stores are like herpes. You can't ever get rid of that fucker."

"Where's Logan," you said through a broken whisper.

The silence isn't what scared you. No, you'd been through too much to be scared by the threat of nothing but melancholy looks in favor of telling you the truth. You could handle the quiet. What sent terror into your heart was the fact that you knew before you even opened your eyes where he was. His warmth was nowhere to be found in this bedroom; it barely lingered on your own body.

The man who held your heart, who promised to always protect you, was gone.

"No," you breathed, tears welling up and once again blurring your vision.

"He didn't want to go," Laura interjected.

You blinked furiously to keep them at bay. "What do you mean?"

"Fortuna." She pointed to the window that overlooked an expanse of green.

With a pained gasp, you turned to see what she was directing you towards—eyes fixing on a clearly buried grave covered in fresh dirt. A shovel stood straight, plunged a foot into the ground—the handle covered in a stain of deep brown.

Laura exhaled heavily. "She's dead. Logan buried her after he...killed her."

The breath rushed from your lungs, anguish slicing through your heart. "He..."

Wade nodded, somber and horrifyingly quiet. "He wanted to stay sweet angel. We forced him to go."

"Why?" you exclaimed, your body trembling under the stress of waking up too soon. "If he wanted to stay-"

"He was broken. I thought when I found him it was bad. This was worse angel face." Wade gathered your hands in his, drawing you close with a sigh. "He needs to grieve her."

"But I love him," you whimpered, unashamed by how fast the tears were falling. Laura watched you with the eyes of her father—striking your heart in a way that split you in two. "I-I didn't get to tell him."

"He knew," she murmured softly. "Trust me."

Wade pressed a swift kiss to your hands. "He'll come home. I made him fucking promise to return to you. But right now he's gotta figure some shit out."

Laura slipped off the table, curled onto the end of the bed and handed you something folded and crumpled—streaked in stains of blood and ink that bled through the thin notebook paper. You took it with a shaky breath, cold hands closing around hers with a grim smile. Something to let her know that you were thankful for everything she did.

She wasn't your daughter. This you knew. But you wouldn't mind if she bestowed that title on you one day.

In fact...you hoped she would.

"He told me to give that to you," she said, eyes brighter than before.

You sucked in a painful breath, unfolding the letter with trembling hands. Seeing his handwriting was like a punch to your chest. The smudged words and crossed out lines as he attempted to explain himself in words for the first time. This wasn't his forte—you understood that—but the fact that he tried filled your chest with warmth.

Honey,

Don't hate Wade or even my kid for me not being there. Believe me I fuckin' wanted to. Almost ripped him to pieces when he told me I had to go for your sake. But they were right. You Fortuna was the only family I had left. I have to remember what loving her felt like. I need to let her go.

Wade and Laura are there to protect you, care for you like I can't right now. But I made a promise to you and her. So you can expect me back one day.

I care about you

I love you.

So much.

I'll love you till the end honey. Don't forget that.

-Logan

You clutched the paper to your chest, salt coating your taste buds as you sobbed for the man that you failed to protect. You would have died for him. He knew this. Perhaps that's why he left; to give you a chance to heal without him. To return as the Logan you met, not the one mangled by grief.

Laura moved closer, her hand shifting to clutch yours as tears glistened in her eyes. A solemn smile on her face. This is what Logan offered you. People who loved you; people who would die for you. Logan made sure that even in his absence you'd be safe—protected.

He gave you the one thing he couldn't keep for himself. The one aspect of his life he had to learn to accept.

Logan left you a family.

note: my brain is mush but i love you guys. it will get better i promise!

[spaceratprodigy]

yeah yeah always talking abt roseway and fallbrook arcs. we never talk about the fucking rage that comes out of her when dropping in byzantium btw

[mswyrr]

One of the most important bits of dialogue in hotd is from Viserys in 1x01:

"The idea that we control the dragons is an illusion. They're a power man should never have trifled with. One that brought Valyria its doom. If we don't mind our own histories, it will do the same to us."

This is a man who bonded with Balerion, The Black Dread, the oldest dragon who had actually hatched in Old Valyria. This was the same dragon who flew Princess Aerea, a 12-year-old girl who bonded with him, back to Valyria against her will - sickening and killing her in the process (Fire & Blood, p 263). The little girl was away from her home at the time and probably feeling "I want to go home" but what Balerion did with that feeling killed her. His will was strong and his memory was *deep*.

Viserys only rode him one time, his inaugural flight, and then never again. IMO he experienced something bonding with that ancient beast that--in addition to studying the family's history and Valyrian lore--convinced him of the danger and fundamentally uncontrollable nature of dragons.

It is totally in keeping with canon events that Vhagar, in the current timeline the most ancient dragon alive--a dragon who drank deep of bloodshed and war with Visenya during the Conquest and *likes* war--translated Aemond's anger at Lucerys into murder of the boy and his small dragon. It is perfectly in keeping with what the show has been saying since episode 1.

An ancient, powerful and wilful dragon overcoming the will of its rider is *literally canon*. Princess Aerea must have been terrified during the whole, long flight to Valyria, and yet all her protests couldn't stop the dragon she'd bonded to.

I would also say that the Valyrians turned magical creatures, dragons, into weapons of warfare - that the dragons, in that sense, represent war. And the show is imo fundamentally antiwar - so here war is something you cannot control. GRRM has said the dragons are "nukes," which fits with this reading:

“Dragons are the nuclear deterrent, and only [Daenerys Targaryen, one of the series’ heroines] has them, which in some ways makes her the most powerful person in the world,” Martin said in 2011. “But is that sufficient? These are the kind of issues I’m trying to explore. The United States right now has the ability to destroy the world with our nuclear arsenal, but that doesn’t mean we can achieve specific geopolitical goals. Power is more subtle than that. You can have the power to destroy, but it doesn’t give you the power to reform, or improve, or build.” (source)

War and nukes - you cannot aim them only at the guilty, only at those you hate; you cannot prevent them from consuming the innocent as well. They a raging fire that consumes, that is all. And so, on that level, I just adore what they're doing and how it all fits together.

Aemond's domestic violence fits too - boys go to war thinking it will be honorable and manly and they'll protect "their women" but instead come home and hurt those very women. This thing burns and burns until it is exhausted, and it doesn't stay contained, not within you or outside you. "So it goes," to steal a phrase from antiwar writer Kurt Vonnegut.

The reason I keep coming back to my antiwar reading of the show is that things that people dismiss as "bad" or mock actually come together beautifully if you don't expect to war to be glorious and masterful and heroic. If you take the text seriously, in terms of what the dragons are metaphorically and what characters have outright said about their fundamentally uncontrollable nature. The lore supports what Vhagar did! That she could overcome a teenaged human's will with her century old bloodlust.

[sstan-hoe]

◇ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 ◇

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — aemond targaryen × targaryen!fem!reader (rhaenyras daughter)

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — After the death of your grandsire, Viserys Targaryen, your relationship with Aemond was hanging on a thread. For you, he was a murderer. For him, you were a traitor.

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 — is it a warning when I say I didn't know what I was doing? well, aemond is a warning, swearing, and violence, it's hotd yall

𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 — this me letting my anger for aemond and daemon out, but I promise I will also show my love them - just not in this one (I'm also kinda making fun of aemond). I'm not completely happy, but when am I?

As night settled in the Keep it became quiet, only the sound of fire could be heard. You sat on his bed, like every other night, always the same. A book on your lap, at least you weren’t bored of them yet.

Oh, how you hated it here, missing the times were you loved it, enjoyed it. Being supposed to marry Aemond felt like a blessing, after all he was someone, you had known your whole life. You trusted him, started loving him and saw your future with him.

Add to that, you weren’t forced to marry him, your mother, the Queen had asked. Knowing there could be worse husbands, he was a good choice and a way to smooth the relationship between your families.

Everything was fine, a day was set, and preparations were made, until Viserys Targaryen died. The following morning, he had locked you in his chambers, because you would not declare for Aegon.

Nothing had been the same since, all you saw in him now was a murderer and with every passing second you hated him more.

As if on cue Aemond walked inside with Criston Cole on his trail. “Oh, my soon to be husband! I have missed  you dearly, are you well? Tell me, did you do something exciting?” you asked, tone cheery as if you really cared.

“Spare me your false words of care Lady Strong,-“ “Velaryon,” you cut him off, facial expression changing into a glare. “No, Targaryen soon, is it not?” you changed your mind.

Of course, you would rather die than marry him now, however you found it quite amusing to correct him this way. The blonde shook his head, ignoring your words to sit down with the commander of the Kingsguard.

The guard looked at you with wary eyes, “what? Are you scared to insult my mother in front of me?” you shot at him, knowing every detail of his past – especially with Rhaenyra.

“Will you please take a bath darling?” Aemond questioned, annoyence evident in his voice. At that you scoffed, only when he wanted something he would use a pet name.

If he did not, then you were a bitch, Strong or traitor – whatever suited the moment. “If it pleases you my prince,” you snapped at him, although you would not be gone for long. There was not a chance you would let Cole speak bad about your mother.

---

“Rhaenyra is like a spider…,” Cole’s voice was faint, almost a whisper but you heard him. Catching Alicent in her web, how pathetic could someone be? Aside from Alicent’s lies and hypocrisy, Cole was just as bad.

Feeding Aemond all those lies, hiding his own history and thinking he wouldn’t be exposed. You could hardly contain your laughter.

Only wrapped in towel you entered the room again, both men looking at you. The princes eyes using all his power not to drop to your breasts.

“Ser Criston I think you should take your leave,” Aemond cleared his throat, in the years he had known you, it became clear to him what you were trying to do. Quickly Cole left, he knew where he was going.

“Could you please put on some clothes?” the blonde asked you, which you ignored and instead sat down oppisite of him. The towel slowly fell down, exposing a part of your breast.

“You know he’s lying right? My mother and Alicent were friends, best friends until she married my grandsire and then-,” “had bastards?” he cut in, not particular in the mood for this conversation. If the situation were different, maybe then he would listen to you, but it was not.

“He offered my mother his hand in marriage, wanted to sell oranges with her in Dorne. She rejected him and he is still not over it,” you continued as if he said nothing, you were not new to him calling you a bastard. At first it hurt but now you try to ignore it.

“Because your mother has never done anything wrong…,” he trailed off, he was tired of hearing you defend your mother. A part of him would do the same, still it drove him crazy.

Without thinking you took one of this little statues and threw it at him, “careful Aemond.” In the next moment Aemond was above you, caging you in between his arms and against the sofa. His quick movements caused you to flinch and the towel to fall down into your lap.

“I should be careful? You are here, held a prisoner…,” he told you, tone dangerously low. He knew it was hard to intimidate you but not impossible.

Although Aemond felt a heavy aversion towards you, he couldn’t deny how much he wanted you in the same moment. How he missed your talks that could go on for hours, and after a day where he interacted too much with Aegon, you would help him relieve some stress or when you begged him to braid his hair.

“Your mother has put those dreadful thoughts in your head, Cole is speaking lies because he needs the attention, because he wants to be seen as the victim,” you snapped at him, lifting your head up to meet his eyes.

“Do not speak of my mother this way-,” “you mean the woman who speaks with two tongues?” you interrupted him, satisfaction coming over you when you saw realisation wash over his face. “Yes, I heard you.”

There were no words coming from Aemond, which did not surprise you. “Have I silenced you?” a smirk growing on your lips.

He scoffed, shaking his head and standing up to walk towards your shared bed. The prince stripped himself of most of his clothes, knowing you were watching. “Ah, are you trying to tempt me again? That is not how a prince should behave…,” you taunted him.

“Mhm, you did not seem to mind before” he questioned, taking off his eye patch. Even if the two of you started hating each other, he still felt comfortable enough to walk around without it.

“I see you have no arguments anymore…well, that is how it must be when you finally come to realise you are in the wrong,” you couldn’t help it, as much as you enjoyed his company, the way he took your mind of the war. You could not let it happen anymore, you felt like a traitor to the realm.

Aemond scoffed at that, he said no word and left the room. You were stubborn and every discussion he had with you ended the same.

“Yes, just leave like you love to do!” you shouted after him in anger and within a second your brain snapped. Just as Aemond walked through the door, a cup hit the wall next to him with full force.

“Hobrenkys mittys,” you muttered to yourself once Aemond was completely gone.

---

On the next morrow, Aemond was nowhere to be found – as almost every day. Now you would be alone, almost dying of boredom and no one was allowed to see you.

You often saw Helaena, she wanted to come to you but never dared to go against her brothers orders and the guards standing outside your door.

There was only one person who would break this rule, Aegon. He would come in, talk about the weirdest things and he did not care if you were listening, he also didn’t seem to mind that you would never accept him as king.

And just like that the doors flew open, revealing Aegon. “Good morrow dear niece,” he sounded energetic, full of motivation.

 “Aegon, to what do I own this pleasure?” you asked him, laying back in bed. Already done with him, under different circumstances you might enjoy his company. However as of late he only stole your energy.

“Well, I actually am in search of my brother,” he revealed, causing you to roll your eyes, “and you truly thought you would find him here?” Aegon could not actually think this.

“It is his chamber, is it not?” he raised his eyebrows, spinning himself around. For him it was fun, to come in and point out the difficulties between Aemond and you – especially when he was drunk.

“Oh, how observant you are. What do you want?” you snapped at him, sitting up on the bed to watch him closely. The false king shrugged his shoulders, “you know I’m a good king.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at his statement, “you are no good king.” At this he looked at you offended, not actually believing what you just said.

With a sigh you leaned back, “no one prepared you, grandsire always saw Rhaenyra on the throne, so what would you know about ruling? Your whole life you could do whatever you wanted, no one told you how it works, and you became a foolish imbecile.” You told him honestly, he needed someone who wouldn’t lie to him or manipulate him.

Aegon let the words sink in and he did not like them, he didn’t want to accept the truth. A side effect of manipulation – he could not truly think that he was fit to rule and the heir.

He huffed, “you’re just like him,” with that he left you alone again. Who he was comparing you to, you didn’t know but it might as well be Aemond, “just like his brother.” That was true, if Aemond was out of arguments he started talking nonsense or told you something he had already said.

 As night fell in, your soon to be husband was not back yet which was not uncommon and still it felt like something was wrong, like something would happen. You had taken a bath, cleaned up his chambers, just to keep busy.

Laying there in bed felt horrible, like you were chained to it. If death was to take you, you would welcome it.

Suddenly the door opened, a strange man walked in with a cage in his hand. Once he saw you, he was confused, “m’lady please excuse me however I’m here to catch the rats,” he told you.

And you recognised him, he was no rat catcher, no he was a gold cloak. Why were there no guards around? Why did no one stop him?

“What do you want?” you asked him, maybe you were too bold but with Daemon as a father figure, there was nothing else to be expected. The man did not seem to know who you were.

Then another one came in looking more scared. “Is he here- ah, princess we are sorry. We did not mean to disturb you,” he bowed in front of you.

His actions made the gold cloak realise who he was talking to, who Daemon mentioned. The traitorous daughter of Queen Rhaenyra. Without much thought he grabbed you by your throat causing you to gasp in surprise.

“Where is your cunt of a husband?” he growled while pulling you closer, holding a knife to your throat. When you didn’t immediately answer he gripped your hair tightly, fear over came you as you felt the cold metal on your skin.

“I don’t know!” you cried, wishing Aemond would step inside right this moment. However, your wish was not granted, instead you were thrown to the ground with full force.

“Personally, I think you are lying, after all you are his bride or is whore a better fit?” he gave you a dirty smirk before striking you with the back of his hand.

Knowing it would be a mistake you glared at him, “shut your fucking mouth. I don’t know where he is nor do I care,” you spit at him. If there was one thing you learned, it was to never back down and right now death seemed like a blessing.

“You truly are a bitch,” he nodded and kicked you in the stomache, making you groan in pain. Tears streamed down your cheeks, why was there no guard around? Why did no one stand in front of this room?

“He sends his regards,” was the only thing the gold cloak muttered before leaving with the rat catcher close behind him.

Leaving you there, on the floor and fighting to stay conscious but closing your eyes felt too good.

---

As Aemond came back to the Keep everyone was running around, they were scarred. He looked around, seemingly the only person who was calm. Taking long strides the prince walked to their royal quarters.

There he found maids cleaning, double the amount of guards and a maester coming out of…his chambers? He came inside, the first he saw was you, on his bed with an empty gaze.

Said maester had given you tea, wrapped bandages around you throat, stomach and head. Every movement you made hurt more than the last.

“Darling,” he whispered, coming to kneel in front of you, slowly you lifted your head to meet his eye, “where were you?” you asked, voice hoarse.

No tone came from his lips, he couldn’t tell you where he had actually been. “Where have you been?” you asked again with more pressure. Getting no answer once more and it made you mad.

“Aemond where the fuck were you when I was being threatened, when I had to be scared for my life?” you snapped at him, heart breaking when you saw how his expression changed.

“They wanted you, they think I’m a traitor because of you. All the pain I had to endure because of you!” now you started screaming at him, he deserved it. “Jaehaerys is dead because of you. Not only do you kill my brother but also your own nephew.”

Then it dawned on Aemond, Daemon had sent them to take care of him. The Rogue Prince saw him as a challenge.

“Seven hells, you are not even listening to me. You are supposed to protect me and not be gone the whole day! I mean what was so important? Did- did you find some whore to-,” as you said the last sentence you noticed how he looked down for a second.

“You were with one,” you stated, scoffing to yourself and standing up, “just like Aegon, true brothers you are,” this couldn’t be happening. If he at least was better at being decent, as if being gone every night wasn’t suspicious.

“Do not compare me to that imbecile. They are terrified of me, no one is scared of Aegon,” Aemond argued, taking a step towards you, “Daemon sees me as a challenge, big enough to kill me in my sleep,” he was very convinced of himself.

You looked at him in disbelief, he could not truly believe your stepfather was scared of him. “How delusional can one be? A son for a son, you killed Luke, so they kill you. It is called revenge and because they were not able to find you, they chose Aegon’s heir,” you laughed at him, they way actually thought this was about him being a threat.

Yes, Daemon thought you were a traitor however he had always been a special person, so you did not think much of it. If he wanted to believe it, then he shall.

The moment you were able to get out of here and speak with your mother, everything would clear up. You also hoped Rhaenyra would allow you to burn Daemon for the torture he put you through.

“Do not laugh at me, if he wanted revenge then he would have done it himself,” was he trying to convince you or himself? Probably himself.

“Shall he burn the Keep with Caraxes? Daemon is a lot but not stupid, unlike you,” shaking your head, you sat down of the sofa, standing was too exhausting. In the past you thought there could never be a moment where you hated it here more but now you realised there was.

“Aemond you are weak, the only thing that makes you dangerous is Vaghar and if she is not by your side? Then you are nothing,” those words made something twitch in him.

The next moment he had you pressed against the cushions with his hands around your throat. “Am I still weak?”

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | I do have a taglist however it has conditions that must be followed — you can follow @sstanhoe-updates for updates without anything

𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑮𝑨𝑹𝒀𝑬𝑵𝑺 — @georgiapeach30513 @meyocoko

[nunununuy]

Part 1

Part 2

Prince x Fem Reader

Title: "Changing the Fate of the Third Prince"

After an accident causes her to regain memories of her past life, (name) realizes she is living in the world of a romance novel she once read. In this world, she is merely a minor character—the cousin of the novel’s female lead, Selina, who is engaged to the First Prince, Arthur. However, she knows that the novel’s story ends in tragedy when the neglected Third Prince, Rafael, stages a coup and becomes a tyrant, resulting in the death of the protagonist’s entire family.

Determined to change this terrible fate, she sets out to get closer to Rafael and prevent him from becoming the ruthless emperor. Through her careful efforts—frequenting the royal library, learning archery, and subtly encouraging Rafael’s reconciliation with his family—she hopes to alter the course of events and protect everyone from the dark future she remembers.

As she navigates the complex politics of the royal family and Rafael’s deep emotional scars, she must act quickly to rewrite the ending of the story before it’s too late.

---

Selina was the perfect fit for this aristocratic world—graceful, intelligent, and always smiling at everyone. She was the main character of the romance novel I had read in my previous life, and here, she was my cousin. Today, she was officially engaged to the First Prince, Arthur Elric, heir to the throne and the future emperor.

Arthur was the ideal prince—respected by everyone and always fair in his decisions. From the perspective of the novel, they were the perfect couple. However, I knew that their happiness would be shattered in the future when the Third Prince, Rafael, would stage a coup and seize the throne.

As the engagement party proceeded, I could see the joy radiating from Selina's face. But amidst the celebration, one figure stood apart: Rafael. As described in the novel, Rafael was Arthur's younger brother, but their relationship was distant, cold even. Rafael always felt ignored, forgotten by his family.

This was the beginning of the tragedy. In the future, Rafael's disappointment and anger towards his family would reach a boiling point, and he would use violence to claim the throne. And if I didn’t intervene, Selina—and my entire family—would be destroyed alongside him.

I had to act. The best way to prevent the dark future I had seen was to get close to Rafael. But in a world where status meant everything, a mere cousin of the future queen had no clear reason to approach the Third Prince so openly.

***

To meet Rafael more frequently, I needed a valid reason. Luckily, due to Selina's engagement to Arthur, I had access to many royal events. As Selina’s cousin, I was invited to every ball, formal gathering, and family occasion. However, just attending these events wasn’t enough. Rafael was rarely seen, even at his own family’s gatherings.

I had to figure out a way to cross paths with him outside of the major events.

1. Frequenting the Royal Library

One thing I had learned from the novel was that Rafael often spent his time in the royal library. He was interested in books about history, military strategy, and politics. The library was his sanctuary, a place where he could be alone and escape the outside world.

I decided to frequent the library as well, hoping to encounter him there. By carrying books that looked 'serious,' I tried to appear as though I was genuinely interested in the subjects that Rafael liked. I began visiting regularly, and after several coincidental encounters, Rafael started to notice my presence.

“Again?” his cold voice broke the silence as I was flipping through a book in one corner of the library.

I turned and saw Rafael standing near a bookshelf, his eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion. “Why are you always here?” he asked.

I smiled gently, trying not to show any nervousness. “I find peace in the library. It’s quiet and calm here. Besides, I’m interested in history.”

He stared at me for a moment, then without saying another word, turned back to his books. I knew this didn’t mean he accepted my presence, but at least he hadn’t told me to leave.

2. Joining Archery Practice

In the novel, it was mentioned that Rafael was an exceptionally skilled archer. To get closer to him, I decided to start learning archery. It was a risky idea since I had never held a bow or arrow before, but I knew Rafael frequently practiced in the palace grounds, and it could be an opportunity to interact with him.

I began with private lessons from one of the palace instructors, hoping to improve enough to not embarrass myself. Over time, I grew accustomed to the bow and arrow, though it was far from perfect.

One day, while I was practicing, Rafael appeared at the training ground. I noticed him from the corner of my eye but pretended not to acknowledge him. However, from the way he glanced in my direction, I knew he was aware of my frequent presence.

“Your bow is too low,” his sudden voice startled me.

I paused and turned to him. He was approaching, his expression unreadable. “You won’t hit the target like that.”

Without waiting for my response, Rafael took the bow from my hands with ease and positioned an arrow. In one swift motion, the arrow flew straight to the target, landing dead center.

I smiled, though inwardly I was a little nervous. This was the first time he had spoken to me with more than a single sentence. “Maybe I need more practice.”

He looked at me seriously, then handed the bow back. “Practice isn’t about how much time you spend, but how you do it.”

From that day on, Rafael occasionally watched me practice archery. Sometimes, he gave brief tips, always in his cold, matter-of-fact tone. But I knew, little by little, the distance between us was closing.

***

The more I observed Rafael around his family, the clearer it became: there was a deeper reason for the coldness between them. The tension wasn’t just a matter of different personalities or social obligations. There was something profound and painful hidden beneath the surface.

Through whispers from palace servants and snippets of conversations between the royal family members, I learned the truth. Rafael’s relationship with his family had been strained from the very beginning—since his birth. His mother, Empress Elena, had died giving birth to him. She left a wound so deep in the hearts of the Emperor and his two older sons, Arthur and the Second Prince, Lionel, that they could never fully accept Rafael.

For them, Rafael was a constant reminder of the loss they had suffered. Whenever they looked at him, they were reminded of Elena, the woman they had loved so dearly but who never had the chance to see her youngest son grow up. The Emperor had never truly accepted Rafael. In fact, unknowingly, he began distancing himself from his youngest son. Arthur and Lionel, following their father’s lead, also harbored an unspoken resentment towards Rafael, even though he was blameless.

The world could be cruel to those who were innocent. Rafael had been born into grief, and that was why he never had a place in his family’s heart.

Though I had read the novel, the deeper emotions behind the family’s dynamic were never fully explored. It only mentioned that Rafael was ignored and disliked, but now, understanding the backstory, I could see why he had become so cold and isolated.

Rafael wasn’t just neglected; he was a victim of his family’s tragedy. All their anger, all their grief, had been placed upon him—the Third Prince, whom no one had ever asked for.

Every time there was a royal event, Rafael preferred to sit alone in a corner. Not because he didn’t want to interact, but because he knew no one wanted him there. Every glance from his father and brothers was filled with unspoken grief and rejection.

***

I knew that healing a wound this deep wouldn’t be quick. Rafael had lived with the feeling of being an outcast for years. But if I wanted to change the future and prevent Rafael from becoming a tyrant, I had to help mend this broken relationship.

The first step I took was to subtly guide conversations whenever we met. Each time there was a chance to mention Arthur or the Emperor, I would casually bring up something positive about them. “I’ve heard Prince Arthur is quite skilled in diplomacy,” I mentioned one day at the library when we were reading near each other. “He’ll make a great emperor in the future.”

As expected, Rafael didn’t respond immediately, but I could tell he heard me. Even though he didn’t return with warm words, I knew I was slowly planting the seeds of reconciliation.

I also began creating small moments where Rafael could interact with his family. For example, during royal dinners, I would mention topics that could involve Rafael in the conversation. Once, I brought up a book on military strategy I had been reading, knowing Rafael was interested in the subject. Arthur, though not particularly intrigued, asked for Rafael’s opinion on the book.

“You must know more about military strategy than I do, Rafael,” Arthur half-joked.

Rafael simply nodded, but at least there was some form of conversation. It was a small step, but every word exchanged was a move toward change. My goal was simple: to help Rafael feel like he had a place in his family, even if only a little.

***

Helping Rafael rediscover a sense of belonging within his family was a crucial part of my plan to avoid the tragic future. If I could help him heal even a small part of his emotional wounds, perhaps he wouldn’t become the cruel tyrant who would seize the throne through bloody rebellion.

I knew the road ahead was long, but every small step mattered. Because behind his cold exterior, Rafael was just a wounded soul, one who had lost his family before he ever had the chance to know them.

But time was ticking, and I had to act quickly before the novel’s fate unfolded once again.

___

[fatcatlittlebox]

I had an ask about my analysis of Galadriel’s mindset during the season finale and I’ve been avoiding it because I f*cking hated the dialogue they gave her. The more I thought about it though, the more it made sense to me. Galadriel doesn’t want to believe that any of what she shared with Halbrand was real. She doesn’t want to allow that possibility. As others have said, she didn’t just want what he offered. She wanted him. If “he” doesn’t exist, it makes it easier to “shut the door.” She may go her whole life convincing herself that it was a farce to him. Even if that’s how she comes to terms with it, is that really being healed?

From the beginning of their reunion, you could see Galadriel avoids facing Sauron. She doesn’t turn around when he approaches her from behind. She’s frozen. It’s because she doesn’t trust how she will react when she sees his face. Especially if he has the form of Halbrand. She’s terrified of him and she’s terrified of herself. Her mistrust is well placed as we see later. Then, it is only when Sauron faces away from her that she tries to strike him down. Because in confronting him this way, she won’t actually have to face him.

But of course, it doesn’t work. They both knew it wouldn’t. She won’t get off that easily. It’s also an attempt on her part to keep him at a distance. It’s her way of telling him, she’s not here to talk. Sauron flips it on her though. Because Galadriel isn’t a talker anyways. She’s a fighter and violence is a language he is fluent in. He turns their duel into a physical and symbolic conversation. And Galadriel hates it. She hates that he can singularly access her this way and the way no one else can. So she keeps pushing him back and shutting him down. The rest of their confrontation Galadriel volleys a series of sarcastic replies whenever Sauron tries to be sincere with her. She sneeringly asks if he wants to heal her. He says he wants “to heal…” and pauses.

The truth is in that silence. He wishes to heal. Sadly, now it’s established that they’re both going to be lying to themselves so why be honest and open with each other going forward? I think that’s for a multitude of reasons. One, if she deflects his entreaties with sarcasm, she’s not letting his words hit their mark. He can’t worm his way into her mind again. And after having heard Adar describe his own relationship and feelings with Sauron, then watching him get brutally murdured, she feels entirely justified in cosigning that Sauron is an insidious manipulator. That she is no different and would end up exactly as the fallen elf.

Sauron, she tells herself, is the embodiment of evil. She’s not wrong. However, evil can love. It can be twisted and fucked up but no less real. However, that kind of gray area would spell the collapse of her defenses. So she makes him to be this generic evil and responds to him with generic platitudes. It’s impersonal, detached. Business as usual. It’s survival. She has declared in her mind that Sauron is not Halbrand. Ignoring the fact that her mind is not where he slithered his way in. He found his way through her heart.

And Sauron, for his part does a shitty job of convincing her otherwise. There are moments of earnest vulnerability sprinkled in there but in the heat of her anger and outrage, she cannot see it. Their fight tells a story in itself and he toys with her. She knows it too. What’s more, the fight becomes a microcosm of their relationship. She pursues him and he bats her away. He nicks her in precise places on her body - her shoulder, where he saw Valandil pierce her with his sword and then her left flank, where Halbrand was injured - like he means to recall their shared history. But instead of a caress, it’s a cut.

Then he morphs into Halbrand, then Galadriel, then Celebrimbor. He’s telling her that he sees and remembers everything. What she feels is ridiculed and used like a puppet. Finally, the last place he cuts her is over her heart. An unhealing scar will be left. Still he sees and remembers everything. That wound is for the both of them.

By the end of their fight, Sauron has unintentionally reinforced what Galadriel had set out to prove in her mind, if not in her heart. Halbrand never existed. She feels triumphant over Sauron and over the darkness that haunts her. She believes she is “healed.” It’s a parallel of her leap from the ship bound for the Undying Lands. Instead of turning it away, she’s embracing her death and her closure. At the same time, Sauron reaches an epiphany that is similar to her own but fundamentally different: Halbrand is no more. As I had stated before, Sauron likely associates Halbrand as the most vulnerable version of himself even if it is the closest to the truth. It is the version of himself he saw ruling with Galadriel. But he sees this as a failed effort, so it wouldn’t serve a practical purpose to be Halbrand anymore. It was a risk he would rather avoid and he probably wants him gone as badly as she does.

However both of those premises are faulty. Because we, the viewers know what they deny: Halbrand is Sauron. He always will be. They are both lying to themselves. Which begs the question: Was Galadriel healed and reborn in light? Or was she rejected by death because her sacrifice was built on a half-truth? Had she been sent back because she had not completed her mission? She had said her task was to remove the stain of his evil from Middle Earth. Halbrand is Sauron. Even though the door to her mind is shut, the door to her heart is a different story. And his stain is still there.

[strawberrystepmom]

izuku x f!reader. enemies to lovers au, workshopped with @izvmimi <33333 her follow up part can be found here. wc 3.6k.

With an exasperated sigh, Izuku points the remote that looks comically small in his hand toward the flat screen TV screwed into his office wall to turn the volume up the moment you come on screen. 

“This week, yet another family was displaced by the inaction of heroes. When the focus shifted from merely catching villains rather than protecting the public…”

Your voice drifts into a blur, the man choosing to focus on your mouth and how it’s moving rather than what you’re saying. Plush and soft, topped with camera ready shimmering gloss. Your eyes are wide and doe like, your cheeks round and trustworthy. You’re the picture of empathy, pretty and polished, immaculate in every way.

It certainly isn’t hard to imagine why VOHSV, Victims of Hero Supported Violence, picked you as their spokesperson. Who else could manage this busy talk show circuit with expert precision? Watching you play the crowd and hosts’ emotions like a violin makes him roll his eyes but he can’t deny you are damn good. 

Your message is infuriating to him and his colleagues but at least you look like heaven sent while spreading it. It’s probably why everything you say spreads like wildfire across the social media apps he has open on his unlocked phone that rests on his desk. 

He’s listened to your spiel enough times that he can already fill in the blanks of what you’re saying but he picks up the remote and turns the volume up an additional click to be certain you haven’t deviated from your usual points. Costly property damage, displacement, lack of available care to those affected by the trauma of villain attacks, blah, blah, blah.

The interviewer appears on screen as the camera pans, nodding at the last comment you made that Izuku didn’t care to actually listen to.  

“And how does your organization suggest the Commission begin combating these issues?”

The camera is quick to pan back to you with your perfect smile, teeth striking and bright and dazzling. The man watching from his oversized office and overstuffed chair clenches his fist watching you, uncertain if it’s annoyance or desire that fills his chest, but he doesn’t look away despite the flashing red light on his desk phone telling him he’s being paged by his assistant. 

“I am personally calling upon the top heroes to do better.” Your smile doesn’t waver and the camera zooms in on your head and shoulders, allowing your next impassioned plea to land directly where you intend it to. “Deku, you claim you care, yet you are responsible for the most costly property damage caused by a hero in Japanese history. How do you explain that with that big smile plastered on your face?”

Bold of you to be taunting the man chuckling humorlessly from his desk about plastered on smiles with a high definition flat screen sized Cheshire grin of your own on your face but he appreciates the audacity. 

“Be a hero instead of just talking about being one.”

Perhaps if your life’s path were different you’d be a hero just like him or maybe he’d even be you, full of righteous anger toward those who only wish to help no matter the means. Or collateral. 

Without thinking, Izuku pulls his phone off of the top of his desk and his jaw slackens when he presses the little pen in the corner of the current most popular app in the app store. The speed of his thumbs is almost impressive, big hands on a little phone screen won’t stop the number one hero, and he smirks when his phone pings letting him know his post has gone live. 

Deku (@fight4smiles)

Name the time and place, VOHSV. I’ll gladly drop a check by to cover some of the damage you allege I’ve been doing. 

He gets to see your reaction in real time, the camera panning from you to the interviewer who grins excitedly, pressing on their in ear microphone and back. The man chuckles to himself, swinging back and forth in his chair, lips curved into a smirk. 

“It appears the current number one hero has responded to your challenge. He’s willing to meet.”

Your smile droops but you’re quick to put it back in place, brows raised and head nodding wildly. The adversarial relationship between the two of you is nothing new, Deku having spent the better part of this entire year ducking and dodging your direct invitations to speak with the VOHSV. 

He watches you smack your lips together and purse them, primly placing your hands in your lap and laughter comes easily. It’s no big deal to him to cut a check to help put some buildings back together, the many zeros on the end of his bank balance just one of the many perks of being at the top but it has never been about that for him.

Deep down, he knows he’ll never change your mind about your crusade but he would love to shut you up at least for a little while. 

“How brave of him to finally step up. I will be reaching out to him soon with details.”

The red light on Izuku’s desk phone continues to blink wildly and just as he leans forward to answer it, his office door opens and his assistant stares at him with disbelief with the current number two Dynamight hot on their heels, pulling his mask off of his head and gently shoving them out of the way.

The assistant scurries back to their position outside of Deku’s office as quickly as possible, allowing the men privacy.

“Why did you do that?” 

Izuku looks down at his cell phone and tosses it on his desk with a relaxed shrug. He catches a glance at your pretty face one last time before shutting the TV off, tossing the remote aside and turning his attention toward Katsuki with his arms folded over his chest. 

“You know that you’re giving them what they want, right? Giving these shitheads attention is just going to create more of ‘em.”

More of them - outspoken victims’ rights activists. VOHSV is simply one of many groups that have cropped up over the last several years as hero academies have continued to churn out bigger and better heroes with every graduating class. It has been a decade since Izuku and Katsuki graduated and the classes after them have only become stronger, a source of pride for both of the men, given their hefty donations to their alma mater. 

Sure the battles have become bigger, spectacles to be adapted into films and documentaries later, but isn’t that what being a hero is all about? What’s left behind after you save the day, no matter who may be affected?

The heroes of today are simply doing what they’ve been taught to do and that’s save the day no matter the cost. It’s hard to hold it against them when it’s systemic and historically that has been the main reason why most advocacy groups have fallen apart but not the VOHSV. They are succeeding because they have you, coiffed to perfection and ready to take anyone you can to task, including the devilishly handsome and arrogant man topping the hero charts.

Izuku sighs, his phone buzzing persistently on the desk in front of him. It’s certainly his agent or his PR team or someone eager to scold him for what he’s done so he ignores it, sliding the little piece of metal aside.

“I’d care more if their points were valid but we both know they aren’t. I’ll cut a check, flash a smile, and hopefully make their mouthpiece look silly enough she’ll stop doing press circuits. It seems like a winning situation to me.”

Bakugou snorts, unimpressed with the answer.

“What if this backfires and you look stupid?”

Izuku’s phone continues to buzz and he opens his desk drawer, sliding the device inside rather than deal with the issue at hand. He’ll comfort everyone later, what matters the most to him right now is when you’ll be brave enough to reach out to show him your hand. Right now, he has you backed into a corner and he simply wants to watch you make your way out of it, smug that he’s the one who has you pinned there.

“Impossible. People don’t take these organizations seriously enough for me to look stupid.”

Katsuki snorts, leaning against the door frame rather than fully entering the office. He was asked to stop by earlier this week, the two of them supposed to be ironing out details to appear at a hospital opening in another part of the city, but the task has clearly been put aside for a petty online feud headed by the Beacon of Hope himself.

“I think you’re already stupid.”

Izuku offers a curt smile and nods at his friend.

“I’ll take that into consideration along with all of your other opinions, don’t worry.” 

Any further argument between the two is cut short when Deku’s assistant bursts back onto the scene, peeking around the door frame. 

“Uh…the VOHSV spokesperson is on the phone for you, Mr. Midoriya.”

Izuku laughs and raises his brows, shifting forward in his chair and pressing the flashing line one button indicating a call is waiting. He presses his thick finger to his lips to encourage Bakugou and his assistant to be quiet and he hits the speaker button immediately.

“I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon.”

It takes all of you not to toss your phone across the room at the sound of his voice through your speaker. You’re in the back of a chauffeured vehicle, phone pressed to your ear so hard you swear that your cheek and head are going to hurt later, nursing a bottle of water in your free hand. 

You weren’t expecting to hear from him so soon, either.

“I figured since you are so eager and have so much to say we may as well get this over with. We have an event on Friday night and you will be forwarded the details on location and attire and we are anticipating your donation of over five million yen. It will help many who have been harmed due to your recklessness.”

The blood pulsing in his ears makes the room seem smaller, the walls caving in on him with your words. You’re so adversarial toward him, so eager to bite and nip and bat with your claws out, and he wants to know why. What happened to make you distrust people like him so much? 

Remembering he’s the one who has you backed into a corner, he shifts in his chair and tents his fingers on the desk in front of him.

“I’ll have your check, don’t worry. I won’t let you look silly in front of the fourteen VOHSV supporters you have to impress.”

You scoff incredulously. There is something seriously wrong with this man, his arrogance blinding his common sense. Your fingers ache where they grip into the metal sides of your phone and the driver keeps shifting his gaze from the road to the mirror to see your face twist into varying degrees of frustration and anger. Taking a deep breath, you let your lips curve into a smile and narrow your eyes. 

Focus. You have him where you want him.

“I didn’t realize this conversation was meant for stooping to petty insults but I can’t say I’m shocked. It’s hardly a surprise you refuse to take anyone else’s safety given your own personal record of injured civilians while you’re handling villain attacks.”

Bakugou’s jaw drops and Izuku leans forward to lift the phone from its cradle, pressing the button to turn it off speaker at near record speed. It takes all of his self control to keep from snapping the cord in two knowing it would effectively end the call and thus his opportunity to antagonize you further.

“Well, you aren’t the only one who has done their homework. We pulled a profile on you months ago and know your entire background. You have no relevant experience that would allow you to criticize heroes the way that you do. Put yourself in our shoes.”

You snort from the other end of the phone, impressed by how bad he is at lying. Arrogance has truly won out over any logic this man may have in his entire body and you suck your teeth, jaw slackening because you have truly won this round.

“See, Deku, here’s the thing. If you were telling the truth about anything you just said then you would already know that I am a graduate of an international hero academy. I have been where you are, or at least wanted to be, but then I came to my senses. I used to hope you’d be able to do the same but it appears my faith was misplaced.”

Now Izuku’s jaw drops, his emerald eyes darting across the room as though the words he needs will magically spring forth from the walls. Sadly, nothing happens and he sits there with his mouth agape dumbly. 

“I look forward to seeing you on Friday. Don’t forget that check.”

You pull the phone from your ear and end the call, laughing to yourself knowing that you left this cocky asshole speechless. He mimics your motion in his own office, pulling his desk phone from his ear and placing it back where it belongs. As badly as he wants to be frustrated by the loss to you, he’s impressed by how easily you hit back without an ounce of fear or worry of what you’re getting yourself into.

A woman as beautiful as she is brave and irritating.

He feels his cock stiffen slightly in his sweatpants the longer he thinks about it and frowns, immediately thinking of exploding buildings and grandmas to distance himself from the fact he’s into how eagerly you spar with him.

His assistant and Bakugou both stare at him, his friend laughing and turning on his heel to leave, waving dismissively.

“Like I said Deku, you’re already stupid. Have fun on Friday.”

Izuku’s assistant follows suit and closes the door behind them, giving him time to lick his wounds.

The rest of the week continues like his weeks usually do. He’s called four times to handle villain attacks, each one ending a little less destructive than the last, and Thursday is when he sees you on TV again, smiling brightly on a different talk show in the same time slot you were in on Monday.

He keeps the TV muted, uninterested in what you have to say about the people he saved this week, but he watches your mouth move silently. His eyes narrow every time your tongue darts out, the tip of it wetting your bottom lip and his freckled cheeks heat when your lips twist into that winning smile. 

That damned smile.

This man has made bringing smiles to faces his entire personality since the day he zipped up his prototype suit years ago, vowing on that day to work as hard as he could no matter how bleak things seemed. It worked and it’s what he’s known for, joy and hope and safety the things he strives for the most. 

Watching you smile while calling his character into question makes him simultaneously furious and hard again and he has to cross his legs and imagine those same exploding buildings when you press your lips together on the screen in front of him. 

A knock on the office door captures his attention and his assistant opens the door, clipboard in hand.

“You have a tux fitting for tomorrow.”

Reaching for the remote he turns his TV off and rises with a nod. Everyone knows you have to look your very best for your biggest battles and he has no intention of showing up to meet you face to face looking like anything less than a magazine cover.

He just never imagined you’d do the same yet here you stand, 8 pm on Friday night, draped in dazzling gold silk that hugs every inch of your body. You’re taller than he expected, one long leg jutting from the slit in your dress and elegant neck draped in simple jewelry.

You’re beautiful in a way that TV did little to capture and the arrogant man finds himself speechless when you hold out your hand in his direction, grinning at him. He searches for hidden fangs and finds none, just perfect pretty teeth.

“I wanted to apologize for earlier this week, this organization is my passion and it gets the best of me sometimes.”

Your words catch him off guard so he just nods and shakes your hand. If you notice his sweaty palm you keep it to yourself and he internally chides himself for his nerves. He is the fucking number one hero, his face is plastered on every single corner of Japan, and he needs to remember that. 

“Hey, we all have bad days. I’m just glad to be here to shed some light on a small cause.”

Your smile dims and his widens, your palm quickly leaving his. Heat simmers in your core and you feel disgusted by your own desire. Sure, he’s one of the most attractive men you’ve ever seen - all big muscles that his tuxedo does little to hide and pretty green waves falling over his face but he’s also the biggest asshole you’ve had the unfortunate luck of meeting.

Drawing your hands close to your body, you fight the urge to petulantly fold your arms over your chest, and he digs in his pocket to produce the check he promised. He holds it out in your direction and you pluck it from his hand, eyes widening when you notice that the amount written on the check is far larger than the five million yen previously discussed. 

“Doubled your donation. Very kind of you, Deku.”

He smirks and you feel warm again, cheeks heating in perfect time with your core. Perhaps it’s the glass of champagne you downed an hour ago to calm your nerves or the low lighting of the event space but he is undeniably attractive and you are undeniably attracted to him.

A terrible realization to come to while face to face with a man you called a liar and a fraud four short days ago.

Izuku enters your space and crowds around you, dipping his head low enough that his mouth is just above your ear. He’s bigger than you expected, an entire head taller than you, and you feel overwhelmed by the scent of his cologne and the way he carries himself. He has the demeanor of a man who knows he’s the shit and as much as it aggravates you, it thrills you too, the same heat lashing through your stomach with every flutter of his long lashes.

“Call me an optimist but I think we can still salvage a friendship out of this situation.”

You laugh, shaking your head and clutching the check he provided to your chest.

“There’s an after party starting soon if you don’t have more buildings to go destroy. I’m sure the rest of the VOHSV team would love to thank you personally for your generous donation.”

The hero presses his lips together and raises his brow, blazing green eyes meeting yours. The tension between the two of you is so thick that even the most unaware onlooker would feel it but the room is relatively empty and you’re grateful for it.

“Maybe I only want one person to thank me for my donation.”

Raising a brow to match his, you purse your lips and quickly consider your options. You could give in to the undeniable attraction, a sordid affair with a man you seek to change as part of your life’s work couldn’t possibly be good for optics if you were to be exposed. You could walk away and publicly embarrass him but that doesn’t sound like fun either so you do what you do best - think on your feet and hide your true intentions behind big doe eyes and a winning smile.

“There’s a powder room down that hall, last door on the right,” you motion to a corridor to your left and his eyes follow your movements. “Be there in ten minutes.” 

Izuku nods, moving enough to allow you to slip past him and he watches the way your dress shifts across your ass with each step you take away from him. He isn’t going to bother to be polite anymore knowing what is coming next, his mouth watering at the mere thought of watching that pretty little dress drop to the ground below both of your feet while he uncovers the treasure beneath it. 

His half hard cock presses against the zipper of his tuxedo pants and he doesn’t bother to adjust himself, taking a shortcut that keeps him against the wall and away from prying eyes to the hallway you instructed him to follow. Each step makes his cock throb and he groans when he reaches for the door handle, wondering what he’ll find when he opens it.

Twisting the handle, he chuckles humorlessly when his eyes fall upon an empty powder room. A large mirror framed by lights with a small sink and counter in front of it are all he finds and he shakes his head, eyes falling upon a folded piece of paper sitting on the counter.

Flicking the paper open with his thumb and index finger, he frowns at the words he reads first.

Better luck next time.

Followed by your name signed in delicate penmanship he traces the tip of his thumb over. The ink is still wet and it smears, his thumb marked with black. His eyes trail further down the note and spot your number below your name, the ink the digits were written in still shining.

At least you leaving your number tells him there will certainly be a next time.

[punksocks]

Warning Signs That You May Have A Toxic/Karmic Significant Other

Hey everyone, you may have seen my recent post about breaking up with my ex partner after 5.5 years. If not, I’ve been deep in reflection after ending this relationship. My reasons for ending it were that he refused to seek professional help to manage his anger which would come out in constant outbursts of violence (not physical ab*se but hitting walls, kicking furniture, scarring my dog, etc) and his mental health in general. After breaking things off I analyzed our relationship and all the red flags became crystal clear in hindsight. This blog is not only my emotional space to reflect, but also a place to give out advice to make sure you guys feel less alone in the world. So I’ve compiled a list of behaviors that made it clear that in hindsight the relationship was destine to be toxic and could not continue. It’s important to take lessons from painful experiences in order to continue to grow, and that’s what I hope I can help with by sharing my experiences here:

(TW Manipulation, Distressing Themes, Emotional Ab*se)

- They hate your intuition: (they work to make you doubt whatever means you have of self guidance. Whether that’s tarot/astrology, or spirituality in general, or therapy, or your simple gut feelings/reactions to things. They hate them because they know that they’ll be singled out at some point by them so they work to make you not believe in yourself through manipulation/gaslighting. My ex would constantly say the tarot is going to tell me to break up with him, but he never really changed he’d just belittle it and say I was getting weird about spirituality and he’d try to make me doubt myself or choose between the tarot and him. When I asked him to go to therapy he would also say that he was worried the therapist would tell him to break up with me-implying I was the problem. When I would ask him to go anyway he would find a way to avoid it- saying it’s too expensive, too hard to find, he doesn’t have time, etc)

-They constant give you advice that puts you in harm’s way: (My ex always told me I was too quick to cut off people that threw me under the bus and that I was paranoid. When I found out my former business partner was being shady and stealing from me, he told me to keep working with her. I said I had to take things over. He said I had no chance of covering the expenses on my own and that he wasn’t going to help me at all even though he was working a consistent 9-5. I rationalized this as putting too much pressure on him to support me through my apprenticeship over the previous few months, even though by the time we were having this discussion I had picked up a seasonal 9-5 to compensate for starting the business. I still felt guilty because I was asking him to cover the rent at home while I built this business up. I ended up wracking up debt over trying to cover everything myself and he was telling me I was going to fail every step of the way. When I didn’t fail and the business remained open over a year later, he said he had always believed in me every step of the way.)

- They rewrite history (that’s the other thing- when I broke up with him he said it was his idea to open the studio in the first place. This was a lie. A bold one at that. At the time I would have had to become self taught due to dealing with several egotistical mentors (wow thematic) and I looked for positions in other studios and there were none. My ex told me I should “pause” my goals. I told him I’ll open up my own space with another artist. He had a long talking down to me about how we couldn’t afford any of that, and how impossible it was, etc. But I went through with it anyway, effectively doing all the work on my own. He constantly told me what I was doing was crazy. But I made success out of it, thank God. Now my ex is trying to take credit for the whole thing as if I don’t remember what happened. Audacious.)

- Instead of having their own dreams they focus on wearing yours down (I have so many big dreams I want to accomplish and every other idea I shared with my ex was pushed back on or breadcrumbed. I wanted to live abroad, he’d say it’s too expensive but maybe he could find a way to make it work if I stopped putting so much pressure on him. I took over my own business, he told me I shouldn’t do it and should quit while I’m ahead. He would always try to counter every idea I had with a “logical reason” of why it wouldn’t work. He would try to control me by doubting me and in turn trying to get me to doubt myself. I never actually listened to him in hindsight, and when I pushed through successfully he would pretend to have been on my side the whole time.)

-They always compare you to their exes, in bold ways (My ex would always go out of his way to bring up his past relationships. The examples and instances were never appropriate. But one of the first worst early examples was when we were at a show. My friend’s band was playing. In the middle of the set he decided to look up his ex on social media. I was clearly uncomfortable but he continued. Then when we’re talking he brought up a nickname she used to call him that was inappropriate. When I was upset by this he threw a shirt (merch gifted to him by my friend’s band) in the booth almost hitting me with it and he stormed off. He made himself seem like the victim in a situation where he was trying to bait me into starting a public argument and yet made me soothe him afterward.)

- The betrayal of not ever being believed (early on this was another giant red flag in hindsight. I’m black and I tried to explain colorism to him, while I was having a bad experience with it. He’s white and should have been listening and understanding with open ears. Instead he tried to argue me down for being “mean” to light skinned black people. In the experience I was talking about how a mixed femme at work established a boundary with our white bosses to try to avoid racist harm. They let the femme do this without any pushback. I tried to establish the same boundary in the same meeting and those white bosses accused me of actively refusing to do my job. I told my ex this was colorist and that’s when he argued with me about this. He didn’t believe my experiences until he googled “the right articles”. When I brought this up in the future he would say he was just trying to see all black people as equal. It was a pretty disgusting defense.)

- Throwing insults in your face about past trauma (I told my ex about how emotionally abusive my mother was (wow there’s that pattern again) and he would throw this in my face and blame me or compare me to her at the slightest provocation in several arguments. When I was disrespected at work, he would blame me for misinterpreting things. Complaining about how I used him for money whenever I had asked him for help managing the business’ expenses. And so many deep cuts of things he should never said to me and names he shouldn’t have called me if he ever cared about me. He always wrote it off as me misremembering or him meaning it as something else or a distraction tactic of whataboutism -‘what about when you complained that I left dirty clothes on the floor?’ For example. All ways he tried to manipulate me from seeing this pattern of messed up behavior. Every argument he would make us talk in circles until I would have to give up from frustration and exhaustion.)

-They’re full of hot air, and if they seem like they aren’t they’re probably mirroring you (when I broke up with him I stopped hanging out with him pretty much immediately. Although I had to coordinate moving out still, I started keeping my head down to focus on my work. Essentially I had already moved on. I thought we had had deep discussions about the world and life but when I had less to say he had nothing to add. He would just keep filling up the air with anecdotes about nothing and commentary on anything just to keep crossing my boundaries and to try to force me to pay attention to him when it was clear I neither interested or comfortable doing so.)

- They try to force you to become as cynical and jaded as they are (I was never antagonistic per se, but when we were together I had unconsciously started looking/preparing for the worst in every scenario and every person I’d meet. Because of my ex’s toxic influence. Getting along with coworkers? They must be just “kissing up to you” according to him. Like that tv show most people are fond of? No way that has to be trash. Want to try something new? No there can’t be anything good about that. He was a very stuck person that refused to find the joy in almost anything. Unless it was too impressive to ignore —but even then he had to nitpick it apart. I would wonder why his compliments would feel so hollow- it was because he really had trouble seeing the good in anything. Like a day or two after we broke up I was already feeling lighter and more optimistic. When people were kind to me I embraced it easier and in turn every aspect of life got a little brighter. The contempt for others was palatable. Because he expected everyone to be ready to undercut him like he was ready to do to them.)

- Before you know it, they’ll have you romanticizing breadcrumbing behavior (I asked my ex to get on meds for his mental health and to find a therapist so many times over the course of 5 years. 4-5 months before I broke up with him he got on medication. Then after a peace period of a month or so, we were back in a cycle of petty arguments and he was saying the meds don’t work. He didn’t even try to go to therapy until I broke up with him. he got an appointment the next day because he “was trying to win me back” Essentially, he’d never work on himself or actually actively improve things. He’d always make one or two half steps to placate me then complain about how it was too hard and completely impossible to put the work in. Even with the therapy example, he wanted to display that he could make progress in order to win me back. Don’t worry, I had seen this tactic before and knew he would just fall back into toxicity. So, it didn’t work.)

- When you do leave they get cocky about how you’ll have nowhere to go (I leaned on my ex to support me when I became overwhelmed by figuring out my business on my own. I worked several temp jobs in addition to the business but it was stretching me thin. So I needed his help several times and only had so much saved up by the time I broke up with him. After begging me to take him back the entire night and pretending to be supportive, the next day he was scoffing and boasting about how “[he] didn’t even know what [I] was going to do.” He did this over everything from buying my own detergent-even though I always bought the detergent- to managing my bills on my own-even though I usually managed most of my bills on my own- until I finally was able to move out and leave him behind.)

- They never defend you and always make it seem like it’s your fault if you get attacked (My ex was always siding with abusive people and gaslighting me when I noticed that behavior. As many of you may know, my mom was a terror throughout my childhood. I confided in my ex about how much of an impact this had had on me. Before I went no contact with her we all got dinner when she came in town to see me. Despite all my warnings and preemptive begging to be supported through the difficulty of meeting with her my ex threw me under the bus immediately. He laughed at her jokes at my expense and didn’t stop her at all from singling me out. I shutdown in this moment and began to draw to cope- I’m neurodivergent so that’s one of the things I default to doing when I’m overwhelmed. They continued to make fun of me together and when I asked him why he didn’t have my back afterward, he blamed me for “not being friendly enough” and “not interacting with [my] mom enough”. This pattern of doubting and failing to help me would continue through our entire relationship.)

- They’ll have -self aware- moments that aren’t quite what they seem (I truly cannot count the number of times my ex would start an argument just to talk me in circles then try to get me to believe I was in the wrong too. It was truly maddening. He would always push to say he “understood” how we had gotten there. Then ramble on and on and on saying that I was attacking him and he was the victim of things. I asked him to do the dishes? I’m “criticizing [his] housework and putting too much pressure on [him]”. I ask him not to throw things when he’s upset? I’m “overly criticizing [him] and making [him] so anxious he can’t help but hit things”. And on and on and on it went. He would always tidy it up by saying he forgave me because we were “both wrong” and he just “would try to be better next time and [I] should too”.)

-They have underlying personality issues that need to be addressed (and when you bring a hint of these up, they lash out about how you’re attacking them and they throw personal attacks back at you because of their fragile ego. If you -somehow- get them to see a mental health professional you may find them lying about what feedback they got. After I broke up with him he said he’d go to anger management class and find a therapist “to win me back”- funny how it’s after you leave them and set the ultimate boundary they do the work to show you they can hypothetically change and it’s never one of the times you’ve begged before in the midst of madness. Before I moved out I overheard his therapy appointment and she asked about his bipolar diagnosis and he said he was just anxious despite the mood swings. When he came to me to tell me the good news of him finally going to therapy he left that out. When I asked if the therapist knew if he had another disorder he manipulated that. He said the therapist asked if it could be anything else but it was just a brief thought. He framed it that way instead of the consistent behavioral issue it was.)

- Usually they attract drama and chaos but blame you for it as their partner (He always kept his ex around in boundary crossing ways. In hindsight I wouldn’t be surprised if he had cheated in any way with any of them because of how murky he was about spending one on one time with them. They also will always encourage you to keep other toxic people in your life so they can keep flying under the radar/blaming the other toxic people when you feel drained/etc. When I decided to go no contact with my parents, he second guessed me. When I decided to go no contact with my friends that were harmful, he second guessed me. He went out of his way to call me paranoid and picky and every other name in the book he could. Even after I broke up with him he went out of his way to tell me I was paranoid and should quit tarot reading “because [he] knew it would turn [me] against [him] one day”. I told him his opinion meant less than nothing to me.)

- Whenever you set a boundary they try to undermine it and take it as an attack (When we met, all of my ex’s small circle of friends was made up of people he had dated or slept with. Once his friend, who had flirted with him multiple times, asked to stay in his apartment while she moved out of her place. He offered her his bed. She even had a boyfriend at the time but she went to my ex first. I told him this made me very uncomfortable. He screamed and yelled about how he’ll always choose his friends first and I have to understand that and that she didn’t want to sleep in his bed while he was in it. It was crazy but the whole time he called me dramatic and made me feel insane for being so uncomfortable with it.)

- They may often act out in public over the littlest things (my ex would get absolutely infuriated when there were lines in places. Insane right? Especially living in cities? with other people? And yet whenever we went out I’d have to prepare my mental for the possibility of him getting angry and breaking down because people were waiting ahead of him in line. In hindsight the entitlement he had was overwhelming in itself. The last time we went out to a movie -which was a whole scheduling fiasco in of itself with him during our entire relationship, he was obsessed with movies. I like movies but spending 6-9 hours in a theater? Every week? On top of hours of mandatory movie viewing at home? It was exhausting. He also made me pay for my own monthly movie pass even though it was his thing. Even in covid, although I’m immunocompromised I had to negotiate with him to wait to get vaccinated before he went back to the theater. And to wear a mask in the showings. He would huff and fuss about those small courtesies the entire time. Anyway the last movie we went out to see had a long line but we bought tickets ahead of time. He pitched a fit and kept storming off away from me and threatening to leave over the line. I kept following him foolishly, and coaxed him into staying. Of course there were enough seats and of course he enjoyed the movie. He apologized after for “getting overwhelmed by the line” but that shouldn’t have happened in the first place.)

- It’s all or nothing for them but breadcrumbs for you (I’ve always been clear that I have no plans of staying in the country I’m from. From the start I’ve understood I’m not meant to stay here. And yet I stayed in a city I hated so he could suddenly finish his associates degree. We moved back to my hometown but we lived in the most stressful neighborhood because he “wanted to be downtown with a pool.” He would always complain about every single idea I had to leave the country. I’m thinking about doing a language school or artist residency? He “did long distance with [his] ex who cheated and it would be too hard”. I want to study this language and go to this -easy-place for a visa? He “kept forgetting to study and had no idea how we would ever afford the move.” And on and on it went until I simply gave up on trying to get him to step up.)

- They twist everything to be about them even grief (my grandma was like a mother to me, so it hit me hard when she died. She even told me she was going and thanked me for my friendship at the end. It was still a very difficult period and I couldn’t accept it until it just happened. When I got the call and burst into tears my ex said “I’m so sorry… do you blame me because we stayed here for me to go to school and you couldn’t be home with her?” It hadn’t even been 20 minutes since I learned she was gone. The extent of his selfishness would shock me until I cut him off.)

- They make you bury things they don’t like about your self expression/goals (I’ll use a simple example. I love fairy lights. When we met I had fairy lights and my ex had no complaints. But when we moved in together they ‘would always bother him and give him headaches’. So I took out the lights. Then he got me a glowing lamp I wanted for my birthday but never allowed me to turn it on when we were in the room. I brought the lights I love to my work and my ex would complain about them there too. He’d say he didn’t know why he “just didn’t like spending time at the studio” and then use the lights as an excuse, and then hed complain all day about how exhausting it was to be there. He’d only offer to come to the studio more if I turned them off just for him. All this time later and all of a sudden I don’t have any lights I like up. This didn’t happen for everything, but there were a lot of little things he was so controlling about just to be authoritative about something I liked.)

- They hate it when you have positive things happen to you (and instead of seeing your success as a good thing they see it as you one upping them, so they often express jealousy and then disguise it as a joke. He would “joke” about how I was going to fail so often I lost count. When I had a great day there would always be a hint of disappointment in his voice. He would always undermine it in anyway he could. “Oh you made X amount that’s nice, but that’s not enough to cover the rent”. I got a lot of compliments on my outfits, so he’d say “no one ever compliments me”. Always something to bring me down and try to get me to focus on a worry.)

- They downplay your trauma (I’m a burn survivor. My dad burned me through hot water and neglect as a baby on around 20% of my body. For that and many other reasons I became sort of a local legend for my time in our local child protective services. In a city of well over a million people. Doctors thought I wouldn’t be able to walk again and it was a miracle when I did. My grandmother had to wrap my scars everyday, twice a day for 3-4 years afterwards. She would tell me the pain would make me cry random throughout the night until I went to kindergarten. All that to say, my scars had a BIG impact on my health and my life. When I told my ex about my insecurity he said “sorry that happened, but it’s not that big of a deal.” Crazily at 21 I took that as flattery. It was not, it was severely downplaying the trauma I went through because my ex didn’t care for that part of my life. I even remember thinking I should tag a post as a burn survivor and he said “isn’t that like advertising your burns, why warn people about it?”. I got better and embraced my scars all through my own healing but damn it was all severely fucked up.)

- They usually have a Fatal Flaw they try to make you contend with (My ex had explosive anger where he would hit something (a wall, the couch, his desk, etc) or throw things at any slight provocations, and he would disguise it as a reaction of low self esteem instead. I didn’t realize how bad the conditioning had got until I broke up with him and I wasn’t getting jumpy from him coming home anymore or my dog wasn’t hiding from him anymore. I was walking on eggshells all the time and I only knew it subconsciously. He would also curse at me and call me the meanest names from the smallest arguments, he would get belittling. It’s their signature style to make you feel small and to desensitize you to truly nightmarish behavior.)

- That’s the other thing- most people and sometimes animals can tell they’re off (I would always wonder why my ex never seemed to make a good impression on others. They could tell he was off from the start.)

- They start trying to love bomb you after you give up or when they sense you are finally giving up (I always asked my ex to pay more attention to my business/endeavors/art/etc when we were together, to respond to texts I sent him at work-within reason-, to give me some support or feedback. His replies were always blasé. “That’s nice.” Or “I will.” As soon as I broke up with him. He was complaining that he always missed texting me at work. Then he started getting more involved on my social media pages. Then for the first time in months he watched my story on Instagram completely unwelcomed and unprompted. It was how fake the performance of interest was that really struck me after everything.)

- They always ask for one more chance when you’ve given them at least a hundred chances (Evem when I broke up with him he kept saying “you cut off other people (for being toxic) but I never thought it would be me!” I feel like I’ve already put plenty of examples of this, so I’ll just say this points to the fact that at their base motivation they don’t really respect you or care about you. If someone actually cares about you, they’re going to go out of their way to make you comfortable, to care about your opinions and feedback, from the very start)

- Even when it’s over, they still always try to blame you for their bad behavior. (My ex painted himself as an introvert when he was in a relationship. I had always asked him to make -newer, healthier- friends and to make a social effort. Since the beginning. After we broke up he made an effort to go out to social events. After he went out one day he came back and said “I was such a girlfriend guy, I never went out and socialized!” In turn I said you’re not a girlfriend guy you never cared about what I had to say, if you were a girlfriend guy I wouldn’t have had to break up with you for literally never taking me into account. So that ended that.)

- When it’s over the relief hits you in waves (I didn’t even realize how much I was doing to cope with the hostility and boredom of the relationship until it was over. I stopped overeating, I actually lost my appetite for days. I went from taking edibles every week to not even craving the ones I had. I wasn’t the most indulgent but I was shocked by how immediately I was fine with going cold turkey. My time with myself became even more peaceful. Even before I moved out, I was more creative and productive. I felt the beauty and the optimism of all the little moments deep in my spirit and my glow was brighter than ever before. My ex kept turning to me in despair and asking “how can you be so okay with this??” I answered him indifferently because he wasn’t worth entertaining. But obviously my spirit had been restored, I wasn’t wasting love on anyone that didn’t deserve it anymore. My energy was finally all mine. And I had faith in God that everything would be alright. And it was.)

You slowly but surely realize that you were formed to be a victim of a narcissistic/antagonistic person due to being raised by narcissistic parents and in an environment full of enabling emotionally and verbally abusive behavior. When we met I was so vulnerable. I had moved to a new city on my own, I was in a financially precarious place. The city was The Worst for Black people (tm). I was so desperate for an ally, I caught an energy vampire instead. I’ve healed and learned a lot from this. To be much more deliberate about who I let into my life. To be unafraid of purging and moving on when someone shows you they’re incapable of growth. To not accept crumbs of affection and appreciation. To pour my love into myself first before I let anyone else do the same. So I write all this to say, it’s not your fault. It’s not your fault that some people are so corrupted to the core that they’d rather destroy you than heal themselves. So… forgive yourself for this experience. Forgive yourself for being a person that just loves and cares about others. That believes in cultivating a world full of warmth and compassion. Don’t let one (or a dozen- ugh the people I’ve had to move on from oml) toxic ass person ruin you and your compassion. I had to forgive myself for believing in a lot of disappointing, inept, bad people. But I won’t stop being kind and compassionate because of those losers. I’ll continue to shine my light on those who need it whenever I’m supposed to. I mean I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to rely on anyone again without fear of their self interest but one step at a time, I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.

Anyway, wish me luck on this fresh start. Buy a reading if you want to support me. But yeah, thanks for reading y’all.