#hes dying so hard its painful and so dramatic and intense

[superchat]

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[sharpsuite]

DRABBLE PROMPTS Topic: Chishiya's reaction to it turning out that Niragi's not dead after all! Surprise! For: @crue11

and its a bit long so it is going under the cut, but please enjoy 💖

   As a general rule of thumb, people typically have the decency to die when you burn them.

   Chishiya should have known better than to assume the typical when it came to Niragi. Somewhere deep down he might have suspected it wouldn’t be so easy. It would explain the lack of dramatic surprise in his chest when he realizes who has shot him. If there was anyone in his life who was going to be able to come back and haunt him, it would be Niragi. It wouldn’t surprise him if the militant crawled out of the pits of hell for that sole purpose. Chishiya stares at the shambling figure approaching with his usual inscrutable expression, hears the familiar voice roughened by damaged muscles and exhaustion. ( His fault. ) Niragi’s voice is remarkably strong all things considered. Chishiya has seen people in far better shape at the hospital need sedation to just get to sleep, let alone play at least one death game and continue to survive in this ruined world.

   Arisu has vanished from his attention and interest; he stares at Niragi with an unwavering intensity. He missed. Except Chishiya is confident that even with a gun other than his signature rifle, Niragi is a good enough shot that he wouldn’t have missed when the element of surprise was on his side. Not if he really tried. Not if he really wanted to. Which leaves the only option being that Niragi didn’t want to kill him with that shot. If their places were switched, Chishiya would have put a bullet in the skull of the man who burned him without a second of hesitation. Maybe that’s why Niragi burned and Chishiya was fine.  

   Maybe. Chishiya’s not so sure anymore. He wouldn’t have taken himself for the type of person to set someone on fire either. He tries to imagine their roles reversed; can’t. Can’t, because he was the one who pulled the trigger first. Can’t, because Chishiya never entirely forgotten his plan. Niragi wasn’t part of his scheme ; their time had been something separate for the most part. He was going to leave The Beach regardless. Can’t, because Chishiya’s self-defense had come in the form of a homemade flamethrower made to burn. These violent delights have violent ends. Can’t, because Chishiya had been too afraid to get any more attached – especially in the Borderlands. His pride doesn’t like that thought. Like somehow he was a coward who chose to run.

   “ You intentionally didn’t kill me with that shot. “ Chishiya calls out, blood staining his hoodie and fingers red as he applies pressure on the wound. It’s painful, but it’s far from crippling. It’s far from Chishiya’s violence. For everything that everyone’s ever said about Niragi being dangerous, at least his was typically a bullet to the brain or chest. Instant death. Chishiya had never doubted that he himself would kill with his own hands if push came to shove. It simply had never come to that point, so Chishiya didn’t need to know the depths of his own violence. Until that night that is. Chishiya had burned a man alive the moment he felt in real danger. Either the fire or the water should have killed him. Hearts games were all psychological. Chishiya didn’t lose games.

   He can practically imagine Niragi’s sneer to the thought and hear his voice in his head. Sure trying hard for someone who doesn’t give a fuck about dying. Which is true. It’s his need to win, pride and arrogance rivaling that of deities in folklore. His need to be at the top, safe and in control. Not vulnerable, not craving someone else’s company, not looking forward to banter or conversations. Being alone is his strength.

   Maybe Niragi didn’t shoot him because he wanted to torture him. Which is fair enough in Chishiya’s book. He can’t be upset over that. ( He could, any sane person would – he isn’t. He isn’t afraid of it either. ) Except that is proven wrong because Niragi is demanding to play about one last game between the three of them rather than just hurt Chishiya. He can’t help but listen and regrets it. Chishiya hates it, hates the way it feels like Niragi is peering into his soul and ripping out every truth that Chishiya denies himself. Even Arisu can’t do that regardless of similarities. But Niragi can and is. We’re oddballs who can’t fit into with society. We’re scum. Even so, our need to feel alive is greater than most people’s. All Chishiya can see is Niragi’s black eyes in the summer heat and he can feel something bristling in his chest the same way it had when he’d headed for the rooftop. Stop. He wants Niragi to stop talking, to stop forcing Chishiya to look at things he doesn’t want to. ( He’s right. Chishiya’s desire to feel alive, to find out some value in life, is an insatiable phantom that has haunted his whole life. He can play the part in society but the ugly truth is there that he doesn’t fit in. That they are all similar. )

  Silver flashes in the sunlight and Chishiya watches the gun land in the grass not too far from him. Niragi gives the man who burned him alive a gun. It’s that which makes a strange and unpleasant feeling root itself into the broken crevice of his chest. Niragi didn’t need to do that. Didn’t need to give Chishiya a chance, and he hates that he still knows Niragi to know that the gun will have bullets in it when he picks it up. Chishiya clenches his jaw. Since when did violence become kindness? Probably since Niragi kissed him first in the heart of a storm, violent and then desperate. It fits them well.

   Chishiya pushes himself up and makes his way to the gun without making any sign of pain.  The fact he is answering Niragi’s call at all rather than scoffing and trying to slip away says everything ; Chishiya typically prefers to not be involved in games until the end. Niragi won’t survive much longer in the shape he’s in. Chishiya did this to him. Ending it is the least he could do. Violence becoming kindness. Unfortunately, Chishiya’s not very good with guns. So maybe this is still a fancy way for Niragi to kill Chishiya despite how illogical it is. And there’s Arisu. Chishiya hates the weight and feeling of warm metal in his hand.

  “  I like it. “ Chishiya stares at Niragi head on when he finally comments on the proprosed idea. It’s the most fitting ending to this all. A silent acceptance of let’s play. Arisu’s asking if he’s insane and Chishiya can barely hold back a snort. Insane enough to play death games willingly and get entangled with Niragi, he’s not sure how much more insane one can get. Albeit Arisu only knows about one of those things; Niragi knows both.

   He’s not surprised when Niragi’s gun is leveled at him. It’s not the first time by a long shot. This time is different though. This time Niragi has every reason to pull the trigger when he never had before. So he expects it.

   It doesn’t happen. Niragi switches at the last second to shoot at Arisu instead of him and the sinking feeling starts to open again the same way it had when he watched Niragi’s surprised expression right before he burned. Like he hadn’t expected Chishiya to actually pull out a weapon and use it, like Niragi hadn’t had any intention to kill him on the rooftop despite his words, like Chishiya’s potentially misread this entire thing. Everything that Chishiya had decided to leave behind in the flames of the burning Beach comes back but he can’t think about it right now. He can’t really ignore it though either when Niragi’s words keep ripping into him.

   He really, really hates Niragi. Except he doesn’t, and somehow that’s so much worse.  

[the-littlest-goblin]

*shows up to @essek-week 6 days late with all the prompts shoved into one fic*

based on this post by @slayerscake​

___________________________________________________________

Essek, for all his magical skill, had very little experience being a fighter. But you pick things up when you travel with a group that gets in as many scrapes per day as the Mighty Nein—you don’t necessarily learn how to fight well, but you certainly learn how to fight alongside the Mighty Nein.

While Jester is a cleric, try to go unconscious near Caduceus. 

“It’s not that she refuses to heal,” Fjord explained gently as he inspected the gash across Essek’s sternum for signs of poison. They were all a bit paranoid now since discovering that their previous monster encounter had, unbeknownst to them, injected a slow-acting venom into every bite. “She just prefers to take the enemy out first. It’s a strategy thing, you know. Save the healing for after the fight, once the danger’s gone.”

Essek turned his gaze over to Jester. In their post-battle huddle, while Caduceus hummed a healing prayer for the group and Fjord dressed Essek’s wound, she was several yards away helping Veth saw off one of the beast’s talons as a trophy.

 Fjord continued, “Of course, if you’re like, actually dying in front of her, she’ll heal you. I mean…” he trailed off. Sure, Essek hadn’t exactly been dead-dead when he’d collapsed next to Jester during the fight, but he wasn’t far from it. The last, ironic thought he’d registered before consciousness slipped away was how fortunate it was to fall in battle right next to a cleric. As his eyes fell shut, it was with anticipation that he would be up again in a second to rejoin the fray. 

When he had finally awoken, it was Caduceus’ face smiling over him, not Jester’s, and the ferocious monster had long since been turned into a carcass.

“Mm-hmm.”

Fjord sighed and sat back on his heels. “Just, maybe next time, if you have to go down, try to go down closer to Caduceus.”

“Noted,” Essek grumbled, watching with nauseated fascination as his skin knit itself back together in time with the melody of Caduceus’ spell.

When in doubt, polymorph.

“I am a bit surprised you don’t already have this in your repertoire. I have found it to be incredibly useful.”

Essek shrugged, shoving off the automatic sting of embarrassment that came with admitting ignorance. He didn’t need to feel that way around Caleb.

“Well, I have rarely found myself in a position to fly over rough terrain or transform a terrifying monster into a sloth. Until now, that is.” 

Caleb laughed lightly. “Such is the adventuring life, I suppose.” He smiled, taking a break from flipping through his spellbook to look up at Essek. Even this brief moment of eye-contact felt so charged with energy that Essek had to avert his gaze, the sense-memory of guilt welling up in his throat threatening to choke him. The intensity of Caleb’s undivided attention was still difficult for him to bear. His fingers twitched to rub at the burning spot on his forehead. Instead, he gripped his pen tighter. 

“Here.” Caleb flipped his book around to show Essek the page dedicated to the Polymorph spell, covered in transmutation runes. Essek recognized a few of the symbols in passing. “This should be easy for you to copy down. Then we can practice a bit. I think you’ll find casting it on yourself makes for a rather enjoyable pastime.”

Buff the lesbians. 

Essek’s eyes darted between Caleb and Caduceus, unsure how to interpret this piece of advice. “Um, can you be more specific?” 

Caduceus blinked at him, seeming confused. “Specific how? You mean like, which spells you should use on them?”

“No, I meant specific as in to whom you were referring. I just…” Essek glanced awkwardly around the table. Most of the group was distracted, digging into the enormous feast provided by Caleb’s clowder of feline servants. They were all worn out from a long day of hard travel and enjoying the warm reprieve of the tower.

Essek cleared his throat, trying to discreetly lower his voice without making it obvious that he was being secretive. “I have not exactly been given a briefing on all of your individual sexual preferences.”

“Oh, I can fix that!” Jester cut in. Apparently Essek’s attempts to be clandestine had failed, as they always seemed to with this group. “Caleb is—”

“That is alright, thank you,” Essek swiftly cut her off. His cheeks were already burning red-hot. “Can you please just tell me who ‘the lesbians’ are in this circumstance?”

He could feel Beau’s glare boring through him all the way from the other end of the table as she stared incredulously over her magical flask of whiskey. “You should really be able to figure that out yourself, man.”

Squishy wizards stay away from fights.

“Stay. Here.” Yasha’s growl was twice as terrifying as the insectoid beast screaming over their heads, and Essek was pretty sure the force from her shoving him behind the rocks was going to leave just as big a bruise as getting smacked by the creature’s tail, if not bigger. “Hide.”

“I was trying to help,” Essek muttered, a mixture of shame and indignation pushing him to defend himself to her.

“I know. You can help by staying alive.” A hint of softness entered Yasha’s gruff voice, although its effect was mitigated when she hefted up her massive sword. Essek instinctually slunk away from the arc of the blade. “Fighters get close, wizards hang back. That’s how we do things in this family.” She smiled at him, and another layer of the ice around Essek’s heart melted. “That’s how we keep you and Caleb from snapping like twigs. Save the close-range spells for when things are really desperate.”

Essek nodded his affirmation. Yasha turned and began running back into the melee, letting out an almighty roar. Just before she went out of range, Essek reached out his hands, whispering the incantation and twisting his fingers around the fabric of time that surrounded her large frame. Yasha paused for a moment as the effects of the Haste spell hit her, then turned to flash Essek another smile and a thumbs up.

That’s how we do things in this family.

You have to look sexy when using spells.

“I really do not understand the purpose of this.”

“We’re just trying to help you out!” Veth grinned at him mischievously. Somehow, the ghost of a goblin’s snarl showed through her straight halfling teeth. “Every good adventurer knows aesthetics are crucial to effective spellcasting.”

“That’s not—”

“Plus, we’re not fighting in the cold anymore,” Jester added. “We don’t want you to get overheated in the middle of battle.”

“That… really isn’t an issue.” But he knew resistance was useless when it came to these two. Resigned to his fate, Essek dutifully lifted the mantle over his head and began undoing the fastenings of his cloak. 

Outer layer discarded, he lifted his arms up half heartedly to show his self-appointed image consultants the results. “Is this satisfactory?”

“Hmmmm,” Jester tilted her head to the side, considering him. “Can you try rolling up your sleeves?”

“I’m not taking off my shirt!”

“No one asked you to!” Veth hopped off her chair to circle around Essek, studying him with an intensity she usually reserved for things she was about to shoot. “Now, show us your stance.”

“My what?”

“You know, your sexy fighting stance.” Veth stopped in place, whipping out her crossbow and striking a dramatic pose. 

“Um…” Essek attempted to mimic her, one hand on the meteorite pendant that served as his arcane focus, the other reaching out as if he were about to cast a spell. “Like this?”

Jester tapped a finger to her lips thoughtfully. “You know, now that I’m thinking about it, that tank top did look really good on you, Essek.”

Essek put his head in his hands.

If you get charmed there is going to be a very high chance of Beau punching you to snap you out of it. 

A constellation's worth of stars swam in Essek’s vision, pain bursting through his head like a reverberating drum; he could feel the nasty bruise blooming at his temple where Beauregard had struck him. Blinking away the stars, he turned just in time to see Beau’s fist heading towards him once again, this time making expert contact with his jaw. The force of this second blow sent him hurtling toward the ground, knocking the wind out of him. 

Amid the pain, a sense of clarity slowly came over him, cutting through the pleasant, misty haze that had overtaken his faculties. It gave him just enough presence of mind to scream an indignant, accusatory, “Ow!” at Beau.

She flashed him a cocky grin, seemingly amused by his tone. “Look man, this is what happens. Get charmed, get hit. Now square up.” 

Essek held up one hand in an attempt to stave her off, gasping for breath. The buzz in his brain was receding; somehow, Beau had punched the spell’s effect right out of him. “No really, I’m fine now, it worked—”

But she was already going in for another punch. Helpless to stop her, Essek braced himself for the hit, thinking that if nothing else, he had to admire her thoroughness. 

[nejibaby]

Deja Vu

Pairing: Neji x Fem!Uchiha Reader

Summary: Hyuga Hiashi does not approve of your relationship with Neji.

implied established relationship. implied that neji has plans marrying.

Word Count: 2.8k

Memories - Part 1 | Deja Vu - Part 2

A/N: gotta say it started out cute but then bam angst sjdjdens i’m sorry i’m dramatic sumtyms 🤧 please let me know your thoughts 🥺

The Sharingan never forgets.

That’s among one of the few things that’s drilled into your mind as a child born in the Uchiha clan. Before you had even awakened your Sharingan, your late brother, Shishui, had already taught you this.

At a young age, you’ve always thought it was a blessing, especially to a shinobi like you. With the ability of the Sharingan to discern movements and to retain its information better than any other dojutsu, it enables you to progress faster than children your age.

Outside the shinobi life, however, it’s not really that useful, so it’s expected for you not to activate it at all. You don’t need to remember minor details of everyday life after all. But on some of your days off — on special days — although very rarely, you unconsciously activate your Sharingan when you’re with Neji.

It goes without saying that before the war, you’ve already gained quite a bit of control over the use of the Sharingan. You’re able to activate and deactivate it at will, although sometimes your emotions get the better of you and it messes your control. After the war, however, you’ve become adept at controlling both your emotions and your Sharingan, maybe even better than Sasuke.

But whenever Neji surprises you with affectionate gestures, you get so overwhelmed that you just can't control your body, and by extension, your dojutsu too.

No matter how hard you try, you’re unable to stop the blood rushing to your face. You’re unable to calm the violent thumping of your heart. You’re unable to get rid of the fluttering feeling in your stomach. You’re unable to prevent the Sharingan from activating. Especially on the rare occasions that he kisses the back of your hand tenderly after he walks you home, or when he kisses your lips before he leaves for a mission.

Neji isn’t good at romantic gestures, and so he keeps it to a bare minimum. But when he does these things, it always takes you by surprise.

He wouldn’t admit it, but he likes your cute reactions to his unpredictable acts. There’s always this short moment where your mind goes blank and your Sharingan manifests itself. This reassures him of your feelings for him because he knows he’s the only one who’ll be able to pull such a reaction from you. Not that he’s ever doubted you. You’ve always been so vocal about your feelings for him, after all.

On the flip side, while it embarrasses you that you can’t control your Sharingan when you’re with Neji, you like the way they activate themselves at those moments, as they’re able to help you remember the details of its aftermath — like the way Neji would always look down on the floor first before he meets your eyes, his cheeks tinted pink, and with the slightest upturn of his lips, almost as if he, himself, wasn’t expecting the onslaught of emotions that was brought about by his own actions. In mere seconds, you have all these memorized before he pulls away, and you play it over and over again in your mind until you’re branded with a new memory.

But the Sharingan is a curse as much as it is a blessing.

It’s a curse because it reminds you of the cruelty of the world. It doesn’t allow you to forget the scene of the Uchiha clan district after the massacre, even after knowing the true reason why it had to be done. It lets you remember the way you almost lost Neji from the Ten Tails’ attack during the war in his attempt to protect Naruto and Hinata.

And when Sasuke implanted Shisui’s eye to you, which he retrieved from Danzo before he annihilated him, the Sharingan lets you relive all his memories and experiences, and it paints you a picture of how unfair the world actually is, even more so to an Uchiha like you.

The unfair reality is further proven by an unexpected knock on your door a couple of weeks ago.

Hiashi. Hyuga Hiashi. The head of the Hyuga clan. Neji’s uncle.

He came to you with a deal, a proposition of sorts, but really it was just a threat in disguise as an offer.

“Leave Neji or else I’ll make sure he won’t be able to break free from his cage” is what he basically implied.

But to be precise, his words were, “The Hyuga clan is considering Neji to be the next heir, which would result in abolition of the main and branch family system altogether. Naturally, if he becomes the head of the clan, his curse seal will be removed, along with all the other branch family members’. However, there’s no telling if there’s going to be a change if he doesn’t get the position.

“You might have been keeping your relationship with him on the down-low, but the elders of the Hyuga clan know of it.

“To put it bluntly, we do not wish to be associated with the Uchiha in any way — so much that even disowning Neji has been put out there as an option, just in case — especially after what Sasuke pulled off after defeating the goddess.

“Moreover, if you were to bear a child together, there’s no telling what will happen to their kekkei genkai. It would be ideal to have him marry into the clan and follow tradition in order to preserve the Byakugan.

“I suppose you know where I’m going with this. It would be in his best interest if you call off whatever you have with him. Although this wouldn’t be a deal if there is nothing in it for you, right? Supposing Neji’s bright future is not enough for you, we are willing to arrange allowances of sorts.”

But before he could spout anything more, you cut him off by asking, “Does he know about this?”

“Not yet. But we’ll let him know soon enough.”

“Don’t. Keep it that way. I’ll handle this,” you told him, not caring if you didn’t sound respectful to a prominent figure such as himself. “I don’t need anything from your clan. All I want and need is for Neji to live a life that he deserves; a life that he was robbed off.”

Hiashi glared at you, offended by your words, but he didn't comment on it. Rather, he stared you down. His hardened expression morphing into suspicion the longer he looked at you; clearly he didn’t trust you. “How will you handle it?”

The only response he got from you is an intense stare with your Sharingan, and that alone was enough for him.

It’s frustrating to not have a choice, even when it comes to love, but in hindsight, you should’ve expected this. For all the troubles your ancestors caused in the past, it’s only natural for you to be this unfortunate.

Whatever blessing the Uchihas receive, it’s always paired with some type of misery. That’s just how it is, that’s how it would probably always be.

There’s no denying that in the end, it always, always hurts. But then again, you’re no stranger to pain and loss. And so is Neji. So surely, this would be for the best, at least that’s what you tell yourself over and over again in hopes that it will strengthen your resolve.

After all, Neji deserves a life where he doesn’t have to fear dying by the hands of the main branch family. He deserves a life where he can make choices of his own, without being tied down by his curse seal or his clan in general. And if leaving him means he’ll have all this and more, so be it.

As much as it is painful, it is hard, partly because of your waning resolve but especially because it’s Neji, who’s known for being an awfully perceptive shinobi. He’s almost never caught off guard, all the more when he’s with you, as he’s always keen on keeping you safe. Hence, you have to be meticulous and methodical.

The Sharingan’s ability to cast genjutsu is particularly harder to use against Hyugas due to their ability to see and sense the chakra concentrating by the eyes, enabling them to counter or avoid it entirely. Shisui’s Kotoamatsukami technique would’ve been quite useful, except you’re unable to use it yet because of the events prior to the war. Thus, you’ll have to rely on your own skills.

If timed right and casted properly, the genjutsu of the Sharingan has the ability to remove memories. To be precise, it can trick his mind into “forgetting” memories. But with years and years of memories between you and Neji, you know that you’ll have to cast it over and over again before everything will be completely wiped out.

You take advantage of the moments where Neji gives you affection, as you deem it the most subtle way to cast genjutsu on him without suspicion.

Although you have to admit, in the beginning you’ve been selfish, only removing memories of you and him that weren’t important — like the times he would accompany you in doing mundane tasks, or the times you both just lounge around after tiring missions. And because those are only minor memories, Neji is oblivious to the loss.

It gets exceptionally harder to cast the genjutsu once you’ve started erasing the major events in your relationship — the first date, the first kiss, the first time he held your hand, and the first time he introduced you as the love of his life. Until eventually, the affectionate acts dwindle down, and the only way you can use the Sharingan around him is when you ask him to train with you.

It’s only natural that the longer this goes on, the further you drift apart, and the more you lose him.

And it’s scary and painful because unlike Sasuke, Konoha has always been your home, but more specifically because of Neji. In fact, you can argue that Neji has always felt like home more than the village itself. You can walk the streets of Konoha but all it will ever scream is Neji’s name, and all it will ever show you is the memories you shared with him on every corner of the place.

The fact that you have to walk the streets without him is terrifying and foreign, and the only way you can avoid it altogether is by taking more and more missions, either the ones involving far away places or high rank missions that require every single bit of your concentration. Sometimes you even tag along to Sasuke’s expeditions to escape not only Neji’s overwhelming presence in the village, but also the thoughts of him.

It’s tiring and it’s heavy. But you’ve accepted the fact that you’re going to carry alone the memories for the two of you.

But this doesn’t go unnoticed by your friends, though they were quick to assume that things just didn’t work out between the two of you, and that you called your relationship off.

Ino is the first person to voice out her concern and her curiosity as she claimed it’s weird not seeing you hang out with Neji anymore.

“That’s just how it is, I suppose,” you shrug, trying to act nonchalant about everything despite the ache in your chest and the slight quiver of your voice.

She doesn’t comment further, thinking you probably didn’t want to talk about it.

But one day, when the whole clique — except for you and Sasuke — was hanging out, Ino can tell there was something wrong when Sakura asked if Neji remembered the time when you almost fell off a tree but he was there to catch you, and he furrowed his brows, saying he doesn’t recall that at all.

Break up or not, it’s highly unlikely for Neji to forget. Regardless of how minor something is, he always seems to remember them, especially when it involves you. And while he could’ve just been deflecting, there would’ve been no point in him denying that he remembers that occasion. Besides, Neji is blatantly honest, it’s one thing that you can count on when it comes to him, so really, how come he couldn’t remember that scenario at all?

This prompted Ino to observe Neji further out of concern and suspicion. She’d often find herself casually mentioning you and the feats you’ve both been through, but time and time again, Neji would tell her he has no recollection of those.

Ino wants to do something, anything really, just to clear her mind of suspicions, but she’s afraid she’s overstepping and interfering.

Neji takes notice of this. But even before that, he feels as though there’s something wrong, like something’s missing, but he doesn’t know what it is, and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

After all, genjutsu might’ve tricked his mind, but his heart is an entirely different case.

It comes as a surprise to Ino when Neji comes to visit her in Yamanaka’s flower shop, looking at your favorite flowers without a clue why.

With Ino being the only one who seems to be willing to talk about you with him, it’s her who he seeks out. That, and he thinks the Yamanaka’s mind jutsus could be of help.

Ino doesn’t hesitate to help after Neji asks for it. When she goes to explore Neji’s consciousness, the first thing that she senses is your chakra. The further she prods, the more she realizes that it’s you who have been tampering with his memories. Then she realizes that it’s genjutsu that you’ve used on him, and she quickly breaks him out of it.

You know instantly when the jutsu breaks, feeling as if there was a string that snapped, and it immediately renders you frozen.

Fear grips you as you think about how Neji would feel after his memories come back. Will he be able to tell it was you who did it? Will he be mad at you? Will you tell him the reason why you did it? Will he even listen?

But if he’d stop talking to you altogether… then that would still be a win, right? Because that’s what Hiashi wants, that’s what his clan wants. That’s the only condition for them to give back Neji’s freedom.

But is it worth it?

Is this what you want?

Is this what Neji would want?

You’d like to believe so. And that’s the last thought you have as the rogue shinobi you’re supposed to capture stabs a kunai deep into your gut.

Of all the times the genjutsu could have broken, it just had to be when you were facing a highly skilled ninja. It’s once again a reminder that life is unfair, but this time, it’s your choices that lead you to this.

Deja vu. That’s how you feel when you wake up after escaping death’s clutches once again.

You blink once, twice, and then you look around your surroundings. You’re back in Konoha’s hospital, but this time you don’t wake up to a sleeping Neji by your bed.

You’re alone, and you feel hollow.

But then the door to your room opens abruptly and you almost jump in surprise.

Your breath hitches as you find the familiar lavender eyes staring back at you.

He calls your name to you softly, as if in a trance, and you feel your heart stutter at how perfect your name sounds on his lips.

Before you know it, he’s by your side, gently holding your hands. With an untrained eye, it would seem that his face is void of any emotion, but from your years of experience with him, you can clearly point out the sadness in his eyes.

You break the silence by saying, “I’m sorry, Neji.”

“For what exactly?”

You look away in shame. “For trying to erase your memories of us.”

“Why’d you do it then?”

“Because…” you bite your lip. “That’s what’s best for you,” your voice cracks. “I’m not… We couldn’t— no — we shouldn’t be together.”

Neji gathers his thoughts, and it takes a couple of minutes before he speaks up. “The Sharingan may not be able to forget, but the Byakugan sees everything.”

And you understand what he’s trying to say: he can see through the lies you feed yourself.

Neji sighs, and it gets your attention. You peek at him, and only then have you noticed the bags under his eyes and the way his shoulders are slightly slumped.

He has always looked composed no matter the situation, but now he’s different.

“You used to tell me everything,” he says dejectedly.

The way he says it and the way he pleads with his eyes breaks something in you and you spill everything to him.

You’re crying and stuttering and you aren’t sure if you’re making sense. But Neji always, always understands you.

And by the end of your piece, you’re wrapped securely in his arms.

“You’re alright,” he comforts you. “We’re alright.”

“But Hiashi—”

“We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

here’s some really good ideas sent on anon for part 3!

<If you have ideas too, feel free to send them in because i love receiving them 🥰 I’ll be linking them here too!>

[lovesgonnabe]

Love Is Worth It - Episode II: The Talk

Characters: Chris Evans x Maya Alonso-Evans (Black OFC)

Warnings: Angst, Fluff, cursing, slight Implied smut

Word Count: 2928

Summary: What happens when a dad has to have a tough conversation with a 5 year old about something he may never experience?

Point of View: Chris Evans 

Authors Note: It has been a while since I’ve written so please bear with my rustiness, and there’s slight edits so there may be errors. RIP Chadwick Boseman. 

Disclaimer: This is about to be super dramatic and very fluffy. Also italicized is a flashback.

Taglist: @thesecretlifeofdaydreamss if you would like to join the taglist message me.

Please leave a note and tell me what you think!

I Just Don’t Understand...

As I walk into the house i was having a hard time processing what had just happened on the other side of the door and having a screaming child, barking dog and the anxiety monster on my back isn’t helping.

And I swore I put the heater on but the house was cold and empty.

“Delilah give daddy a minute sweetheart” I told my crying baby girl.

She cried as loud as she could as I sat her down on the couch with a now whimpering Dodger at her feet 

As I paced trying to think, the commotion around me was crippling, I just couldn’t endure the pain my entire body was in, I was in a state of powerlessness.

I’m always prepared especially for moments like these, but at the amount my ability to think was out of the window when I realized i was not mentally prepared for this. Doing the next best thing I called in reinforcements.

the phone rang four times before he picked up “Chris this better be damn important and why is my niece screaming like she’s dying?” Austin said on the other line.

I sighed running my hands through my hair “It’s Maya, she just got arrested in driveway and I don’t know what to do an- quiet down sweetheart, it’ll be alright.” I said.

I sat down on the couch laid Dede on my chest as I tried my best to calm her down, and keep myself together.

“Hold on, What do you mean arrested, what did she do.” Austin asked in shock now giving me his full attention.

Who is Austin you may ask?

Well he is our attorney...

Who also happens to be a prosecutor for the Southern District of New York...

Oh and did mention he’s Maya’s older brother.

Of course I told him everything I knew and then some.

I thanked the heavens when I turned on Frozen and Delilah calmed down to a sniffle, i started to feel like I had some control of the situation.

“That’s some bullshit man, ok listen I’ve gotta make some calls, don’t go to the station, don’t call for her or pick up any calls from the police station, just let me handle it and I’ll text you when it’s taken care of got it?” Austin said

I sighed “Alright we can do that” Austin chuckles “look I know that feeling of being helpless right now, and it’s all gonna be alright, she’s gonna back home tonight, so just relax, this is just something we sadly have to go through, I’ll be over this weekend to check on her” I nodded like he could see me and we hung up.

I took a deep breath and rubbed Delilah’s back and a few tears escaping from my eyes as looked at Elsa save Anna at the end of frozen. I wiped my face because I had to stay strong for my baby girl and I looked down at her.

“Hey Lilah how about some pizza for dinner tonight?” I asked her, nodding her head she wiped her nose mumbling that she was gonna take a bath.

She reminded more and more of her mom everyday from her big brown eyes to her high cheeks and button nose she was becoming just like the woman love.

When she got up all I could think about was when Maya was pregnant with Delilah.

—————

Maya laid on the bed rubbing her belly looking at me with an annoyed look on her face.

“Chris I’m being serious there is going be a day when we are going to have to face the reality that we will have to talk about race relations with our little peanut” Maya said.

I chuckle as i walking out of our connected bathroom leaning against the doorframe looking in adoration of her infatuation with her little belly.

“Babe I understand that trust me I’ve read more how to raise a multiracial baby books than I can count” I said. She looks at me I’m like I’m crazy and rolls her eyes.

“Maya I’m joking but don’t you think its a bit early to having these conversation the baby isn't even here yet babe.” I sighed 

Shaking her head she gets up from the bed “well that was a terrible joke Chris and it's never too early to think ahead especially since, I may not always be around so you have to be one to be prepared.” She said.

She steps in front of the vanity mirror in our room stripping the red satin body hugging dress she wore from our dinner date tonight. I know what she was doing but I couldn’t focus on how beautiful her glow was because of how morbid she was acting.

Walking to her from the door frame, I got up behind her and wrapped my arms around her softly rubbing her belly. “Don’t say that, we are going to be together till infinity you better believe that.” I placed my chin on her shoulder and kissed her check.

She whispered sadly “Chris I do believe that, It’s just statics show that black women are 3x more likely to die in childbirth than white women, I just want you to be prepared” I groaned.

She reminds me that deathening fact at least once a week but I keep my cool stood up straight and grabbed her hands, placing them on her belly while intertwining them with mine.

We caught each other's gaze in the mirror, her pregnancy glow makes me want to make sure she keeps popping out babies. The way her skin glistened under our dimmed lights and how soft she felt under my touch to her sweet smell Lavender, this woman was my world.

“Look I refuse to leave that hospital without you ok. Maya I don’t know what I’d do if I were to lose you” I softly respond 

“Now repeat after me we are going to have a beautiful, healthy, happy baby girl and we are leaving that hospital together.” I say as we held an intense gaze through the mirror in front of us.

She chuckles “I still think our little peanut will be a boy but I guess we’ll find out in a few days” I let out a gut busting laugh. “Whatever you say my love” I kiss her shoulder then the sweet spot behind her ear

I whispered in her ear “maybe we can start you know practicing for that baby boy right now?” 

I stand, slowly pushing her back down bending her in front of the vanity with her hands on the chair, I move my hands to her hip and sent a smack to her ass.

She sucked her teeth “Don’t think you’re slick we aren’t done with this conversation” she moans as I gently rub her clit. I chuckled and got to work.

———————

I concluded that without her no matter how much we’ve prepared there is no way I was ready to handle situations like these especially alone.

By the time the pizza gets here I’ve emptied the groceries from Maya’s car, feed Dodger and changed the movie.

When I came into the kitchen Delilah was on her little step stool gabbing the plates then the cheese and utensils.

I raised an eyebrow very confused as to when my little girl was becoming a big girl.

“When did you become so independent Dede” I said give each of us two slices

She gave me a said smile and said “I just watch mommy do it.” She shrugged

We walk in to the living room and I started Princess and the Frog or Delilah’s favorite movie.

We sat in silence for a bit and then sniffling again she asked “daddy why did they take mommy today”

This is the talk I’ve been dreading it was something Maya and I agreed we’d give her when she was 10 and we’d give it together.

When we talk about it all Maya would say was “you will know what to say when the time comes at least that’s what my mom says”

Yet all I could do was look at those big brown eyes and hesitate, i paused the movie, grabbed her hand and just went off the cuff with what came from the heart.

I sigh “look at our hands do you see any difference?”

She nodded “yeah mommy says she dark chocolate, you’re white chocolate and I’m a cute Caramel, we are all different but we all love the same” 

I laugh, it would be like my wife to be teaching me while she wasn’t here.

We put our plates down and scooted closer to each other still holding hands.

I hesitate again “the thing is sweetheart there are some but not all people in this world and a lot of them are white chocolate like me and they don’t like that mommy is dark chocolate so they do mean things to them like what happened today.” She nodded with her processing the information face.

“Ok daddy but why aren’t more white chocolate people like you, mommy didn’t do anything we just got ice cream.” She asked still somewhat confused with the entire situation.

My little peanut is one of the smartest cookies I know and I forget sometimes that she is still only 5. It pains me to see that she even with how bright she is she is still too young to fully comprehend the severity of the situation.

“That I don’t know but I do know that mommy’s gonna be ok and that no matter what I love you and mommy more than anything In the world” I said with a reassuring smile.

“One more question since I-I am Caramel and not white chocolate like you would that happen to me” she asked.

This is the dreaded question as a father you don’t want to see your kids in pain you want them happy but the reality is that the one thing I’ve learned with being with Maya is  that being black in a white America isn’t easy.

Running my hand through my hair the wrapped my arm around her “It may happen Lilah but mommy and I will do everything in our power to make sure you are ready for those moments, but right now just worry about being a kid and we’ll take care of the rest.” She nodded and I kissed her forehead.

We continued our movie session and sat in silence until the end of the movie when Delilah wanted to watch Moana.

It was midnight on school night but I decided that Delilah wasn’t going to school tomorrow and I let my assistant know to relay the message that I was not coming to set tomorrow. So I turned on the next movie.

Half-way through I got a text from Austin

------------------------------------------------------

                        11/25/2020 12:49am

Austin: Hey bro just got off the phone with the Boston PD precinct Maya’s at she’ll be released in about one hour and she good go

Chris: Thank You, I’m on my way.

------------------------------------------------------

I wanted to cheer so loud but Dede and Dodger were asleep, so I called my parents to drop Delilah off which my mom agreed happily.

After dropping Dede off at my parents who I am still shocked were still awake this late, I headed to the precinct, my body was shaking with nerves. When I got there I parked and rushed inside.

When the front desk lady began speak I cut her off “I’m here for Maya Alonso-Evans” she looked at me like she was gonna scream with excitement but I guess my face said it all.

She escorted me to the back “Chief Demilio will see you now” my hands were sweaty I knocked and heard a come in.

Walking into the office there she sat with dry tear stains on her face, looking disheveled, she ran to me and threw her hands around me as she started to cry some more.

“its gonna alright baby I’m here” I whispered and hugged her back tightly.

“Hello Mr. Evans thank you for joining us we are just wrapping up here, would you like to take a seat” the weird looking man behind the mahogany desk asked.

I ushered her back to her previous seat and I stood behind her placing my jacket on her shoulder as I rub them softly “no I’m good with standing” I say with a menacing face.

He clears his throat and looks at us awkwardly “ok then, on the behalf of Boston PD we would like to  give our sincerest apologies for the inconvenience of this mix up and the officers will be dealt with accordingly.” I raised an eyebrow at his shortness and at the sorry ass apology we were getting.

“Ok so what is going to happen to these officers then?” I ask with my hands still on Maya’s shoulders trying to keep both of us calm.

He smirks “one will be put on administrative leave for the next month and the other indefinitely until we can get this all sorted” he says to us show us the file.

Maya sighs an exasperated sigh looking as if she could pass out right there.

I speak up “that’s it the are getting a paid vacation?” I asked highly confused at this situation.

“The board thinks due to the incidents in this case that this is best punishment we can give them, we know your upset Mr. Evans but you must look at the circumstances” he says talking down to me as my breathing began to pick up.

I chuckled “the only circumstances I see was my wife being falsely accused for a crime that she didn't commit and being arrested in front our 5 year old daughter wh-“ Maya put her hand up cutting me off speaking for the first time since I got there. 

Placing her hand on top of mine “It’s ok Chris I just wanna go home” she got up grabbed my keys out of my hand and without another word walked out and I followed right behind her shaking my head.

She got her things they took before they booked her and we headed to the car, I opened the door for her she quietly thanked me and we started our journey home.

The first 10 minutes was a comfortable silence then I decided to break it.

I grabbed her hand and kissed it “honey you alright?” I know it was an awful question to ask but something had to be said.

She shrugged her shoulders “I am just exhausted right now all I want is food, maybe some sex and a good cuddle with Delilah, did you leave her with your parents” she ask now checking her phone.

I nodded “Dede asked me if what happen to you would happen to her” we were now at a red light and looked at each other.

Maya groaned and rubbed her forehead “what did you say?” She looked at me again

I let out a heavy breathe “I just told her it could happen and that we’d deal with it when she got a little older and that not all people are like the men from today.” I started tapping the steering wheel with my left hand, I was nervous.

she let out a relieved sigh “Ok that works” was all she said and I looked at her confused.

She chuckled “What? You did your best among the circumstances. Isn’t that what the police chief said back there” she rolled her eyes and I laughed at her sly remark.

“There goes my baby. Have you heard from Austin yet?” I ask turning on our street.

Then she laughed “yeah he called me while I was in a holding cell to let me know when I’d be let out.. You know his frat brother is the attorney general of Massachusetts” I chuckled and pulled to the driveway.

Once I parked, I got out and opened her door and she asked me to carry her in, she wrapped her legs around my waist and I walked us into our home.

With her looking at me as I focused on getting us both up the stairs she starts kissing me all over my face “Hey I know you wish you could’ve done more babe but you did what’s most important and that be a father to our beautiful daughter.” She said as we reached our room.

I dropped her on our California King and stood between her legs rubbing her thighs.

She sat up rubbing the hair on the back of my neck “You are the rock to my roll you make me feel safe and today you protected me the best you could, I love you papi remember that” she softly kissed my lips.

Her lips tasted like sin and strawberry lip balm. Her back felt like velvet as I ran my hands up her warm body and into her hair pulling on it softly. As our kiss deepened, her embrace felt like home to me and I would not know what I’d do if had loss her tonight.

I whispered back “I love you to the moon and back my love”

Many people do not agree with our relationship and don’t understand why I’d choose Maya over all the other women I could be with. But this was my choice to make and I wouldn't change a thing. However, for those who disagree with me.

Fuck Them!

[remsmoonlight]

— title : help me

— word count : 2.1 k words

— pairing : daryl dixon x reader

— summary : you’re not the only one who can feel yourself falling apart, but other things come to light in the mean time

— warnings : brief mentions of death, minor swearing, lack of self care

Had it not been for the fact that you know the world has ended, you could almost find yourself beginning to allow for a sense of tranquility to alleviate the constant threat of anxiety that creeps up on you almost daily. Normality was not a guarantee anymore, it was a rare prize that the group finds itself sometimes able to create even a jagged fragment of.. something you find yourself gripping onto with an unyielding strength, as if you could force it into reality.

The appealing picture is punctured as you spot some movement out of your peripheral vision, your gun is raised in the direction, an inaudible laugh is released as you try to find humour in your paranoia. Even protected by steel fences and concrete walls, you can’t find yourself believing that this prison is now your home, your sanctuary that protects you from the horrors from the outside that constantly threaten to overwhelm the grimy paradise your family had built.

Nothing out of the ordinary has occurred the entire time since you had been awoken to take watch, just a few stray walkers and animals, nothing that would warrant a bullet in them to draw every other living thing for miles to the prison. You find the cool mist that blankets the green fields welcome, something to keep you grounded before your mind wanders off to all that has been brutally torn from your soul, piece by agonising piece. The fog acts as miniscule needles, poking and prodding against your reddened cheeks.

A rustle pulls your attention to the small room of the tower, Daryl had been one to volunteer to take watch with you that night. Something about him conjured the most perplexing yet fond feelings of affection rooted within the centre of you, sometimes you think that there may be something yet sometimes you are sure he was sending signals that there is nothing. Ghost of minor grazes against your skin that had been seared into place, yet were so easily covered as if they had never existed.

Daryl Dixon is one confusing man.

“ no one taking over yet? “

You shake your head at Daryl, a few strands of hair are horridly disloyal to their place and tumble in front of your vision, that is hurriedly rectified as it throws you off balance. Sometimes you had no idea how to behave in front of him, it’s something you wish to confront as you know you cannot continue this way.. especially as tomorrow is never and has never been a guarantee, clearing the air is the only answer.

“ um, not yet. it’s still early though. “ you reply, a latent tremblant that almost completely breaks into your tone, the anxiety you had when you dedicate thoughts to your family going out tries to haunt you like a spirit would. You have already lost so much from the simple things.

“ they better move their asses soon. “

Of course, you have been relieved from watch duty and before you have even thought about breakfast you’re already hauling your heavy limbs to your cell.

Your eyes scan the room to find what you need, a backpack that is shrouded by the intense gloom and darkness that dominates the cramped room filled to the brim with an infinite amount of blemishes from top to bottom. You know that many happy memories do not occupy the room, let alone the building.. but it’s something you intend on changing. You move swiftly to pack it with all the supplies, your mind conjuring scenarios from nothing and every single one more horrifying than the other.. the drive to protect your heart from any more loss is the central force moving you to fill its empty space.

“ the hell you doin’ there? “

The abruptness of the voice sends your pulse skipping, not expecting anyone to bother you so soon.

“ I can’t sit here while they go out there. “ you don’t turn to look at Daryl, you already know the expression that is dyed so densely as he watches your crouched form. “ i tried, but i have to go.. i have to make sure they’re okay. “

“ you don’t trust ‘em? “ asks Daryl, he’d noticed your strange behaviour, he’d not said anything to anyone but the concern he feels is beginning to take on a life of its own. Knowing he would have to share with Rick if you become worse, it’s not something that he wants to do but if it brings some peace to your troubled mind he would.

“ no -- it’s not that! I just.. “

Daryl emits a scoff, he doesn’t mean to be so cold with his demeanour, but divulging anger and rage when he cares is all he knows. His upbringing created a perfect fusion of uncertainty, fear and suffering. One that blends into such a perfect mixture that any time he has to confront an intense situation, all that is expressed is a fire that burns anyone in its path. It’s taken time to be able express himself in healthier ways, but sometimes he finds himself fleeing to the same old habits.

“ what? ‘cause you’re gonna keep on going out there and it’s gonna get ‘ya killed! “

“ you don’t get it. “

Daryl barges his way through the empty doorway, before you even realise it the backpack that had been held firmly in your hand now lingers at your side, an emptiness that your grasp finds itself itching to rip back to its former place. You have your mind set in stone that you need to protect them, you can’t lose another person, the last time you had missed one.. it didn’t turn out so well, and you lost a friend. It was a pain that had your heart feeling as if it was being compressed under an unbearable weight, it’s a childish whim that refuses to back down. The urge to protect clouds everything you see, knowing that if you are there, then you have done everything in your power to ensure that life keeps on going, even if it limps pathetically along.

“ y’think I’m some sorta dumbass? that it? “

“ no! I just -- “ you can feel your entire being beginning to heat up from the pent up fear and frustration that have been building block upon block that is so close to tumbling down in a chaotic fashion. Your fingers move up to clench strands of your hair in exasperation, the phantom pain from your grip enough to prevent yourself from spilling over.

“ y’just what? huh? “ Daryl moves closer towards you, you can see that he wants to say more, to do more.. his eyes speak volumes, they say much more than his mouth does.

The aches that Daryl can feel within him never fade, they never dull, not when he can see what has been occupying your mind is causing a dramatic shift in you. He doesn’t know how to approach the subject, tender conversations have never been his forte.. and the fact that it’s.. well, you. He can’t pinpoint when he began to notice you more and more, but the thought of harm befalling you is something that sends ice through his veins. He doesn’t want to be in a world where he would never see you every day.

“ if I was there.. then maybe, I don’t know. I could have done something. “

Silence is thick, as thick as the dust that still continues to haunt the floors of the cells, no matter how much they are cleaned and wiped away. You can’t wipe away the horrors as easily as dirt.

You turn to face him, you slowly lift yourself as an unwavering tenseness lines every inch of your limbs. It sounded silly now that you have admitted it to another human being, but it is still real and it’s still how you feel.

“ what? y’think you can take on a horde of walkers? it was a suicide mission and they knew it. “

“ how can you be so careless? “ you ask him, a horrified expression staining your expression.

“ I’m seein’ you go down the same road, I ain’t gonna be part of that. you keep goin’ like this, it’s gonna kill ‘ya. “

The words run circles in your mind, a marathon that feels as if it will have no end. It explains his behaviour towards you, the warmth you receive one moment and the sudden shift to a numbing chill that felt as if you were no more than strangers. You hate that to be able to get information from him, you have to be arguing, it’s not something that can be allowed to continue.

“ tell me why. “ a demand comes from you, your voice sounding the most steady and enduring since the argument began. You sigh, feeling defeated. You hate the bubbling concoction of negative emotions that are brewing more and more from the exchange.

“ ain’t hard to figure out. “ Daryl has directed his attention to the floor, unable to meet your sight. He doesn’t want to see what is written on your face, his mind bolting to the worst possible explanation as it always does.

Moving towards what could only be described as a pitiful form of a bed, you drop yourself roughly onto the raggedy mattress and pat the space next to you. Your eyes follow him as he contemplates his next movement, if he decides to move toward you to forgo it all and pretend as if what you had just spoken about had not existed.

Luckily for you, he situates himself on the far side, his hands only slightly fidgeting as he waits for you to speak. It has to be you.

“ Daryl, why don’t you want me to go? “

“ I can’t see ‘ya get killed, just can’t. “

Before you even can truly comprehend what it is you’re doing, you inch a pinky finger towards the hand that lays resting dormantly at his side and allow it to curl into one of his own. The tenderness of the moment is not missed by either of you, both of you not knowing how to proceed. Daryl wasn’t used to being shown such softness in this context, he wants to hate it.. To squeeze the life from the feelings that it evokes, but he can’t. He doesn’t want to.

“ Daryl.. is there something there, or am I imagining it? “

“ y’aint goin’ crazy. “ he acknowledges, providing the spark that alights a bright burning hope within you.

“ is this why you don’t want me on the run? “ you inquire as a grimace comes flooding onto your face, your knees jumping as you struggle to contain your energy.

“ shit -- you look like you’re about to drop everytime I see ‘ya. “

As you battle yourself to contain the upturning of your lips, you shuffle closer to him. You felt the exhaustion every day threatening your entire being, you truly had no idea how you have not yet succumbed to it. Days at the prison are never easy, there’s always something to do and that work is nothing less than formidable and punishing on the human body.

He cares about me, you think to yourself timidly.

You take care in slowly leaning your chin on his shoulder and bringing a hand to rest on his back. Waiting for a signal to do otherwise, a rejection.. but it doesn’t come. It’s allowed, something you joyfully see as progress. You allow yourself to take in the comfort from the simple gesture, sorely missing having even the simple solaces that bring a much needed warming glow in the pit of your stomach. It hurts that he doesn’t even know how important he is to everyone, but more so to you.

“ Daryl, this isn’t something I can just kick. It’s not that easy. “

“ not somethin’ I’m asking. you need t’take care of y’self. “

Before your mind even registers it, you can feel a small weight on your free hand that lays dormantly on your hand. His thumb is drawn back and forth on yours, the patterns bringing a sense of soothing to you that had not blessed you in what felt like an eternity.

“ well.. maybe you can help me? “

There’s a hesitancy that the two of you can recognise, you wish with your whole soul that you could be stronger in asking. You’ve tried and tried to rid the negativity from within you, but every time you think you have, it comes back stronger than ever. More and more resistant than it was previously, its claws drawing more blood from you as it secures its hold in a much more impressive manner.

“ ain’t even gotta ask. “

[waitimcomingtoo]

Heyy are you taking requests? If you are can you please write a fic with Tom where they do that plank over me challenge thing in bbc radio except he's planking over the reader??? Idk tysmmmm💞

Plank All Over Me

Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader

Synopsis: you have to keep your cool while the incredibly flirty Tom Holland planks over you

It’s a series now!

Masterlist

Requests are CLOSED

“Hello everyone, welcome back to BBC Radio 1. I’m Tom Holland from Spider-Man Far From Home.” Tom said sprightly into the camera.

“And I’m regretting being here.” You said in the same tone, making Tom laugh.

“She’s only kidding.” Tom gave you a fond look before looking back at the camera.

“Is she though?” You said with a scrunched nose.

“Aaaaaand we’re doing the Plank Over Me Challenge.” Tom pointed to the camera like he was a game show host.

“And I’m Y/n L/n from Venom.” You lamely added with equally lame jazz hands. “What is this game? Like how do you even play?”

“Its called Plank All Over Me. I plank over you while you ask me questions, and then we switch.” Tom explained while the crew got the cameras and microphones into position.

“Seems pretty intense for a game between strangers.” You commented as you rested your hands on your hips. It was true. You’d never met Tom before. But you were both in the Marvel field and BBC Radio 1 contacted you asking if you’d like to do an interview together. While you thought you’d be sitting on a couch next to him while someone asked you questions, BBC Radio 1 had something else in mind.

“I can assure you, we won’t be strangers after this.” Tom smiled cheekily and gave you a little nudge. Damn, if he wasn’t cute. His British accent and boyish face were enough to knock you off your game. You had to remind yourself that the cameras were on you, and you couldn’t let anything show.

“What if I can’t think of questions?” You asked the crew.

“There’s a little card with questions on it.” A man behind a camera handed you a small white card filled with questions. You scanned the card and nodded.

“This can’t end well.” You looked up and Tom and laughed. “Like, you’re gonna get my elbow full force into your clavicle and there’s nothing I can do to stop that.”

“That seems like a reasonable price to pay to have a pretty lady on top of me.” Tom shrugged, then squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. God, we’ve just met and I’m already blowing it.”

“Don’t sweat it.” You smiled assuringly at him and brought all your hair to one side. “And I can already tell there’s gonna be way too many innuendos.” You chuckled as you got on the ground in between the microphones. You laid straight and gave Tom a nod. Tom stood over you lordly and gave you a thumbs up.

“I’m coming down.” He told you.

“Timber.” You said weakly. You immediately grimaced. “I’m so sorry. Oh my God, cut that out of the video.”

“Leave it.” Tom pointed at a camera and gave them a fake stern look. “It was cute.”

“Are you gonna come or not?” You asked him, dying from the anticipation and already blushing over him calling what you said “cute.”

“This is off to a fantastic start.” Tom laughed and he straddled your waist with his knees. He had a shy, concentrated smile on his face as he rested his forearms on either side of your head. He cradled your face with his arms and clasped his fingers together at the top of your head. You held your breath as he put his legs back and pushed himself up. Finally, he gently lowered himself onto you and stopped just mere inches from your face. His warm breath ticked your face, making you giggle.

“Oh, don’t do that love. I won’t last a minute.” Tom said softly, only for you to hear.

“Sorry.” You said with a cheeky grin. He was like a Monet painting. Pretty from afar and intricate from up close, and bursting with detail. You took notice of the way his one eyebrow went vertical, instead of horizontal. You also took notice of how that was completely adorable. His hair was curlier than it was on screen, and soft strands of it brushed your forehead. He smelled like Head and Shoulders and axe, and maybe a little bit of heaven.

“First question, what happened to your eyebrow?” You asked him. It wasn’t on the card, but you were curious.

“That’s my wolf side, and I’ll never tell.” Tom said while he pierced you with his gaze. You wondered how long you were gonna last under this man.

“Alright.” You bit your tongue between your teeth, making Tom let out a hot breath. You felt his belt buckle touch your tummy every time he laughed.

“What did I just say? No laughing.” Tom reminded you. “Do you want me to crush you?”

A little, you thought.

“But that wasn’t a laugh! I bit my tongue so that I wouldn’t laugh.” You protested.

“It’s still making me weak and a man cannot be weak when he’s planking.” Tom declared, making it really hard for you not to laugh again. You looked at the card and kept going.

“What’s the best advice you’ve ever been given?” You asked him. Innocent enough.

“Probably when my mate Harrison told me to go on BBC radio 1 because that cute girl from Venom was gonna be there.” Tom answered with a lopsided grin. You bit your bottom lip.

“I’m pretty sure flirting isn’t a part of the games rules.” You teased.

“Rules are made to be broken, love.” Tom struggled to give you a wink. “Okay, if you’re cutting out her saying “timber”, then you’re cutting out me saying that.”

“But it was cute.” You said in a deep British accent to mock him. “And I’m pretty sure this is live radio.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be asking me questions?” Tom said in a strained voice. The plank was getting to him, but he was determined to go on.

“Oh right.” You laughed and looked back at the card. “What’s your favorite word?”

“I quite like your name, to be honest. I’ll say that’s my favorite word.” Tom said. If his face wasn’t red before, it was red now. He wasn’t usually this foward, but all bets were off when you were planking over a cute girl. You had to bite your tongue again and forced yourself to look indifferent to his compliment.

“Such a flirt.” You shook your head. “What scares you?”

“The thought of crushing you with my huge, muscly body.” Tom joked. His breath fanned your face again, not that you were complaining.

“Did you leave that body at home?” You teased him. Toms mouth opened in shock.

“Oof.” He said and adjusted his positive, closing his arms tighter around you.

“What? You wanted questions.” You pointed out.

“I did. I have to say though, you’re a pretty good distraction to the ache in my biceps.” Tom admitted.

“That’s what every girl wants to hear.” You said in an over dramatic dreamy tone. “And they are pretty nice biceps.”

“You can feel them when we’re done.” Tom said with a weak smirk. He was really feeling the pain now.

“You did not just say that!” You covered your face with your hand, mostly to hide your blush. You couldn’t move your hand back to the ground in fear of brushing him and making him fall over, so you kept it flushed against your chest.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Tom laughed. “It’s not me, it’s the plank.”

“Getting back to the game, if you could switch suits with any superhero, who would it be?” You asked.

“Probably Iron Man, just so I could go to the bathroom on set.” Tom answered with a breathy chuckle. Every laugh sent a wave of mint straight to your face. “How long have I been going?”

“Four minutes and a half.” You took a glance at the clock. “You’re quivering.”

“You’re making me quiver.” Tom said lowly.

“My deepest apologies.” You said sarcastically as you stared innocently into his eyes.

“I think I could find it in my heart to forgive you.” Tom said, again, only for you to hear.

“Thank God.” You laughed and met his eyes. Behind the obvious strain from holding the plank, you saw a fondness. In a more sincere voice you said, “I wouldn’t want you to be mad at me.”

“I could never be mad at you, darling.” Tom said with equal sincerity. “Though I’m going to get a bit cross if you don’t ask me another question.”

“Shoot, right, sorry. Umm, how often do you people watch?” You asked the first question you saw on the card.

“How often do I what, love?” Tom wheezed.

“People watch.” You repeated. “Like observe other people and their behavior in a non serial killer like way.”

“Oh.” Tom blew a breath out on your face and thought. You could see the veins in his neck beginning to bulge. “Not often. There’s this one girl I like to watch though.” Tom answered, quickly followed by, “In a non serial killer like way.”

“Lucky girl.” You commented, feelings a twinge of jealousy stab at your heart. He was being so flirty and then dropped that on you. “Why do you watch her?”

“Because she takes my breath away.” Tom said roughly as he struggled to breath. He squeezed his eyes tightly to make himself last. “Literally.” He huffed.

“How cute.” You faked a smile. “Do you think she’s watching this now?”

“I know for a fact that she is.” Tom said with a laugh. “How long have I been going now?”

“Almost six minutes.” You told him. “How long are you going for?”

“I’m going to make this last as long as I possibly can, since I will never be in this position again.” Tom said with determination in his weak voice.

“Woah.” You let out a surprised laugh. “Who knew Spider-Man was so dirty?”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Tom defended. “I’ve just enjoyed our time together.”

“You’ve enjoyed the bulging veins, red face, and aching muscles?” You raised an eyebrow.

“No, I’ve enjoyed being asked questions by the lovely girl beneath me.” Tom let out another ragged breath. “I can do this all day.”

“I think the vein in your forehead might pop before you get a chance.” You taunted.

“Mmm.” Tom grunted, really feeling the pain now. “Just keep asking me questions. It helps.”

“Does it? That’s a question.” You looked at the camera, knowing full well you were ignoring the card.

“Yes. You soothe me.” Tom said through clenched teeth. He didn’t seem very soothed.

“Okay, what would you rate 10/10?” You asked, getting back to the card.

“You. And Spider-Man Far From Home, on Blu-Ray and DVD now.” He shot a wink at the camera and pounded his fist against the ground. He wasn’t gonna last much longer.

“What do you wish you knew more about?” You were going rapid fire questions now.

“Again, I’m gonna have to go with you.” Tom laughed halfheartedly. “These questions are too easy.”

“What’s the best way to start your day?” You asked. “And you can’t say me.”

“Well, it would be you, but for now it’s tea.” Tom answered.

“For now?” You asked softly.

“Next question.” Tom wheezed.

“What’s the most interested work of art you’ve ever seen?” You read from the card.

“The Kiss by Gustav Klimt.” Tom said.

“Really?” You asked.

“No, it’s you.” Tom laughed.

“Tom!” Your eyes widened. He was definitely flirting now. “Are you like this with all the girls?”

“Not even close.” Tom gave a labored laugh, as if your question was ridiculous. “Just the pretty ones in Venom.”

“Where would you spend all your time if you could?” You asked, ignoring his comment for the time being.

“Right here.” Tom said before collapsing into you. He fell gently, and buried his face in your neck as he cradled your head with his arm. He breathed heavily in your ear for a moment before rolling onto his side and propping himself up. You shifted a little, so you could look at him. He was all red in the face and had labored breathing. He gave you a tired laugh and looked up at the clock.

“How long did I go?” He asked.

“Six and a half minutes, which means Tom Holland officially holds the BBC Radio 1 Plank All Over Me Record.” A crew member answered.

“My mum will be so proud.” Tom pretended to wipe a tear.

“How do you feel?” You nudged him, both of you still on the ground.

“Never better.” Tom said, out of breath. “Might wanna feel my bicep now, since I just had a record breaking workout.”

You pursed your lips in temptation, before reaching over and squeezing his arm. He watched your face carefully as it twisted into an impressed expression. It was your first time touching a guys bicep, thinking it was a move only used by quarterbacks in movies.

“Well damn.” You laughed shyly and looked into his eyes. You jumped a little when you saw that he was already staring at you.

“Your turn, love.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

“I’m gonna last two seconds.” You said to him as you got up, holding out a hand to help him up as well.

“Nonsense. I’m sure you’re strong.” Tom said as he took your hand. You both realized he didn’t have to get up and he quickly let go in embarrassment.

“I can’t wait to prove you wrong by pile driving you into the carpet.” You chuckled, adjusting your outfit before getting into position.

“I can’t wait for that either.” Tom said as he got on the ground and laid straight. He wiggled down between the two microphones and held a hand up towards you. “Whenever you’re ready, darling.”

“Here we go.” You laughed nervously as you took his hand. You used it to steady yourself as you stepped over him and stood between his legs. You slowly got down on your knees and placed them in either side of his waist. You looked at him hesitantly and he gave you a soft smirk

“Ready?” He asked.

“As I’ll ever be.” You said. You placed your arms on either side on his head and propped yourself up. You straightened your legs and lowered yourself onto your elbows. Immediately, you felt the ache go through your body.

“Okay. Ask away.” You said.

“Are you seeing anyone?” Tom began.

“What? Why is that my first question?” You asked, already feeling your arms and legs weaken.

“It’s on the card.” Tom shrugged. He didn’t even have the card in his hand.

“It is not.” You let out a breathy laugh. “I looked at the card for six and a half minutes, don’t forget.”

“Fine. I thought of it when I was hovering above your perfect face for nearly seven minutes.” Tom said with emphasis on his time. “Now answer.”

“I’ve seen more of you today than I’d like to admit.” You dodged his question to role him up.

“You could see as much of me as you want.” Tom quipped.

“Oh?” You said with a raised eyebrow.

“Not like that! Damn it! I can’t stop with the innuendos.” Tom scolded himself.

“It’s okay.” You shook your head, making your hair fall on his chest. “I think it’s funny. And no, I’m not seeing anyone.”

“Okay, good.” Tom felt better at your words.

“Hey, Tom?” You spoke up.

“Yeah?” He asked.

“Are you gonna ask me anything else?” You wondered. He wasn’t keeping up his end of the game.

“I kinda found out all I needed to know.” Tom joked.

“Tom!” You said, struggling to keep yourself up. You were determined not to fall over after only being asked one question.

“Fine. What’s your favorite bug?” Tom asked.

“What?” You wheezed. “I don’t know. A beetle.”

“Okay, then who’s your favorite Beetle?” Tom continued. None of these questions were on the card, and you both knew it.

“John.” You huffed. “Was that off script?”

“I’m the one asking you questions, darling.” Tom said nonchalantly.

“Well keep asking. I can’t feel my legs.” You grimaced.

“Ready to give up?” Tom asked. Technically, it was a question.

“Never.” You wheezed again.

“Your hair is in my mouth.” Tom laughed as stands of your hair fell into his open mouth.

“Sorry.” You giggled and tried to flip your hair behind your shoulder, which proved to be impossible. Tom laughed at your failure.

“I got you, love.” He said softly as he gentle tucked your hair behind your ears, giving you a clear view of your face.

“I can’t do this.” You said, not even referring to the plank anymore. You couldn’t have Tom Holland flirt with you on live radio without screaming.

“Yes you can.” Tom said assertively. “You’re almost at two minutes.”

“That’s it?” You groaned. It felt like two hours.

“Keep going. I’m not ready for this to end.” Tom cheered you on.

“I swear to God Tom, I’ll give us both rug burn. See if I care.” You threatened.

“You wouldn’t.” Tom said with a cocky smirk. “Who’s your favorite man under the mask?”

“I kinda have a thing for Peter Parker.” You said through deep breaths.

“Peter Parker might have a thing for you.” Tom muttered.

“I bet I look so red right now.” You were beginning to get self conscious being his close to Tom.

“You look beautiful.” Tom dismissed your concern.

“That wasn’t a question.” You pointed out.

“Fine. Who’s the most famous person to slide into your DM’s?” Tom got back to the card.

“Your mom.” You said through clenched teeth.

“Nikki?” Tom asked with a laugh. “How dare she?”

“She’s got game.” You panted.

“If you had to date any actor in the MCU, who would it be?” Tom questioned. You knew that wasn’t on the card either. “I’d just like to point out the very cute, very single MCU actor in this very room.”

“Thats quite convenient isn’t it? I don’t have to look too far.” You smiled, regaining a bit of strength.

“Answer! You told me your favorite bug for Pete’s sake.” Tom grew more impatient with every passing second.

“I guess you, since you’re already underneath me.” You said sheepishly. You knew the answer before he even finished asking.

“I-“ Tom began.

“If you make a sexual joke, I will body slam you.” You cut him off, knowing where he was going with his statement. Tom nodded in defeat.

“Not a sentence I expected to hear today.” He quipped.

“How much longer until three minutes?” You asked in your strained voice.

“Ten seconds.” A crew member answered. The crew, who by the way, was watching two people fall in love in real time, right in front of them.

“I can’t do it.” Your arms felt like fire and were beginning to shake.

“Yes you can.” Tom urged you to keep going.

“My arms feel like spaghetti.” You panted.

“Arms are heavy, moms spaghetti.” Tom said in a positive tone. You laughed and felt your arms shake harder.

“If I couldn’t laugh under you, you can’t make me laugh when I’m over you.” You scolded.

“Fair. Three more seconds.” Tom told you. “Three, two, one.”

“I’m out.” You collapsed onto his chest and laid there for a moment. You felt Toms hand on the small of your back, rubbing comforting circles with his hand as your heart pounded against his chest. You rested against his chest as you caught your breath, feeling your arms slowly regain their strength. You picked your head up and rested your chin on his chest, giving him a tired smile. He returned the smile and tucked your hair behind your ears again.

“All good?” He asked with a lazy smile.

“I will be.” You assured him. “As soon as my legs regain feeling.”

“Here. I’ll help you up.” Tom offered. He rested his hands on your hips and shifted you off of him. He then scooped you up and gently set you in your feet. He let you lean into him until your aching legs were steady.

“Your time was three minutes and one second, Y/n.” A crew member told you.

“Trust me, I felt it every second.” You gulped, your mouth feeling suddenly dry.

“So did I.” Tom smiled. “Nice job.” He held up his hand, a little higher than you could reach. You took a step towards him to get closer, instantly regretting it. Your legs trembled and Tom had to catch you to steady yourself.

“Oh great. Tom Holland made me unable to walk for the next week.” You rolled your eyes before realizing you own innuendo. You put your hand over your mouth in embarrassment.

“Also not a sentence I expected to hear.” Tom laughed with happy shock.

“Not a sentence I expected to say, darling.” You threw his own word back in his face. He gave you a mock offended face.

“As fun as this was, that’s all the time we have for today. Thank you Tom and Y/n for joining us at BBC Radio 1.” The host of the show said into the microphone.

“Thanks for having us.” Tom said sincerely. Very, very sincerely.

“I’m thankful, but my arms are not.” You joked

You thanked the crew one last time and went off to your respective dressing rooms. You rubbed your aching arms and gathered your things before hearing a knock at your door. You opened it, expecting to see your manager but instead found a very bashful looking Tom Holland.

“So.” He began with a hesitant smile. “There was one question I didn’t get to ask, that I’m dying to know.”

“And what would that be?” You asked, leaning against the doorway with a smirk. Tom looked at you, feeling a surge of confidence from your smile and loosened his shoulders. Oh, the things you did to him.

“Will you go out with me?” He said quickly, before his confidence left him. “Maybe it was just me, but I was really feeling it back there in the interview, and I felt like you were too. I hope it wasn’t just me.” Tom said in a hopeful manner. “Please say it wasn’t just me.”

“That depends.” You said coyly. “You’d have to answer a question of mine first.”

“Which is?” Tom asked, bouncing a little on his heels.

“Did you think I’d ever say no?”

Tag List 🏷

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[seriouslyblacklikemysoul]

Until Forever - Sirius Black

Hey you beautiful people! Last chapter of Part I. 

MASTERLIST I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX | X |XI | XII | XIII

Chapter 14. 1978.

           Darkness was infinite and pain would linger on forever. There was no hope; hope was the biggest illusion human kind had manufactured in order to keep going when there was absolutely no fucking point. A black void was everything that ever was; nothing more that the absolute nothing. She felt weightless, as if the waves of the raging black sea could tear her to pieces, throw her to the rocks. Then, she felt as heavy as the universe – drowning in the mere thought of water. Her body felt tired, her mind was restless; not in a good way. She though that life went on but to her, that was the saddest part of it all.            It could end two ways, both equally tragic. Either she would die amongst the rest or she would live. She didn’t know what worse. Truly, never having the chance to see her family again or staying behind? Her entire body got goosebumps and her hands were trembling. She had tried to drink her problems away, just for a few hours, but it only made her sadder, lonelier.                Until she left. She wasn’t celebrating – she couldn’t celebrate the new year. Each passing second, fate was approaching them, faster than she had ever realized. Usually, it was the past that made people sad; well, she was the exception to that as well. She really wanted to go home, for this to be over, to give up Hogwarts and magic and the people. She just wanted her home back, her life, her choices – the ability to choose.                          She was making a run for it. After half an hour of pretending, she said her goodnight, only to few people – well, to the Potters. She couldn’t deal with questions and avoided them like bullets. Once the doors closed behind her, all the silence of the world crushed upon her; and it was louder than the loudest sound. It was suffocatingly loud. Refusing to go back inside, she climbed to her room, kicking her heels off, before even closing the door. A soft tune was stuck in her mind and the Greek poem that accompanied it – the moonlight sonata.              

Let me come with you.

This house can’t bear me anymore.

I cannot endure to bear it on my back.

You must always be careful, be careful,

to hold up the wall with the large buffet

to hold up the table with the chairs

to hold up the chairs with your hands

to place your shoulder under the hanging beam.

And the piano, like a closed black coffin. You do not dare to open it.

You have to be so careful, so careful, lest they fall, lest you fall. I cannot bear it.

Let me come with you.

This house, despite all its dead, has no intention of dying.

It insists on living with its dead

on living off its dead

on living off of the certainty of its death

and on still keeping house for its dead, the rotting beds and shelves.

Let me come with you.

Oh, are you going? Goodnight. No, I won’t come. Goodnight.

I’ll be going myself in a little. Thank you.

              She softly spoke the words to the still air as she was looking outside of her window, a wave of nostalgia crushing to her like a tsunami. She was deep into her thoughts, into her world of roses, poems, stardust and a serene chaos. She felt at peace in the midst of a hurricane, within dramatic lines, written by poets with elegant noses and strong beliefs. The music kept repeating memories, stirring them up as it went on. She didn’t want a happy ending, she sadly realized; she wanted tragedy, passion and catastrophe; she wanted everything and nothing. She wanted absolution. Just like every heroine in the ancient tragedies; it was in her nature.                      He didn’t dare to speak, to make a sound; he held his breath in fear of waking up from the tender dream he was having; a vision right before his eyes. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea, but he felt pulled towards her as if he had no other place to be; as if he was meant to be in her room. She knew that someone was watching her, and she already guessed who but took her time to face with him, with an all-knowing smile.               He was caught of guard, trying to retain his posture and temper or he would just turn around and run away for good. Feeling rather ashamed that he got caught, not that he was invading her privacy, he looked at the floor, blushing ever so slightly. She really didn’t mind. How could she?                    “Do you like it?” she airily asked him, as she remained by the window. He gulped. He knew she was talking about the poem he heard her recite but he couldn’t shake her image, entering the ballroom. Yes, he loved it.                        “I didn’t know that one” he admitted quite subtly. She wasn’t surprised; it was by a Greek poet and it was an intense portrayal of the subject of loneliness and alienation of the uncommitted individual. The lady in the poem represented that part of the old world, which the poet thought it was condemned to perish with its aristocratic past because of its aversion to adapt and participate in the process of change. She thought that if anyone understood that feeling, was him.              “I know” she melodiously informed him. She was enticing and it was hard for him to stay away. Not that he wanted to, in any case. No, he didn’t know which magical poem had stolen her heart but he did know that she was standing under the moonlight, her essence becoming ethereal. How evident it became? She didn’t believe in happiness and that scared him; he could feel for her but even he believed that there has to be a better way, it has to get better. She seemed to contradict him by simply suggesting that there was no point in … well, anything.              Such a hopeless wanderer’s soul, she had. She was made from a different material, a nihilist and an idealist, a desperate romantic and a catastrophic pragmatist. How wonderfully vague her outlines were. Maybe it was because she was wearing a gold waterfall for a dress, but he knew better – he just couldn’t stop gawking.; to be fair he was an 18-year-old boy.            “Why did you leave so soon?” he asked her without hesitation, as if al the barriers had collapsed under the moonlight. She solely focused on his eyes and he could not avert his gaze.                   “Tristes sous leurs déguisements fantasques - I believe it is” she quoted Verlaine and that, he did know. Sad beneath fantastic disguises. Why would she ever feel that way? He was only fooling himself. He was lying, pretending not to feel the way he did, pretending that there was nothing between them, pretending he was happy torturing Marlene, pretending everything was fine and the way they were supposed to be.         “Votre âme est un paysage choisi” he quoted back, letting her know that his French was so much better than hers and that he paid attention to the details. He truly did. It was almost inappropriate for her to like him or even to think about how his eyes shined liked spilled mercury under the moonlight. However, the biggest problem was that it was unrequited.                             He took one step towards her direction, fully aware of the fragile moment they shared. She saw the shift in his eyes and her entire mind was screaming to her to shut up. Everyone else was probably celebrating in the midst of an upcoming war but she was fighting another one all on her own. Keeping secrets from the people whom their fates were sealed and she could not do a thing was becoming heavier by the second and that broke her.        

           “What – what is really happening here, love?” he questioned her with a slight anger lingering on in his voice – anger that he didn’t know he was experiencing. She was surprised by the very thought of him being angry. He wasn’t angry at her per se, he was really shaken off about not being in the known, having blanks that he had to fill by himself when it should have been her answers instead of his imagination.              She wanted to tell him everything and then her mind went to the time he spent in prison for no reason at all, and she swallowed hard. How would she ever be able to come clean about that. Remus was a bit easier – yes, he was still very hurt and shocked and everything in the middle but Sirius… it was always different with him. It was always different when it came to him – she was …                  “I want to tell you but it’s too much. Please don’t ask me to be honest with you. Not on that level. Anything else, I will answer. Not that” she finally told him. At least, she was acknowledging all the hypocrisy and all the lying, he thought. He wasn’t looking for that answer though, he wanted the real reason behind her entire existence in his life, and so he closed the gap between them. His tall frame was towering over her, her back was pressed to the wall next to the window and his eyes were piercing her face for clues.                    “No. You don’t get to do that. I have been nothing but honest with you about everything. You don’t get to hide now” he pushed further, making her arch her eyebrow. As he realized that he had overstepped the boundaries, he tried to take a step back but her finger was already poking his chest through his unbuttoned shirt and undone tie.                  “You? Honest? Really? Is that what you tell yourself before you go to sleep? That you are honest with me? Or that you’re honest with yourself? Because neither -                        “Fine, what do you want me to say?” he cut her off, revealing his hot temper with a flush that appeared in his face – something she had never seen before and she had to remind herself that this Sirius was not the one from the books. He wasn’t a character anymore; he was a real person – breathing down on her.                            She closed her eyes, not wanting to create any more tension that what had already been created but he was not having it. He wanted answers, now more than ever, even if he knew that he, himself, had been lying all that time – this was not the same. He was lying about his feelings; she was lying about everything.                        “Who are you? Who could you possibly be to come here through the fucking sky? To come here and turn everything upside down. To make me question things that I thought I had figured out long ago. To make me jealous of my own best friend and to make me want to destroy every sound thing. Who are you?” he bombarded her with accusations that he wanted figured out now. And all it took was one hot second before she screamed the answers back to him, each hitting like a bullet to his heart, each being louder and louder only to finish off with a dead silence.                        “You think you are the one suffering? I have been trapped here for too long, I miss my home, my family, my life. I want out. I am done playing a stupid part in this scenario. I know everything. I know how are you going to end up, when, where, who dies, who lives, who fucking betrays – because I came from the sky. The fucking sky. I don’t know how or even who I am anymore. I thought you were a book character and every single thing was only real in my imagination and the pages of seven books. But no. I fucking live in the damn past – not mine. NO. A past from a different possibility. Twenty years before my birth date. And of course, out of every mistake I could possibly make, every choice gone mad, I had to - ”.

           Usually, there were two basic motivating forces: fear and love. When people were afraid, they tend to pull back from life, when in love, the open up to all that life has to offer with passion, excitement and acceptance. And while fear was easier, almost natural to them, they knew that they had to step outside their comfort zone.                  Not finishing off her sentence, leaving it there hanging in the middle of the thick air between them, was her way of giving him space to decide and her a breather. Her mind was yelling at her to stop and think about all those things that actually mattered but not every act was a result of sensibility. Her accusing finger was still on his chest; as a matter of fact, her entire palm was being pressed against his skin – not his shirt anymore. The information was not new to him; he knew, deep down he did.              Each night before he would fall asleep, he was trying to decode and figure her out, even just a bit. He was repeating the things she had said during the day, realizing just how much of an insight she had and wondering if it was just that or… It started of small, a few words of more than wisdom were spoken, a few things were said that she could not possibly know about… and the ever-present aura of secrecy. Her tattoos were one thing, her words were another. It wasn’t news to him and she noticed that. Her anger calmed down to a side smile.                “But you already knew” she concluded and her touch became gentler against his chest. Gentle as a fire. He looked at her with a desperate look, as if he wanted to do so much, to say so much but couldn’t. Sirius was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a cheater.             Instead of pushing her against the wall and kissing her like he had already pictured in his head about a million times, he stepped back and he sat on the bed, eyes always glued to her.              “I think I did” he agreed, more to his own mind than to her words. She took a deep breath and used the chair in front of the boudoir, to the left of the big window, facing him while at the same time keeping her distance.                          “I still don’t think I can tell you everything, Sirius” she softly apologized but he shook his head.                    “It’s okay. It’s okay if I am the one dying, love, or the one going mad. You will tell when or if you’re ready. I’m sorry for… this” he said, indicating the space between them but she brushed it off. How much longer would she able to keep it hidden from James and Peter, she didn’t know.                  “Sirius… it’s not that simple. I know what I know from the books. So, basically, from I come from, the dimension and the time period, you, the boys, Hogwarts… magic, everything is fiction and contained within seven books that are not even about you. While these books go on, you are older and have gone through a lot. I know that part. I don’t know if it will happen the way it was supposed to, since I am here and I wasn’t supposed to, I think, but I also can’t change much in this plot. Or even if I can, I don’t know if I should. Messing with time and history is not something I am looking forward to do. Although, if I could change some things, I would without blinking” she admitted, staying as close to the truth as she could, without revealing too much. How could she face him and tell him what was about to happen to him in a few years? He wouldn’t even get to turn her age before Azkaban… and that hit her differently.                        “I know that there is something dark in the things you are not saying. And I know that I am neither the one who dies nor the one who lives from the way your eyes never met mine when I said it. Maybe the one who goes crazy but not exactly. That’s okay. It would happen either you were here or not. It’s better that you are. I don’t know if it is for you… I cannot imagine the weight of all those things. I am sorry” he told her sincerely. They shared so many things; intuition, depth, passion. And a five-year gap.            “So you see, celebrating didn’t feel appropriate” she concluded airily. But he looked at her in a perplexed expression.                  “On the contrary. We should. Now more than ever. Because after all, we only have this moment, isn’t that so?” he proposed and she was astonished because he was right. He didn’t want to talk about it more, knowing that something bad happened to all of them, and that she didn’t want to say what. He understood her – it was cruel, such disastrous things being delivered by her. She held answers to questions they hadn’t even thought about yet. He could never blame her for not coming forward. Even though he wanted to be her confidant, the one she would spill her heart out he knew that she wouldn’t. Some things were better left unsaid… but…not forever.                      “You should go back to your friends” she suggested, as she felt worn out, wanting nothing more than to get out of the dress and makeup.                                  “I thought we were friends” he chuckled darkly, earing a fixed glance from her piercing eyes.            “Oh Sirius. You and I…we could never be friends” she admitted and there was not a single shy cell in her body. Her entire mind had shut up and every word coming out of her mouth was a sharp slap across his face, hitting him with the truest statement she could have said. He licked his lips and tamed his tongue not to respond the only way he truly wanted to as he got up and buttoned up again, to rejoin the party.                      “Remus knows?” he asked but it came out as a bold statement. He was jealous he wasn’t the first one to know this, or how her lips felt against his. He shook the image out of his head and focused his eyes one her. She was radiant but she wasn’t fooling anyone – she might have worn a gold dress but she was the moon, dark, secret and almost untouchable. Almost.                    “He does” she confirmed, realizing just how jealous he could get. She didn’t like possessiveness, mainly because she was the one being possessive in her previous relationships, but with Sirius…she could, perhaps, turn a blind eye. He was unexpected in every way, to her. He was biting his lip, deep in thought. It was tragically doomed and yet he found beauty among the disaster. It was fragile and soft, so tender but raw, catastrophe pouring down at everything. It was problematic – making homes out of people. But he had never felt more at home than with people; his best mates, his school, her.  His house never felt like a home and yet he was surrounded by it. And now, a strange feeling washed over his heart. What was he doing, letting her go?                He waned to kiss her, without a warning, with permission, without even deciding to do so but simply because he couldn’t think of anything else. He needed that breath she was holding. It belonged to him and he wanted it back. But there was that small voice, so ever faint, that told him it was not the time nor the place to do so. He had to physically stop from heading towards her rather than the door. And he didn’t know why he stopped.             “Love, I…” he started but she gave him a sharp look.                        “Don’t” she whispered and he left with a heartbreaking look on his delicate features.       

           She found an excuse not to return to the party. She would find an excuse to return to Hogwarts as soon as possible, otherwise her entire being would implode and no one would even notice. She would just collapse under the pressure of knowledge and no one would even understand how hard her life had suddenly become. She was the girl who wanted to know everything, who went looking for knowledge every place she visited and she had become the girl who wished she didn’t know the future, who was oblivious and blissful, who stayed silent and didn’t challenge the world.                It was too early. Too late maybe. No one was partying, no one was in the living room, no one was making any sound. She tiptoed around a bit. The fireplace was livid, calming and consuming at the same time as if it was calling to her. Everything will end up in flames. Not ice, but hellfire. It was the saddest thing she could have thought of. Protecting a breakable heart. What if she got the chance to leave?              “Would I?” she whispered to herself. No. And that feeling of knowing that she wouldn’t be able to leave even if she did find a way, that she wouldn’t go back to her own family and her own life, that very feeling made her realize that this was indeed her home, that the people in this reality were her family and that this was her now. And she had to fight for her home and her family. She had to at least try.              “We missed you at the party” a soft voice caught her off guard. She took a deep breath. This was it. This hide and seek had to end. Once she turned around, he saw how serious she was and immediately understood that something was off. His eyes were tired but alert, his whole body language was signaling that he was able to grasp the severity of whatever she had to say to him.                        “There is something I need to tell you but you’ll need to sit down, James”.

__ Taglist: @must-be-a-weasley-92​ @megalificent​ @fific7​ @maraudersangel​ @tb-ctn 

[commie-eschatology]

Return to Redcliffe

particularly proud of this Solas + Trevelyan scene from “Return to Redcliffe” so gonna do some shameless self-promotion. Ao3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/33444538

When all her companions are asleep, Trevelyan leaves the Inquisition camp. She isn’t sure if she’ll come back. Someone is clearly following her, but she ignores that for now. The road back to Redcliffe stretches in front of her, but she hesitates. This is an extraordinary bad idea, she tells herself, but when has that ever stopped her? Lydia used to complain about her tendency to just act on desire alone. But Lydia is dead, she tells herself, you broke her head open with your staff until her brains spilled all over the floor. You killed the woman who raised you, only for the rebellion to sell themselves into slavery. ` In the woods, she stumbles upon a templar caravan. Very fortunate for her, very unfortunate for them. Their screams echo through the Ferelden forest; she imagines getting incinerated from inferno magic would hurt quite a bit, but it’s certainly not her problem. Trevelyan leaps onto the, now empty, wagon, and finds a crate of apples. She takes a few bites of one and monologues, “I rebel, therefore I am,” to the half eaten piece of fruit.

There’s groaning from underneath the wheels, and a jumble of words that vaguely sound like “what the fuck?” so she asks, “Sorry, are you still alive down there?” There’s no response, so in the interest of being thorough, she throws a fireball at the voice. The smell of burnt flesh follows, so she assumes it got the job done, but then again, Ferelden usually smells like that. Really not a terrible scent, she considers. Or perhaps she’s just gone mad.

Trevelyan looks at the Mark on her hand- staying with the Inquisition is the clever choice, she tells herself. Only she can close the rifts, after all. The rebels have been utterly defeated, the movement badly needs allies if it’s to survive. Still, her logic feels cold and hollow. The Venatori ships are already in Redcliffe harbor. She asks herself, how many will be shipped up to the Imperium in chains, in just the time it takes to travel between the Hinterlands and Haven?

Fire burns underneath the wagon. It’s always been fire for Trevelyan- burning the family manor during a childhood nightmare, cremating Lydia’s mangled corpse with her own spells, and, most recently, incinerating more templars than she can count. It’s the same fire that she could use to burn those Tevinter slave ships tonight- despite Fiona and Linnea’s betrayal, she has no doubt that at least a few of her people would join her.  

“Do you want to keep staring at me from the woods then?” she asks the person shadowing her. Solas steps out from the shadows, clearly surprised at being discovered, but he tries not to let it show. He’s usually far more subtle, she doesn't doubt she could be more stealthy if he wanted, but he clearly believes everyone around him is an utter idiot. Fair enough, she supposes. He gives a slight smile, the kind that might say “well done.”

As with everyone, Solas projects emotions into the Fade- but his are more tightly moderated than any other mage she’s ever seen. Now though, Trevelyan sees a wave of complex feelings she can barely sort through, radiating from him: rage at the Tevinters, intense all-consuming fear of something she can’t sense, great sadness for something lost, but all controlled, and directed by conscious purpose.

“These woods are dangerous,” he says, characteristically naming the obvious, “and you have the only means of closing the rifts.” He regards her for a moment. “I apologize if I intruded. You have proven yourself a capable fighter, but I have found it is far too easy to make rash mistakes when one is alone.” His actual meaning is not lost on her: don’t be an idiot and run, is what he wants to say.

He adds, “And in my defense, you did just eviscerate an entire troop of men.” She expects him to ask her why, but he doesn’t; apparently needing no explanation for her small act of rebellion.

“They were templars,” she explains anyways, “most are awful. The others just look away when the Circle rapes happen. Honestly, I’ve always preferred the former.”

“I can’t disagree with you,” Solas says, “my few interactions with templars have been... unpleasant. Either they are accustomed to following the worst orders, as you have said, or they just enjoy inflicting pain, especially upon those without recourse.” There is clear contempt and disgust in his voice, it’s as if he’s speaking from experience.

“That’s why we rebelled,” she says, taking another bite of the apple, “also,  I was hungry. Inquisition rations weren’t doing it.” Solas actually laughs. Trevelyan idly wonders when murder became so casual for her. Kill the woman who raised you, and everyone else becomes easy, she supposes.

There’s a short, but not awkward, silence between them. She knows exactly why he is here, to prevent her from defecting back to the rebels, but his presence is, surprisingly, not unwelcome. They haven’t had much time to talk like this; the conversations they’ve had have so far been in either the shadow of Haven’s Chantry, or on the road with Cassandra.

She motions to the adjacent seat on the wagon. To her surprise, he nods, and walks, or more accurately, struts over, butt wiggle and all. Like most mages, he usually makes himself seem as small as possible, scuttling rather than walking, but unlike the rest, it’s almost as if he has to consciously remind himself to do so.

Solas likes questions, she reminds herself, so ask one. He jumps up on the wagon, and she says, “do you like apples?”

Solas doesn’t even blink. “Apples were first domesticated in this part of the world.” How the fuck does he even know that, she wonders. “I saw a memory once, of a horde of human barbarians, desperately defending a part of these woods they held sacred, from the legions of the Imperium. When the barbarians were slain, the Tevinters marched forward, only to find a simple apple orchard, one which hundreds gave their lives to protect.” He takes one out of the crate, and takes a bite. “However, if you were asking about the taste- no, I detest apples.” He takes another bite. “This one in particular tastes sort of like burnt human flesh.”

“Dying for a lost cause. You really never miss an opportunity to make a point, do you?” she says, “also, how do you even know what burnt human flesh tastes like?”

Solas smiles mischievously. “I don’t like to waste words,” he says. The other point he is suspiciously quiet on. I don’t judge, Trevelyan thinks, you go eat as much flesh as you like, Solas.

His words are somewhat slurred, and she smells something in the air, besides the burning templars of course. She recognizes it as the unmistakable stench of peach whiskey, suspiciously similar to the bottle she had nicked from Dennet yesterday. Solas seems to notice and says, “Master Dennet had many such bottles wasting away on the shelf. He will not miss one, or two, I suppose.” He shrugs.

On the topic, she notices a small bottle of ale in one of the templar crates; the cork is stuck when she pulls on it, so she simply uses a bit of force magic to smash the top of the bottle off. It smells absolutely wretched, and tastes even worse, but she drinks it anyway. Solas watches her, possibly judging her, but he’s always hard to read. “Been a shit day,” she explains. Linnea said, go back to your templars. Fuck her. Tevinter apologist. Shockingly flat ass. Terrible kisser.

“Was today your first time in Redcliffe?” she asks. Solas chuckles softly to himself, apparently a joke only he understands.

“A long time ago, before your rebellion,” he says, “it’s changed since, of course. But I assume you’re asking my opinion on the rebel mages, rather than the settlement itself.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Despair sticks to most of the mages like gnats.” He’s right, during the retreat from the Free Marches, every morning some mages wouldn’t wake up, taken by Despair demons in their sleep. And the war has only gotten worse. She can’t even imagine. “Still, they endure. Their fight against oppression is admirable, and utterly hopeless.” , “Hopeless?” Trevelyan raises an eyebrow. She should be angry, but more than anything she feels exhausted. “You seem rather certain.”

“Of course I am.” he says, matter of fact. Trevelyan picked up some dalish during the rebellion; she’s not ignorant as to the meaning of his name. “In my journeys through the Fade, I have seen countless rebellions rise up, confident in the just nature of their cause, only to be crushed mercilessly. Righteousness, unfortunately, is no match against steel.” Good poetry. She’ll give him that.

“And, yet, Recliffe is still standing,” she says, “for the first time in a thousand years, in this part of the world, mages govern ourselves. No templars. No Chantry. We built that. Isn’t that freedom worth defending?” Trevelyan spent most of her life in the Circle. No price can be too great, she thinks.

“You forget you aren’t speaking to Cassandra or Varric. We do not disagree on the necessity of rebellion,” he smiles, just a bit, mostly to himself, “but, in order for a rebellion to win its immediate demands, as well has change what it is possible in the long term, something you once told me that you seek to do, they must do one thing.” He pauses for dramatic effect, and honestly it works. “They must win.”  

“Even failed revolutions can teach lessons,” she says, the only dogma she’s ever needed to believe in, “no matter what Varric says, the mage rebellion didn’t manifest spontaneously.” She thinks of the thousand year struggle for freedom, and what feels like generations of the dead on her shoulders. In the distance, Trevelyan can just make out the flag of the Venatori, waving from the ramparts of Redcliffe. The ships are not far behind.

“No,” Solas says, suddenly melancholy, “or if they do, it is always the wrong lessons.” He’s silent for a long moment, staring into the ground. “I saw a memory once in the Fade. A man who sought to overthrow a tyrant. Then, a half-hearted assassination attempt, tailored for drama, instead of results. It of course failed. The man himself was burned alive, defiant at first, but when the flames reached his body, when his skin began to melt off, he screamed for mercy that never came.”

Trevelyan takes a long drink. Solas adds, eerily calm, “In the end, martyrdom is just melted flesh upon a wooden stake, and a name utterly forgotten.”  She drains the rest of the bottle.

“I killed my mother,” she says, suddenly, without really meaning to, “when the Circle was annulled, I tried to give her the courtesy of a quick spell, but the tower wards blocked magic so…” she makes a motion with her staff “I, well, had improvise.”

“Your first murder?” he asks. She shakes her head. Definitely not. “If you want absolution, I’m not the person to give it.”

“Oh fuck no, I’m not Andrastian,” Trevelyan scoffs, and Solas chuckles softly. The Andrastians think they can solve all the world’s evils, all their many personal failings, through a song. It’s childish. Besides, Trevelyan would rather hold onto her sins for now- keep them close like a badge of honor. She looks down at the dead templars, corpses bathed in green light from her Mark.

“I don’t regret it,” she says, and she thinks she means it, “not if it served a purpose.” Trevelyan looks again towards Redcliffe, and thinks, everything I am, I owe to them. “In just the time it takes to travel back to Haven, how many will already be on the ships?”

“Likely a few dozen,” Solas answers, “there will be far more, thousands, if these Venatori are not defeated, which is a battle only the Inquisition has the resources to win. It is fortunate, then, that you have a position where you can speak on behalf of the rebel mages.”

The sun begins to rise, bathing the forest in dim orange light. “We should get back then ,” she forces herself to say, though every word is like a block of lead. Solas exhales in relief.

“One final thing,” she says as Solas moves to get up. She looks at her counterpart, studying him best she can, sensing his projections into the Fade. He’s unlike any other apostate she’s ever met, and there’s something about him she can’t quite put her finger on, much less vocalize. “You know quite a bit about rebellions,” she says.

“I have seen much in my travels,” he says, pausing as he considers his next words, “and you could say I had a dramatic youth.”

“One I’d be interested in hearing about,” she says, genuinely. “Especially if it involves more surprisingly melancholy stories about apple domestication.” Solas seems taken aback for a moment, but recovers quickly, chucking politely at her joke. He then smiles quietly to himself.

The two apostates return to the Inquisition camp, though Trevelyan keeps Redcliffe in her sight for as long as she can.

Ao3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/33444538

[wizardofrozz]

The Perfect Pair

Warnings: swearing, violence, angst

Pairing: Loki x OFC

____________________________________________________________

Chapter 6: Without You

(Loki POV)

I watched her slump down as she returned to her body; I ached to touch her, to feel her soft skin for just a moment. Months of only getting to see her have been torture, and all I wanted was to hold Violet, and it physically pains me not to sometimes.             “That was surprisingly beautiful, brother,” Thor’s voice broke me out of my thoughts.             “I’m not surprised you were listening,” I grunted, keeping my eyes on the floor.             “It’s horrible to lie to her brother,” Thor said smugly, pacing outside my cell.             “I’m not surprised you think I’m lying. At the same time, I don’t care if you believe it or not,” I shot him a dirty look.             “Clean yourself up; we are leaving,” Thor sighed, crossing his arms.             “I want to see her before we go,” I locked eyes with my brother.             “Loki –“ Thor huffed but stopped talking when I raised a hand.             “I don’t care; I want to see her once. End of story,” I got to my feet, blinking away my disheveled appearance.             “2 minutes,” Thor sighed, irritation dancing through his eyes. Thor nodded to the guards, and a break in the orange barrier appeared; I met Thor at the entrance, turning towards Violet’s cell. The guard hesitated, but Thor nodded again; the barrier opened enough for me to slip in. Violet was passed out; the energy it took for her to sit with me was taking its toll. Her body tensed momentarily, a soft sigh escaping her lips.             “I do love you, darling, in my own twisted way. I’ll find my way back to you,” I mumbled, pressing a tender kiss on her forehead. My legs carried me to the door of her cell, away from the feeling of being home; I glanced at her one more time before joining Thor again.

***

(Violet POV)

“I do love you, darling, in my own twisted way. I’ll find my way back to you.” Loki smiled down at me; a gentle breeze tousled his hair, the sun reflecting off the striking green of his eyes. My eyes fell shut as his lips pressed to my forehead, a content feeling washing over me.

My eyes shot open instantly, and tears stung the corners of my eyes. It felt so real, and it felt like Loki was right here; I quickly turned my head, seeing his cell empty. Tears rolled down my cheeks, the sinking feeling that I may never see Loki again was flowing over me in waves. I sunk down in my bed, letting the pain loll me back to sleep, dreaming of a time when Loki was at my side.                                                      /// I listened to the low hum of the orange barrier around me; what seems like days had passed since I had seen Loki or Thor. The empty feeling engulfing me never subsided; one day, it got so intense, it felt like someone rammed a blade through my chest. My hours consciousness consisted of thinking about how I could escape while my dreams were filled with memories of Loki; I woke up feeling lonelier every time.             “Violet?” I jumped at the soft voice. My eyes found Thor standing outside my cell a few seconds later; pain etched all over his face. The orange barrier opened, letting him slide into my cell, his towering form making me feel even smaller.             “Hello Thor,” I hesitantly said, moving to a sitting position.             “Hi,” he muttered, shifting his weight awkwardly.             “Where’s Loki?” I whispered, already knowing I wasn’t going to like the answer.             “...he’s gone,” his voice cracked, a single tear rolling down his face. It felt like someone punched me in the stomach; I doubled over, my lungs tightening like someone squeezed the air out of them. “I’m sorry,” Thor whispered, moving to sit on my bed. He lifted his arm, hesitating before pulling me to his side; the small gesture broke the dam, tears started flowing.             “How?” I croaked.             “Don’t dwell on that. It’s not important; just know he loved you,” Thor mumbled, rubbing my arm.             “You didn’t think he actually did,” I snorted, but it sounded more like I was choking back a sob.             “He changed my mind. He died saving my love. He sacrificed his happiness for mine.” Thor’s voice cracked a few times, his head falling forward.             “I always knew there was good in there somewhere. He isn’t...wasn’t, as evil as he insisted,” I mumbled, a sad smile tugging at my lips; tears falling onto my hands.             “His funeral is tomorrow. I’ll come to get you before so you can get ready,” Thor sighed, squeezing my shoulder.             “I’m allowed to go?” I looked up at him finally, his face a few inches from mine.             “Yes, I convinced Odin to let you come. He wasn’t too happy, but he agreed,” Thor smiled slightly.             “Thank you.” I smiled back at him, appreciating his kindness.             “You deserve to say goodbye to your love,” he tried to smile again, tears rolling down his face again.             “I don’t know how,” I whispered, leaning my head on his shoulder.             “You may have helped with the incidents in New York, but I don’t think you’re as bad as you make yourself out to be either. I’ve seen a softer side to you the longer you’ve been in here. I saw a softer side of my brother that you brought out of him. I may not have always been kind to you, but my brother loved you. I want to grant his dying wish,” I felt the vibrations of his words through his shoulder.             “What was it?” I asked, staring off into space.             “He wanted you to be happy,” Thor sighed. “So I was hoping you would consider working in the castle. Although Odin insists you have to wear something that cancels your magic. I know it’s not ideal, but it’s the closest I can come to granting his wish. It’s better than being stuck here.” Thor’s breath hit my forehead as he spoke.             “There’s no point. I’d rather you just kill me,” I stammered as another wave of sadness ran through me.             “I can’t do that,” Thor sighed again, squeezing me closer.             “Please, it’ll hurt less than this,” I stuttered, my voice breaking as my body slumped into Thor again.             “I’m sorry,” Thor whispered again. We sat in my cell for what felt like an eternity, crying, hurting; Thor kept me pressed to his side the entire time, quite literally holding me together as my heart broke, something I never thought possible. “Get some sleep,” Thor whispered sometime later.             “I guess I’ll take it. Working in the castle,” I breathed, a numb feeling settling around me.             “I know,” Thor stated. “I’ll be back for you in the morning,” Thor whispered; he pressed a gentle kiss in my hair, surprising me. He squeezed my shoulder one last time before slipping out of my cell, heading back to the surface. I laid in my bed staring at the ceiling, feeling like I was trapped underwater, struggling to pull air into my lungs as I drifted to sleep.                                                            

                                                          ///

Loki’s funeral was short and straightforward; his body was missing, so it didn’t really feel like a proper funeral. I could tell Odin didn’t even want to have a funeral, but he couldn’t get away with ignoring Loki’s death. My soul ached as I watched the ceremony, unshed tears catching the flicker of the lanterns nearby. After Loki’s funeral, Thor brought me to a small room in the worker’s wing of the castle.             “This is your room. Clothes are in the dresser, and please don’t try to take the bracelets off. Odin will throw you in a cell again if you even try,” Thor sighed, eyeing the metal clasped around both of your wrists. “Actually, I don’t think you can take them off yourself,” Thor mumbled to himself.             “Thank you, Thor. You’ve been nicer to me than I deserve,” I sighed, giving him a tight smile.             “Probably, but I don’t see the evil in you. Please let me know if you need anything,” Thor said before walking out, closing my door behind him. I changed into a simple maid’s dress, pulling my raven black hair into a tight knot on top of my head before finding the woman I was to report to. Before I could leave my room, a quiet knock pulled me from my thoughts; a small, frail woman entered a few seconds later.             “Hello dear, you must be Prince Loki’s beloved,” she smiled warmly at me.             “Yes, was,” I dryly stated, everting my eyes.             “I’m sorry for your loss, dear; I know how hard it is. My name is Frode, you will report to me for your duties. I can also be a good listener if you need to talk. I lost my husband a few years back,” she gave me a half-smile, reaching for my hand.             “Thank you. Where am I to start?” I asked, meeting her kind eyes again.             “We are going to set up for dinner tonight,” she pulled me towards the door and into the hall.

***

(Loki’s POV)

Suddenly air filled my lungs; I shot into a sitting position, gasping raggedly, clawing at my chest. As my breathing evened out, I look around the Dark World, seeing a single Asgardian guard searching for something; perfect. The guard had his back to me as he shifted dirt around; I materialized a small dagger as I stepped closer. I slammed the dagger into the guard’s neck, twisting for good measure; the guard slumped forward, dying before he realized what happened. I waved my hand in front of myself, feeling the magic waft over me as I took on the likeness of the guard; I looked down at my arms, admiring my handy work. A smile pulled at my lips as I grabbed the guard’s weapon, calling for Heimdall to bring me home.

 ***

(Violet’s POV)

1 month later I finally collapsed on my tiny, lumpy bed; my muscles still ached from the sudden increase in activity. Sitting in a cell for months left me feel the effects of the lack of exercise; I groaned as I sprawled out on my bed.             “Yeah, death would be better than this,” I grumbled at the ceiling.             “I think you’re being dramatic,” Thor’s voice caught me off guard. I lifted my head slightly to see his imposing form leaning against the door to my tiny room, his arms crossed over his chest, golden hair hanging in his face.             “Debatable. I went from sitting in a cell to suddenly working all day. My body hates me,” I said with a sigh, pulling myself up to sit against the headboard.             “It will get better,” he snickered, stepping farther into my room. “How are you feeling?” he asked, his gaze moving to the floor.             “Why are you asking? Thor, you don’t have to act like you care what happens to me. I did a lot of shitty things, just because Loki’s,”- I swallowed around the lump in my throat- “gone, doesn’t mean you have to care for me. I don’t deserve it, and you aren’t responsible for me,” I finished, my face emotionless.             “Am I not? My brother loved you. I can see you love him too. But, in the end, he’s dead because of me; the least I can do is look after you. As I said before, you’re not as horrible as you try to make yourself out to be,” Thor had moved to sit on the edge of my bed. “Honestly, I thought we were getting along better too.”             “I’m not that bad? I’ve killed more people than I can count, all over the galaxy, because they were in my way. I brutally murdered my father in New York, on top of helping Loki kill all those people in New York. I’ve almost killed your brother more times than I can remember, and I feel nothing. I don’t feel guilty. I don’t care,” I stated plainly. Thor had turned his face to look at me, his eyes locking with mine as I spoke; amazingly, I saw nothing, no fear or disgust.             “Am I supposed to be scared? Do you know how many people I’ve killed? It doesn’t mean you’re evil,” Thor said, raising his eyebrow.             “Ah, that’s where you’re wrong. You did it to protect people. I did it because it’s easier, and I enjoy it,” I smiled slightly, raising my eyebrows.             “So do I,” Thor said softly. I couldn’t contain my surprise at Thor’s admission; he looked away from me, but I could see the shame etched on his face at admitting his darkest secret. “Stop beating yourself up and work at being a better person if you want. Pity isn’t very flattering,” Thor said suddenly, quickly standing and heading for the door.             “Thor?” I called before he left the room. He turned so I could see the side of his face. “I appreciate you telling me that; I could see it wasn’t easy. Thank you,” I whispered.             “I told you we were getting along better,” he laughed dryly. “Get some sleep,” he said, a tight smile on his lips as he pulled the door shut behind him. I fell back onto my bed, staring at the ceiling until sleep engulfed me, a dream pulling me in.

                                                        ///

I sat on a bench in the castle’s garden, sighing at the warmth from the sun spreading over my cheeks. I heard the sound of soft footsteps coming closer; I already knew it would be Loki, but this was different. We didn’t spend time at the castle together, so this couldn’t be a memory; maybe my brain was just making up scenarios now.             “Darling?” I heard Loki’s smooth voice to my right. I turned my head to find him; he stood at the end of the path, the sun bathing him in a soft golden glow.             “Loki,” I sighed happily. My chest tightened at the sight of him; real or not, seeing him made me feel better. “I miss you,” I whispered, turning away from him.             “I miss you too, darling,” his voice was closer this time.             “I don’t have anyone to fight with,” I chuckled sharply, keeping my back to him.             “Thor is always up for a good argument,” Loki laughed softly as he sat at the end of the bench. I looked up at him finally, locking eyes with him.             “I never thought I’d know what heartbreak felt like. You fucking ruined that,” I grunted; Loki’s musical laughter washed over me.             “Well, it won’t plague you for much longer,” Loki said, a smile spreading across his lips.             “What?” I snapped my head towards him, but he was gone, and I started to shake violently. 

            “Lady Violet!” someone yelled, shaking me. My eyes shot up, falling on Thor’s face hovering over me, concern swirling in his blue orbs.

            “What happened?” I asked; Thor moved aside so I could sit up.             “Frode heard you yelling for Loki,” Thor said softly, sadness creased around his features.             “Oh, I’m sorry,” I whispered, rubbing my hands over my face.             “Do you need anything?” Thor asked, resting a gentle hand above my elbow.             “No, not unless you want to put me out of my misery,” I laughed sharply.             “Hilarious. Try and sleep again, and if you need anything, you know where my chambers are.” Thor squeezed my arm, smiling softly before leaving my room. I took a deep breath, trying to calm my reeling mind; that dream was so odd. So many things were off, and it was just making my head hurt; I slumped back in bed. After a while, I heard my door slowly open again; I sighed, glancing up to see Thor walking in.             “Thor, I’m fine,” I grunted. Thor didn’t answer, so I pushed myself up on an elbow to look at him; he stood away from the door, just staring at me. “Thor, what are you doing?” I asked, my face pulling into a scowl. Thor still didn’t move or say anything, and now it was making me uncomfortable and, honestly, a little scared. “Hello, get the fuck out,” I said this time, hoping he’d leave. But, aside from his sudden silence, something else was weird about Thor, something that kicked up a deep pull in my chest, only making my head spin more. Thor stayed rooted in place, continuing to unsettle me; Thor has spent more time trying to get to know me over the last few weeks, but this new, weird behavior was making me uneasy.             “I’m sorry, darling,” he finally said, his eyes falling to the floor.             “Thor, don’t call me darling,” I shot back, ready to physically kick him out. What the fuck is wrong with him?? His eyes snapped up, meeting mine again; I gasped at the sudden striking green of Thor’s eyes. Seconds later, a green mist surrounded him, and Loki stood in his place.             “Vi,” Loki whispered, his eyes looking into my soul. I almost collapsed at the sudden sight in front of me; I stumbled back, almost falling into my nightstand.             “What kind of sick joke is this?” I spat, not believing he was alive.             “No trick, darling. I had to make Thor believe I was dead,” he said, taking a step towards me.             “No, no, stay away from me,” I stuttered, closing my eyes. This can’t be real, can it? I tried to clear my mind and take a deep breath; if this was some horrible joke my mind was playing, it should be gone. Then, finally, I opened my eyes, and the handsome trickster still stood in the same spot; pain etched on his face as he looked at his feet. “Loki?” I mumbled; his head shot up.             “It’s me,” he smiled at me, taking a step forward again. Loki put his hand out towards me tentatively; I stumbled closer, being pulled towards him by some unseen force, until my fingers grazed his. The second I felt his slightly cool skin, I threw myself at him; I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him into a hug. Loki stumbled at the sudden force but quickly recovered, hugging me to his chest. For the first time in weeks, I felt whole instead of feeling like a shell of myself, trudging through the day. We stood like that for a long time; I wasn’t ready to let go, but he slowly pulled away, holding me at arm’s length.             “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Loki said, his lips pulling into a tight line. I clenched my fist, trying to refrain from hitting him but suddenly changed my mind. My fist connected with his face sending him stumbling a few steps; his hand came to his cheek, where I hit him.             “You better be fucking sorry,” I growled, shaking my head. Loki stared at me in shock for a few seconds before a smile spread across his face, and he chuckled, standing up straight again.             “Thank the gods you didn’t lose your edge, darling,” Loki snickered, rubbing his jaw.             “I could kill you myself. Do you have any idea how bad that hurt!” I harshly whispered at him. “I never gave a shit about anyone after my mother dumped me on my own. I find myself caring about your stupid ass, and then you fake your death. If I weren’t so relieved that you were alive, I really would kill you,” I growled at him, rubbing the bridge of my nose.             “I will make it up to you. Now, if you’re done yelling at me, can we go?” Loki sighed, rolling his eyes.             “Where the fuck are we going?” I grunted.             “You’ll see in due time,” Loki mumbled, picking at his nails in boredom.             “Well, I can’t do anything with these on.” I raised my arm towards him, showing him the metal band around my wrist. Loki reached out, running his fingers over the smooth metal; with a twitch of his fingers, he snapped the metal, it fell onto my bed.             “You can’t break them, but I can,” Loki smirked, looking at me through his dark lashes. He grabbed my other hand, breaking the band with ease before pulling me towards him again. “Now, one more thing before we go,” Loki whispered. Loki pulled me against his chest, his face only a few inches from mine; his lips descended on mine softly. I was taken back by the tender nature of the kiss, but I kissed him back; I didn’t realize how much I truly did miss him. “Let’s go, darling,” Loki whispered against my lips. The air around me changed; Loki blinked us away with ease.

____________________________________________________________

Series Masterlist | Chapter 7

Taglist:

@criminalyetminimal​ @marvelfansworld​ 

[ineloqueent]

Starstruck: Part 8

Brian May x Fem!Reader

This is Part 8 of a multi-part fic. Click the links below to read the Masterpost, the previous part, or the next part of the fic :)

Masterpost / Part 7 / Part 9

Summary: When studying at Imperial College in the 1970s, your path is crossed by a beautiful boy as much in love with the stars as you.  

Warnings: swearing, slight (?) angst, far too much narration about the beauty of stars/space...

Historical Inaccuracies: once more, n/a. i’m on a roll!

Word Count: 4.3k (again, haha)

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

Lightning crashed cacophonously outside of your bedroom window, and you jumped in surprise. Rarely did it storm in London. Normally it just rained. But the weather tonight was fierce— thunder boomed like a woman scorned, and the rain lashed against the sides of the house, roiling like the tempered sea.

The phone in the hallway rang, and you yelped, then proceeded to haul yourself from your bed so as to answer it.

“Y/N?” Heather stood in the hallway and glanced between you and the phone. “It’s just a phone, yeah?”

You nodded and Heather crossed her arms. “You’ve been jumpy for weeks. Why don’t you just call him?”

The phone rang on persistently, and you wanted to pick it up, if only to make the noise stop. But Heather was blocking your way.

“Call who.” It wasn’t a question. You didn’t need to ask who she meant, and she didn’t need to specify.

“You know very well that I’m talking about Brian,” Heather leveled her gaze on you. “Just call him. Say whatever you have to say. Hell if I know what’s going on, but I give bloody good advice and you’d be silly not to follow it.”

“Heather,” you sighed. “Would you let me pick up the phone to speak to whomever it is that’s already calling?”

“How do you know it’s for you, Princess?” With that, she snatched up the phone. “Hello? This is Heather.” She paused, then smirked to herself. “Of course, Freddie. I’ll get her on the phone.” To you, she said, “Fine. You win. But only because Rog’s already called me twice today.” She pushed the phone into your hand and entered your shared room. She flopped down on her bed, picking up a copy of Music Life.

“Hello, Fred?”

“Y/N, darling!” Freddie always began his phone calls like this. “Fancy a drink?”

“Freddie, it’s—” you glanced at your watch, “eight-thirty at night.”

“Yes, so why do you sound like you’re about to go to bed?”

You sighed. “Why now, Freddie? You must know I’m not in the mood.”

“Oh, Y/N, you’re never in the mood.” There it was. He knew you too well. “And I want a chat.” His voice had dipped, taken on a quality of quiet honesty, a certain degree of sobriety.

After weeks of carefully avoiding the topic of Mary, and the topic of his feelings in general, would Freddie finally feel okay to tell you what was going on?

You hoped so. You’d been too anxious about Freddie’s possible reaction to your asking— you’d learned your lesson with these things— and so you had not asked at all.

“I’m on my way.”

“That’s the spirit! See you soon, darling!” There was a click.

You poked your head into the bedroom, “Heather, I’m going over to Freddie’s.”

“Sayonara, Y/N,” Heather waved at you over the top of her magazine. She seemed distracted by daydreams of a certain blonde-haired drummer. She’d probably pick up the phone and ring him as soon as you’d left. They’d talk into the night like the moon and the sun crossing paths between the dawn or the dusk, as you’d once done with Brian, your very own kindred spirit.

You didn’t even notice that you’d wound the rainbow scarf around your neck until you were too far down the road and it was too late to discard it again.

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

“Freddie?”

“In the kitchen, dearie!”

You discarded your outerwear by the door and padded on socked feet into the tile-floored room. You were surprised to discover that it was not only Freddie standing there, but Deacy and Roger too.

“Hiya,” you said slowly, in puzzlement. No one was drinking alcohol, unless someone had invented tea bags for gin in the past twenty-four hours and neglected to inform you.

“Y/N, how nice,” Deacy smiled and toasted you with his tea.

“Yes, I think…” you murmured.

Roger was drumming his fingers on his mug. He seemed peculiarly high-strung.

“What’s going on?” you asked when no one spoke.

Freddie was quick to sweep a friendly arm around your shoulders. “Why, a gathering of friends, of course. Are you now also opposed to friendship with the three of us, hm? Not enough to alienate one of four?”

They wanted to talk about Brian. That was why you were here.

You didn’t want to talk about Brian. “I didn’t alienate him,” you said irritatedly. Freddie let his arm fall.

“Just trying to speak your sciency language,” he shrugged.

“You haven’t spoken to Brian for weeks,” Roger supplied, as though you needed to be reminded.

“I’m well aware.”

“But—” began John.

“This has nothing to do with me and everything to do with him,” you retorted. “I said something stupid, I apologised. He didn’t accept my apology, and here we are.”

Deacy looked positively crestfallen. He tried so unwaveringly hard to hold everyone together, and the look on his face almost made you take back your harsh assessment of the situation. Almost. Sometimes you had to stand your ground.

“Y/N,” Roger said cautiously, “you should know that he was rather close to his aunt.”

You closed your eyes in anguish. You’d tried not to think about how your words to Brian might have brought him painful memories, brought grief very close to the surface. Ill-willed or not, it was clear you’d hurt him.

But still, a stubbornness fought back within you. He had let you worry, and he had not given you a chance, and that had torn at you.

“He’s as delicate as his music, darling.”

Perhaps Freddie had put it perfectly, because you understood. And you would forgive Brian as soon as he forgave you. Before he forgave you.

“He just needs time,” John placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “He’ll come around.”

You were about to nod when another voice sounded in the hall.

“Freddie?”

“In the kitchen, darling!”

You glanced at Freddie. “Wait a minute.”

Brian’s curly head appeared in the door.

“Oh, you did not do this,” your sympathy dissipated at the sight of Brian, for he roused in you an anger at yourself, a relentless hatred that swathed you in despair and confusion.

He appeared to feel the same way about you. “Freddie,” Brian said sternly.

Freddie threw his hands up. “Why is it that you all seem to think this was my idea?”

“Because it’s usually your idea,” you deadpanned.

“So you can agree on something, yay!” Freddie looked ready to give this fact a standing ovation. “Only, it wasn’t my idea. It was Roger’s.”

You turned to glare at Roger, only to find that he wasn’t where he’d been before.

And nor was Deacy.

There were two doors to the kitchen, and from the one to your left there came the clicking of a lock.

“Time to go, I think,” said Freddie, and before you could register what was going on, he’d pushed Brian into the room with you and slammed the second door shut with himself on the other side.

The second lock clicked.

“What the hell, Freddie!” Brian shouted as you flew at the door to uselessly rattle its handle.

“Roger. It was Roger’s idea,” you heard Freddie sigh.

“Bloody good one too,” said Roger from the opposite side.

“This is ridiculous,” you declared.

“Let us out,” Brian shook the other door’s handle, and his eyes flashed angrily when you caught them.

“No.” That was Deacy. “Not until the two of you talk. Or jump each other’s bones. Either one works, but it’s got to be one of them.”

“John Richard Deacon!” you bellowed, a flush flaring across your cheeks. A twin flush coloured Brian’s features, and you stared. Even in anger he bore his serene beauty, soft-lipped and deathly still, though his eyes burned like dying stars.

No voices answered your shout this time. They’d bloody well left.

“Stop looking at me,” Brian snapped, and your eyes immediately fell away from him.

“Sorry,” you muttered.

“You say that too often.”

“You don’t say it enough!” you cried. “You and your bloody pride.”

He scoffed. “Yes, Y/N, pretend you understand.”

You groaned. “Not like you’ve given me a chance to.”

“Well, god, it’s a wonder when you’re so—”

“You know what, Brian,” you whirled to face him, “shut up for a bloody second.”

His lips pressed closed, more in surprise than in obedience, but it would have to do.

“I have not spoken to you for weeks, and I don’t even fucking know why.”

He sputtered. “Because— because you’re being impossible!”

“I’m being impossible? How can I be, when you haven’t let me?”

“Well—”

But you’d had enough. You could be gentle, but what was gentleness if not offset by honesty?

“What is it that you want me to say? Honestly, tell me, because I’d like to know.”

He carded a hand through his hair. “I don’t—”

“You don’t know, do you?”

“No, alright, I don’t! Happy?”

“Not even close.”

“Excellent. What a fine pair we make,” Brian grumbled dramatically, throwing up his hands before letting them fall to his sides. He looked defeated, he looked tired. You were tired. Tired of arguing with a person who was supposed to be your friend.

You heaved a sigh. “But I do know one thing.” You approached him carefully. He didn’t step away. “I need you,” you said, “and quite frankly, you need me. I’m sorry that I was so insensitive. But if you won’t talk to me about this, then we’ve got to carry on as we did before.” His gaze was intense when he peered at you beneath his eyelashes, but you did not blink.

“You’re my friend, Brian,” you took his hands in yours, “my wonderful friend, who lends me beautiful scarves without a second thought and talks about the superiority of short-period comets, and I don’t want to see you failing Carmichael’s class because some idiot didn’t help you with your derivatives.”

He didn’t pull his hands back toward him, he let you hold them. The unbearable heat of his anger had turned to warmth, and it flooded through his hands and enveloped your own.

A smile ghosted his mouth. Your heart skipped dangerously.

“That was surprisingly touching, Y/N.”

You could have laughed in relief, in elation.

“Charming, Bri,” you opted for apathy instead. “You could’ve left out the surprising bit, you know.”

“Oh, no,” he murmured. “Can’t let you get too confident, love.”

You were all too aware that his hands still rested with yours, all too aware of the almost imperceptible pout that his lips always bore, all too aware of the way the light fell across his face and cast his eyes in a shadow that made them all the more lovely to behold. Tantalising.

“I’m sorry for the way I behaved,” Brian said softly. “It was unforgivably childish.”

“And yet you are forgiven,” you spared him a small smile.

“Thank you.”

He squeezed your hands tightly and you hung on to the feeling even as he let go.

“Now,” he raised his voice, “would you let us out, please?”

You heard Roger laugh, and the door unlocked.

You followed Brian through the opened door and into the living room, where you found Deacy and Freddie handing Roger crumpled pound notes, the second looking decidedly more peeved than the first.

Roger’s expression was smug as he tapped ash from his cigarette into a flower-patterned ashtray. “We had a little bet…”

You glanced at John and Freddie. “You two. You know he’s going to hold this over you forever, right?”

Deacy nodded, closing his eyes. “Worst decision I’ve made in my life.”

Roger snorted in laughter. “And that’s saying something.”

Freddie only drank his tea cooly, took a drag from his own cigarette.

“Funny,” Roger reclined lazily on the sofa, “that’s the second time that trick has worked.”

“You’ve locked arguing friends into a kitchen before?” said Brian.

“Well, not a kitchen, but a room, yes,” Roger grinned and blew smoke into the air. Deacy waved it away, scrunching up his nose. “Actually,” he amended, “it was more of a cupboard, but yeah.”

“Honestly, I’m not sure why you’re surprised,” you responded to Brian.

John sighed. “Please stop encouraging him. He’ll never let it go.”

Freddie hummed in agreement, pursuing a staring contest with Roger. “Yes, don’t give him any good ideas.”

“Far too late for that.”

“I think I need a stronger tea,” said Freddie.

And just like that, everything was back to normal. Or, more or less normal, anyway.

You doubted you would ever be able to look at Brian in the same way as you had before.

Something had changed.

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

March became April, and April turned to May.

May. Funny that to some people, it was only the name of a month.

But to you— to Freddie, to John, to Roger— May was Brian May. Soft-spoken but passionate, controlling, caring, motherly, silly, stubborn, and pensive was Brian May.

Opulent but direly shy Freddie, goofy and sweet-hearted Deacy, rebellious yet thoughtful Roger. The four of them together were magic.

It brightened your day when you went to their rehearsals, where John threw peanuts into Brian’s hair during his guitar solos, and Freddie struck up random chords on the piano to pen a parody, and Roger twirled his drumsticks in elaborate arrangements between fills, and Brian— well. Brian. Your breath hitched when he smiled at you.

Queen was the camaraderie and escapism you didn’t know you needed.

They treated you like family, like a part of their family, and there was never a band meeting without you to weigh in your opinion, never a rehearsal without you to make suggestions for this, that, or the other to make Queen just a touch better.

They had now begun writing for the new album, and it was an extensive process. It was untitled and contained a handful of half-written songs. Or so they all claimed. You’d only heard snippets of two songs.

The main issue lay in that Queen was attempting to juggle studies, part-time jobs, home life (in Deacy’s case), and the band. To add to this, there was the fact that they had only an empty lecture hall in which to practice. The space was simply not designed for the creative experimentation of four usually-squabbling musicians. Thus, rehearsal location became the main topic of discussion during the band “meetings”, which involved the five of you, as well as Queen’s new manager, John Reid, and normally descended into chatter over tea and biscuits after someone started off on a tangent and the others too forgot the world around them.

But when the world really fell away for you was every Thursday night, when Brian turned up at your place to learn derivatives and to teach guitar.

His improvement was incredible— not that you thought he was so terrible at maths that you found it incredible that he could improve, but rather, it impressed you how quickly he improved. It was like a wave, building, building, building, and then suddenly, understanding. And his understanding was brilliant.

When maths and science were involved, Brian spoke another language. He spoke it so fluently, it was like he’d invented it. His eyes lit up, and he just talked. God, he gushed. He was immersed, he lost himself in it entirely, in the numbers and theories and photographs and diagrams.

He loved the stars as much as you.

You’d never been able to explain to anyone what it was like, to feel your breath being taken away by the world above, even when there was little to be seen during daylight. The sky was wide and open and forever, a hopefulness in the unknown— night after night, the stars would be there to welcome you home.

You had never felt like a person; you had always felt like a star. Distant, cold at first sight, but white hot to the touch. The days were your bane, but night brought you glory.

And when Brian spoke of the universe, he was the night.

He also seemed impressed with your progress, in guitar, and if you were being honest, you were proud of yourself too.

It was getting far easier to move between difficult chords, now that your fingers were accustomed to the movements and strengthened by stretching. You were getting the hang of vibrato and of using your wrist to help you create certain sounds, rather than relying on your fingers alone.

And you were enjoying yourself.

Brian could see it too.

“Amazing,” he said one day, shaking his head. “Look at you!”

You laughed in delight, because there was a certain euphoria in hitting the right notes at the right times, melding them together to create melodies, and not only that, but you were the one creating the melodies, the music. It was the purest rush of power.

Then there came the day when you could play all of ‘The Width of a Circle’. Not perfectly, not without a few mishaps and mistakes, but play the whole eight-minute song you could, nonetheless. And you had no doubt that the amount your skill had improved by was thanks to Brian.

“Want to play it together?”

You glanced up at him.

His chin was inclined ever-so-slightly, and his eyes twinkled.

You smiled. “Yeah.”

“Lead us in, then,” he nodded to you, and you began the opening riff.

Brian joined in easily, and you almost lost your concentration in awe of the way he had harmonised his playing to yours.

You were tapping your foot to keep the beat, and he was leaning back and nodding his head to the music. He grinned and you smiled, and he moved to lean his shoulder against yours as he played.

You laughed through a chord progression and leaned so that you were playing back to back.

You could feel the shift of his shoulders against your back, and the warmth that emanated from his skin, and you closed your eyes as you played, because never before had you felt your soul so intertwined with that of another person. It was bliss.

The song was over far sooner than an eight-minute song should have seemed, and when the last notes rang out from the guitars, you turned around.

His expression was one of pure joy, and you imagined that your face bore a similar mien.

“That was— that was fantastic.” You had searched in vain for a word and finally settled on fantastic, because nothing would do the moment justice anyhow.

“We should do this more often,” Brian said, pushing his curls back from his face with another smile. He was always smiling these days. And how much like a star he looked when he smiled.

“You think you could handle being in my presence more than just every Thursday?”

“On top of every time we have rehearsals or meetings for the band,” he reminded you.

You nodded. “See, I don’t think you could handle it.”

Really, he would probably be okay, assuming he didn’t secretly hate you. But you, on the other hand, would probably not survive seeing him with his sunlit eyes and half-buttoned shirts more often than you already did.

He bit his lip, and of this you were painfully aware.

“No,” he murmured, “I don’t think I could handle it.”

You sucked in a breath.

You both jumped at the sound of Big Ben chiming, and the staticky feel of the air around you was relieved.

“Better go,” said Bri apologetically. “Fred’s wants us up early tomorrow, to discuss concepts for the album, but I guess you’ll be coming to that..?”

“Oh, yeah,” you remembered. “Nearly forgot about that.”

“Good thing you have me here,” he winked, then set to gathering up his things.

He didn’t see how you pressed your lips together, wrapped your arms around your yourself. It was starting to annoy you, how you behaved around him. You had no reason to feel so… so… so strangely. It was just Brian. Stupidly beautiful astrophysicist Brian.

Oh.

Despite Bri’s comment about not giving you “the wrong idea” all those weeks ago, when you’d made the mistake of inquiring about his disappearance, you found yourself thinking about him more often than not, and longing for his touch upon your skin.

Oh god.

You would not go down that path. It would ruin you, become your undoing.

The sooner he left tonight, the better.

The sooner he left, the better.

You could only hope that Queen would be scheduling their next tour for the near future.

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

“Good morning, darling!” said Freddie the following day when you arrived at his place for the meeting.

“Hiya Freddie, everyone.” Polite greetings chorused back to you.

Freddie, Deacy, Bri, and Reid were already assembled around Freddie’s coffee table in the sitting room, but it appeared Roger was running late, as per usual.

Atop your list of problems for the time being, however, was the fact that there was barely any room to sit down.

Sitting room my arse.

Reid and Deacy, immersed in conversation, each occupied an armchair on one side of the table, and Freddie and Brian were squeezed onto a loveseat that already looked decidedly uncomfortable.

Brian stood up and walked over to you. “Let me take that,” he said, easing the weight of your messenger bag from your shoulder. His fingertips skimmed your shoulder and your skin tingled.

“Thank you,” you smiled at him gratefully as he set down your bag.

Then Roger arrived, big sunglasses barely obscuring the bags beneath his eyes. He’d obviously been out partying the previous night. Likely he’d been out with Heather, who had arrived home in the wee hours of the morning, waking you in the process.

“Morning everyone,” Roger said drowsily, neither bothering to acknowledge replies nor his surroundings as he took the spot Brian had previously tenanted.

“Rog, that was my seat.”

Roger scoffed airily. “Was. And now it has a new owner.” He shuffled farther to Freddie’s side of the sofa. “Go on, squeeze in. There’s room for your spindly limbs yet.”

Brian crossed his arms. “And leave nowhere for the lady to sit?” he gestured to you and you pulled your cardigan more tightly around your shoulders, slightly flustered at being addressed a lady.

Freddie sighed laboriously. “Oh, hurry up and work something out, darlings, we’ve got work to do!”

“Yes,” John interjected, raising his teacup from its saucer. “We’ve got to sort out those finances Sheffield duped us out of.”

You didn’t want to be a bother. “It’s fine, I’ll just stand.”

“For the whole meeting?” asked Brian.

You shrugged. “Can’t be that long, can it?”

“Nonsense— you know how Fred goes on. You sit down. I’ll stand,” Bri insisted.

“Really, no, it was your spot first.”

He shook his head. “I won’t—”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Roger yanked on Brian’s arm and Brian fell onto the sofa with an oof. Then the drummer snatched your sleeve and pushed you into Brian’s lap.

Upon reflex, Brian’s arms wrapped around your middle to catch you, and your hands went straight to his.

Deacy’s cup clinked against its porcelain dish. Reid smiled faintly in confusion, but Roger looked smug and Freddie folded his hands neatly.

You blushed. Brian’s fingers were warm on your stomach. But you wouldn’t let any of it faze you— no need to make any more of a scene than you already had.

Brian started, beginning to pull away, “I’m so sorry—”

You cut him off, patting his hands. “So what’s on the agenda for today, Deacy?”

John blinked. Then his features broadened into a smile, which he tried to hide.

“What?”  you said with the fabricated nonchalance of an Oscar-winning actress. “Can friends not sit together these days? Will you be scandalised if I show my ankle?” You tugged on your trouser leg and wriggled your foot.

“Aha, no,” Deacy said carefully. He was making the face he made when he was trying not to say whatever innuendo had just formed on his tongue. The others looked on in silence, rapt with attention.

“Hm?” You touched Brian’s knee with light fingers. You could’ve sworn that his breath caught; he went very still behind you, beneath you.

Freddie broke the awkward silence. “We haven’t got all day, you know. What’ve we got to talk about, John?”

“You first. You called the meeting, Fred.”

“Oh. Yes. Well. I had an idea for costumes,” Freddie began.

“Costumes?” said Reid. “Fred, you’ve yet to write the music for the next album. I can book you a tour without costumes, but I can’t bloody well book you a tour without music to play on it.”

Freddie waved his hand. “Music comes to us like breathing, dearie. Don’t you worry about that. We’ll have an album and more in no time, but image, image takes time.”

“Time and effort,” agreed Roger, who adored the glamour aspect of performance no less than Freddie.

Reid sighed. “Alright. So, costumes. Budget, John?”

Deacy put down his tea and flipped through a notebook. “We’re alright for a couple hundred pounds,” he said.

Reid raised his eyebrows. “A couple hundred? Where’d you get that kind of money? You’re not peddlin’ drugs, are you?”

Deacy shook his head placidly. “Pays not to have a studio to rehearse in.”

“What’ve you got in mind, Fred?” Brian made his first point of conversation, and you felt his soft breath on your ear. You quickly pushed the thought from your mind— focus, costumes.

Freddie grinned. “Zandra Rhodes.”

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

A/N: this is absolutely one of the chapters i’m most proud of writing. i think i put a bit too much of myself into my stories sometimes, though. let me know you get tired of me talking about the ethereality of starlight ;)

taglist: @melting-obelisks​ @hgmercury39​  @stardust-killer-queen​ @topsecretdeacon

Masterpost / Part 7 / Part 9

[writefightandflightclub]

Bulletproof (First Order!Poe x reader)

What is this? This is the 2nd of 14 short prompt requests I’ll be writing as part of my 500 follower celebration! See my call-out for requests (now closed... unless you’re desperate!) and credit for prompt list creators here.

What is the prompt? This awesome prompt from @woakiees -“i’m feeling #45 from the third prompt list with fo! poe (”you took a bullet for me.”) maybe some angst with a happy ending? or not happy. you decide!” Hope this is something like you had in mind, woakiees! <3 

Author’s note: I tried my best to write angst idk.

Word count: I failed on my 500 word limit AGAIN. This one is 1.5k words. Maker!

Warnings: Language, sex references. Shooting / serious injury.

GIF: By @poe-dameron​ (unrelated to the story except for that fabulous salt and pepper).

You didn’t think it through. You just jumped. It’s not like you had to time to weigh it up, in the heat of the moment. Not like you decided it should be you instead of him. It just couldn’t be him. Not Poe. Not the man you’d loved hopelessly since the Academy.

You thought he might at least be grateful. Might finally get a soft look in his eyes. You know the one; that look, when someone’s eyes seem to become just a little deeper, a little more expansive, like they contain the swirling depths of a galaxy. Like love is birthing new stars behind their eyes, all for you.

You thought he might run to you, cradle you. Cry for you. Maybe love you. Finally. In your final moments.

Instead: “What did you do?”, the Commander spits, an expression so sour painted on his face that he could be looking at rebel scum, not at you. His dark eyes black holes, his body as still and grey and imposing as a Coruscant skyscraper.

“I took a bullet for you, asshole.”, you rasp, clutching at your stomach, peering down at the blood stain expanding outwards like a red giant. “Fuck knows I’m regretting it now.”

Unceremoniously, despite efforts to style it out, you drop to your knees, on to your side, pain flaring in you like the dying sun painting itself across your uniform. It hurts, it burns, but you try to hang on to the pain, to focus on it. You know that once your star stops burning, the sky simply goes black. You’re damn sure you want some more fire yet.

Your eyes reach out to Poe, still stood there, motionless. He’s lost his decisive edge, that unerring control and power he always seems to have over everything, over you. He’s floundering. You call his name and then finally he comes to you, at least. Presses a cloth to your wound.

“Ah, you fucker.”, you bitch as it stings.

“Just fucking hang on. Apply pressure.”

You’re on your back now, with the sky -not his face- above you. This isn’t how you wanted this to go. Not how you wanted to go. The suns are dazzling but you’d much rather his eyes were the last thing you see. You had always preferred the night. Always could get lost in his eyes, like being marooned on dark, shadowed planets. Instead, your life force is slipping into the insipid pink skies overhead.

Your eyes swimming, you search for him, try hard to focus-up, to fight through the growing haze. You tune-in to the crackle of his comms beside you. You hear him signalling for the field medics, a flurry of barked orders. Telling them he’s down, not you. Using his position, you realise. The Order don’t typically care all that much about sacrificing soldiers. At least he happens to care about one.

“You need a medic?”, you tease, before realising the words would wrack you with pain. “You always were dramatic, Dameron.”

“Says you. Why can’t you just walk this off, huh?” Now his stony face is looming over you. That’s better. Looking into his eyes is much better. Even if he does run a tell-tale hand through his hair; a gesture he only ever performs in the most fraught moments. Even if his hands do come up red, flecking his face with your blood as if your dying sun is bathing him in its dappled light.

He’s positively beautiful.

Still, it’s not half as romantic as you might have imagined it would be, taking a bullet for Commander Dameron. No speeches. No thanks. No declarations. Of love, or otherwise. But at least he does stay with you, even as the bullets and explosions threaten him further. And at least he does offer you his hand, which you clasp tightly as if you might never let go. Then a little less tightly when you can’t hold on.  

You’re suddenly heavy. Tired. Your eyes begin to flutter closed, until you feel him slap you repeatedly across the face. Who would have thought it would be so useful to have a kinky lover around in life or death situations?

Perhaps delirium is beginning to set in.  

“I th- thought you said there was a time and a p- place for public displays of BDSM, Commander.” Why are you suddenly so damn cold.

“You shut your smart mouth or I’ll have to make you, you hear me?” there’s a slight crack in his voice, you think. A pained, heartbroken attempt at a smile which almost reaches the corner of his eyes.

He drags your head on to his lap then. Still looking positively furious at the whole situation. Looking like if you die he might kill you, along with everyone else in the galaxy.

He lets you reach up and stroke his face, his hair, his beard, for once not caring who sees. “My Poe.” You try to bend your face into a soft smile as you feel yourself beginning to slip further away, like you’re floating in space with no gravity. “I love you, y-you know…?”

You don’t get to find out if he says it back.

So this is what it feels like to die?

It could be worse. At least you get to maroon yourself on the shadowy shores of his eyes as everything fades to black.

 *******

You wake up, shocked to be alive in the First Order med bay. Not for the first time.

This is the first time, however, that you wake to find Commander Dameron  sleeping in the chair next to you, gripping your hand in his, his crown of salt and pepper curls nestled at your side. 

Your mouth forms the shape of the words before any sounds comes out.

“W… What..” you rasp, tugging at his hand with what little strength you can muster. “Poe. What happened?”

BB-8 is the one to jostle him awake, detecting you’re conscious first. The black and orange droid beeps sharply at his master, tipping his antennae up towards you to direct his gaze. Fighting through the fog of sleep, the Commander’s eyes meet yours. Then, he is gripping your hand a little tighter. He is looking at you with an intensity that’s oh so familiar, but which suddenly hits different.

You repeat your question. What happened?

He pauses to suck in a deep breath, as if he needs the force of it behind his words. And yet, his voice comes out small. “You took a bullet for me.”  

You head lolls towards him, eyes searching his. You’re groggy, but you hope you still manage to look indignant. “And let me guess. You’re pissed off?”

He shoots you a dismissive look and stands. Still in his bloodied battle clothes, he looks uncharacteristically dishevelled. He looks like he’s never left your side since the battlefield.

There’s that deep breath again, hinting that more forceful words are coming. He begins with your name, and it fills his mouth, as if he’s putting everything he has behind it.

Then: “I’ve wished it for a lot of things.”, he starts, voice impassioned. The way he sometimes gets on the bridge, or over the comms in his TIE. “Power. Empire. Quashing the scum once and for all.” He strokes your cheek so lovingly with the back of his hand that you think your heart might burst. “But I’ve never wished I had the force more than in that moment, when I needed to bring you back to me.”

He stoops to plant the softest kiss to your forehead. “I love you. You’re my match. There’s no rank, no war, no battle, and no victory I care about winning if I’ve lost you. There’s only you. I need you to know that.”

A happiness is swelling in your heart and spilling from your eyes, tears coursing their way down your cheeks.

His eyes crease at the corners, playful. “Come on, sweetheart. You’re always so dramatic.”, he teases.

Maker, you love that man. Always have, ever since the Academy. He’s certainly the only one you’d take a fucking bullet for.

“Now.” He announces, smoothing his demeanour, his uniform, and adopting a stance that means business. “I had to royally piss off Hux to stay here with you. Plus, I can’t let him have all the fun planning the counterstrike against the bastards who shot you, can I?” His delicious eyes glisten with malice, and you can’t wait to hear the horrors he’s likely to concoct in the name of revenge.

He collects his gloves from his chair and moves gracefully to the doorway, eyes lingering on you. “Bb-8 will stay with you. Get some rest. And then, when you’re rested, get the droid to send me your most brutal suggestions for how the counterstrike should go down, OK?”

He winks at you, and you return a soft smile. “Commander? Don’t get shot.”

His eyes twinkle, the birth of stars behind his eyes as he finally gives you that look. The look you’ve waited years for. “Right back at you, sweetheart.”

Maybe from that day on, the Commander remembers to soften, just a little. Only for you. It seems, that after all these years, you finally penetrated that bulletproof heart.

And, oddly, all it took was a bullet.

[seokiloquy]

Bones - Sugawara Koushi

AU: Corpse Bride (Groom)

Revamp

Word Count: 3k

"Watta wuss." 

You walked through the forest on the edge of the city, trying to get away from your responsibilities. Decomposing leaves and bark decorated ground you walked on. Looking around you found yourself in an open patch, but towers of wood in every direction. The trees were old and weary, slowly shedding all of their components for fall. You shivered as a breeze whistled through them. A chill crawled down your spine as you sat on the tree stump in the centre of the open grass. You glared into the dark shadows of the forest with a huff.

The moon let off a dim light that made everything look like an old movie, too dark to make anything out. The shadows were intense and the light was dull. Even as your eyes adjusted to the dark, it was hard to see. You fiddled with the golden ring your parents dropped in your hands before you ran off. Leaning forward, you studied the cool metal that was too big for your finger and the small diamond that twinkled gently.

"I have to propose. I have to plan for the wedding. I have to pay for the wedding. I have to buy the house. I have to do everything while he just goes to the tavern every night while his parents think he's doing his damn job." You ranted, getting up to pace in circles around the stump.

"Oh, sir!" You chanted snobbily, freezing in position, holding the ring out in front of you, dramatically flicking hair over your shoulder. "I couldn't help but notice how handsome you were as I was passing by. In fact, I'm meant to get married. I even have a ring that I must use to propose to a man worthy of it! Please, do me the honour of picking up after your worthless self for the rest of my miserable life. Your presence will make it all the more bearable."

Leaning down to a branch sticking out of the dirt. You slipped the ring onto it and spun away, landing on your knee. The wind danced happily through your fingers that were flared open in the air behind you.

"Oh look, a perfect fit! You must be my husband. It's meant to be!" tilting your head toward your shoulder you let out a low grumble, letting your eyes roll along the rim of your eyelid. "If only you would get off your lazy ass for a change."

"Well I sure do hope that wasn't directed at me."

Turning in circles, you looked for the source of the man's voice. All you saw were the dark woods that surrounded you, making fear take over the anger you that was boiling in your stomach. Your shoulders twitched up to your ears.

"Down here."

If someone said a stick could talk, after today, you would believe them. The stick, that was wearing the engagement ring, was now positioned as if wearing a sock puppet, moving it’s thumb as it spoke. The wrist rolled snootily.

"But I sure do hope you won't speak to me like that, because I for one believe that as your fiance, I should be treated like royalty."

Blinking you stepped away from the stick and waddled back around the stump. Crouching onto your knees, you held the wood’s rim tightly. The pinky and pointer fingers curled up, creating a shape that took the place of the hand’s eyes.

"I've gone insane. They've driven me mad. I'm talking to a stick. Wait no, a stick is talking to me!"

Looking at the twig and moving back and forth, you watched as it watched you. Pointing in the direction you leaned. With a loud whine, you smacked your forehead on the wooden stump.

"As much as I deeply care for you. Could you not call me a stick? I am flesh and bones after all, well, mostly bones. But I still have flesh... Somewhere... But I can't seem to find it at the moment. It has a tendency to fall off from time to time,” it laughed. How could it laugh?

The hand moved around a bit more before opening up in your direction.

"You could always help me of course, you are my fiance after all."

You quickly got to your feet, speeding around the stump to face the old root.

"I'm not your fiance. You're not my fiance. I'm dreaming. This isn't real. I'll wake up tomorrow morning and—"

"Do you trust me?"

"What? What kind of question is that? You’re a twig!"

"This world. Your life. It brings you pain. That much is plain to see… uh, hear. If you were to come with me. You wouldn't have to face it any longer. Please, as my fiance?"

Shivering, you looked at the open hand/stick thing as you stepped towards it and let your hand hover over it. Your upper lip curled when you noticed the fuzzy moss that had grown in the center of its palm.

"My names (Y/N). And I'm not your fiance."

"Well, princess, the name's Sugawara, Koushi. And I'm sure you won't be saying that for long."

Placing your hand in it, you felt each joint bend and wrap around it. The gagging was hard to stop when the moss pushed in between the crevices of your fingers.

"You're rather boney, sweetheart. You don't eat much meat do you?"

"Don't have a stomach to do so."

Before another word could slip off your tongue, it pulled you in. The light reflecting off the moon made the diamond on the ring twinkle, giving you a bit of light in the black abyss that surrounded you.

"What in the world?!"

"Correction, what in the underworld," Sugawara said as he pulled you along through the crowds of zombies.

"Underworld?!" you looked around at the walking corpses around you as they tilted their hats, said hello and/or waved in your direction. Your hand quivered as you waved back.

"Yes! I live here. And here we will get married." He turned a corner that led to a flight of stairs.

"Married?!" you stopped dead in your tracks as Sugawara's body continued forward. Leaving his arm with you. His detached hand had a very firm grip on yours. You screeched and tried shaking the limb off, but its grip continued to tighten. “Eughh! Get it off, get it off get it off!”

"Yes married! You proposed didn't you? Oh, do you mind bringing me my arm? It gets attached easily, won't let you go just yet." He didn’t at all seem to mind missing an arm.

A chill ran through your spine at the idea of forever being attached to a detached limb of a dead man. You took a step forward, pushing the arm back into its socket with a sort of snap before eagerly pulling away with a disgusted gag.

"(Y/N), now that my arm’s attached, how about we go talk to the priest and discuss our marriage? Or do you want to go home first? You're probably tired and hungry. Home it is then. I can make you a great meal. Would you prefer decomposed scrambled eggs or mealworm sandwiches? Oh, you know what, I’ll just surprise you. Come along!"

The short ramble was finished when he started walking again. His skin, though still faint of colour, looked much fresher? At least compared to those in the streets, who had flesh falling off their cheeks. His hair was a light grey, though you wouldn't be able to tell if it was natural or just grey from death. He looked young, much too young. 

"Sugawara, how did you die?"

Looking at you Sugawara smiled with an upbeat laugh as he continued walking. The light laugh calmed your nerves slightly making you feel at ease despite the peculiar situation. He guided you gently onto cracked old steps that led up a hill. 

"I was murdered," he said, opening the door to an old rickety building.

He walked in with his hands open, palms facing the old wooden boards, and a small sway. It looked like he was trying to not skip around. You stayed in the doorway. Nails digging into the skin of your arms. You had forgotten to grab a coat when you ran out of your house.

"Ah," he sighed as he pushed things around on a circular table in the room. "Home, sweet home. Don't mind the mess, it's just something I've been working on."

He picked up various bottles filled with things from liquids to objects and set them on a counter nearby. The house wasn’t messy, just old and slowly collapsing on its side.

"Murdered? By who? When?" you asked, holding your hands tightly together as Sugawara sat you down at the now organized table.

"I don't quite remember. Your mind begins to go the longer you're dead. Time-wise it might have been 5 years ago? Maybe 6." he went to the kitchen and began putting some food together, but continued to talk over his shoulder. "Tomorrow morning I need to speak with the witch. So, we could go speak to the priest first and then consult the witch on my project."

He placed an unknown pile of what could be food before you. “It may be a bit rough. I haven’t needed food for a long time. Or air for that matter.”

"Either you live." The old (oh so very old) man's finger shifted to point in your direction instead of Sugawara who he was speaking to, "Or she dies."

Smiling, Sugawara nodded, grabbing your arm to pull you towards the door. "That went well."

"Well?" You asked. Eyebrows beginning to push in opposite directions.

"Yes well. We have two options and they are both very simple. Now knife or mallet?"

"For what?"

Stopping Sugawara turned to you with a slightly confused look on his face.

"To kill you of course. What else would they be for, princess?"

Completely freezing in your place you shook in fear at the thought of dying at the hands of a weapon. Sugawara's laugh on the other hand gave off a completely different story. Turning around, he took hold of your shoulders, squeezing them with his sharp, boney fingers.

"I'm kidding! Why do you think we're going to the witch? I've been planning for this for ages. Now my chance to live again, take back the life that was mine and get rid of a murderer in the process. Maybe an axe? That would hurt more right?"

When the two of you got to a large door, Sugawara used the looped handle to knock against the wood. An old (but definitely less decayed) lady opened the door and allowed the two of you inside.

You mumbled to Sugawara under your breath, “Whatever lasts the longest without knocking them unconscious will be the most painful.”

"Last bit," you said, dropping an unidentified liquid into the brewing mixture in front of the three of you.

Sugawara clung to the side of the pot but suddenly let go when it began to boil, causing his hands to rip off as they still hung to the metal. You gently pulled them off and shoved them back in place, giving Sugawara back the ability to pat your head gently. He sighed looking at the lavender liquid as it bubbled.

"This took longer than expected," you grumbled. 

"How long did you think it would take?" Sugawara smiled down at you and laughed to himself.

"A week at most. I now know that I drastically underestimated the amount of time it would take to do this. Do you want to try it?" you asked holding his boney arm above the brew.

"You should take a sip too. Your time spent here has taken a role in your health. You look like a ghost." He smiled, filling two vials with the potion.

You grimaced, looking at your skin that had lost a lot of pigmentation since getting here.

The old lady packed away her things and pulled out a book on potions and magic and she sat to read. "Close your eyes. That way you won't go blind." she croaked out.

Sugawara handed you a vial as he held his own. He smiled so broadly it ripped the sides of his mouth. He didn’t seem to feel the pain. You winced for him and held up the potion.

"Cheers."

When you had shown up to your parents’ house with a man that they had never seen they were a bit more than furious. After a number of days spent missing just to turn up with someone other than the ones they had suggested, your parents were more than willing to give you a lecture that lasted a few hours. You apologized for running away before going into your own rant about how poor their choice in men was (your dad was more offended by that). After discussing the agreement further, with Sugawara happily listening in by the closed doorway, the three of you had finally come to an agreement. 

Sadly it left you in a similar situation as before. Working and paying for everything until Sugawara found a job. A job that wasn’t going after his previous murderer.

Trees created a thick wall around the two of you. You laid down in the grass circle in the centre of it. Looking up at the sky, you watched as the pastels melted together in a sunset. Forcing yourself to sit up, shifting the extra weight on your legs as you tried to move and lean against the tree stump.

"It's good to see the colour in your face. You look alive. You aren't skin and bones either. You finally have some muscles in that body of yours." Your fingers twisted the ends of his silver hair as his head rested on your lap, looking upwards to see the tops of the trees and light sky. His cheeks were full and free of tearing the skin. His hands were strong with underlying muscle but still looked gentle. No bones were in sight. His hair colour didn’t seem to be a bi-product of death though.

"It's nice to have a heartbeat. And be able to feel yours."

You smiled and let your hand rest on Sugawara's chest as he breathed in suddenly and heavily.

"Don't forget the breath."

"Sorry, I still have to get used to that."

You looked up at the trees, watching the bright birds flying around as they enjoyed the spring heat.

"Is that marriage proposal still on the table?"

"Mawiage," the priest, though trying, said horribly. He continued on, his lisp making his words come out jumbled and difficult to understand. He stood on a tall stool and wore a long robe to appear much taller than he really was. He read off a folder to the few people who sat in the audience that was made up by your closest friends and family. Which meant they were all laughing loudly every time the priest spoke and ready to go out and get drunk.

In front of you, Sugawara held your hands gently squeezing them every time the priest tried to pronounce any 'l', 'r' or 's' sound. At least he was cheap, or at least you thought he was.

"May youw wove watht ath wong ath the mithithippi wiver. Wasthing until death doeth you part."

Sugawara squeezed your hands tightly as a snort escaped from him. The priest shot an annoyed look at the silver-haired man wearing a nice suit. You pinched your lips together desperately trying to hold onto your breath

“Sorry,” he whispered.

A small number of flowers were spread along and around the small church. Your friends sat in their seats smiling in nice clothing as they watched you and a previously dead man get married. Earlier that day your friends split themselves up between jobs. Some took Sugawara to get a suit, a few grabbed decorations and brought them to a small church all while booking a last-minute priest and the last two shoved you into a white dress that flowed around your ankles. It had a few holes here and there, and it had definitely been worn by multiple people before you, but did the job. But, it was obvious that they spent more money on Sugawara’s suit.

"Would you pweath not thpeak. I’m twying to wowk hewe."

"Sorry, again. Please continue."

Sugawara turned to you, smiling gently as he leaned closer to rest his forehead against yours. He huffed a restrained breath through his nose.

"Your friends are amazing. It's hard to believe they managed to do all this in a morning," he said.

"They probably have been planning this for weeks. They love you." You smiled, flicking your eyes to your friends.

"I love you," he whispered, trying to pull you as close to him as possible.

"I love you too."

"Yeth yeth, I wove you too. But you may now kith the bwide."

Laughing, Sugawara pulled you closer, holding you as if you were about to dance out of the church and onto the streets. You tried not to snort into his face as his hand tickled your side. It got harder to restrain yourself when he started to talk.

"May I kith you, printheth?"

You chortled, throwing your head backwards while smacking his shoulder repeatedly. He chuckled but waited for your response.

"Yeth you may, my pwinth."

With a grin, Sugawara placed his hands on the small of your back pulling you right up against him. Your heart throbbed sending tingles down your spine and onto the palm of your hands. He held you like a glass sculpture that could shatter at any moment.

He places his lips gently against yours, squeezing you when he began to run out of air. He huffed, sucking in as much as he could.

"I still got to get used to this breathing thing."

I would put a gif of Betty White dabbing, but that’s distracting. - Bacon

Posted: 03/08/2020

[heartofsnark]

This is Love (Chapter Eight): Whispers of Wolves

Notes: Heyo, since A) I took a break and B) it’s friday the thirteenth, as it was when I posted the first chapter of this is love back in January, I decided to go ahead and post chapter 8 today. Chapter 9 is already done and I’ll be beginning work on chapter 10 soon, as this is my current hyper fixation. I hope you all enjoy. 

Word Count: 8671

Chapter Warnings: Oh boy we got some shit today my dudes! Stories/Reference of Past Child Abuse, Animal Death In the Context of Hunting, Homphobic Slurs/Homphobia towards lesbians, and referenced past anti-Semitism. Less important but there’s a pov change and like three different quotes in this chapter, from the Book of Joseph, and two different songs, which is probably a lot but I ain’t editing this shit anymore

For chapter one and the warnings about this fic’s overarching themes, please click here!

For the previous chapter; click here

Pain cracks through Joseph’s skull late that night, shooting across from each temple, seeming to split his head apart. He sits on the edge of his small bed, a modest bedroom in the back of his church. He knows what it means, he’s grown accustomed to the sharp ringing pain, visions always come with it. They’ve started to come more frequently since The Lamb arrived.

He grabs at his head, as if he could press hard enough to keep his skull together as pain racks him, an instinctual reaction. Pain strikes through and breaks the reality of the world around him, closed eyes starting to see visions of what could be, images of what may await him.

A world anew surrounds him; one changed by the Collapse and washed of sins. Lush and natural, even more beautiful than the world that came before it. Vibrant pink flowers decorate the earth, thick green moss covering trees. A soft pink flowered apple tree stands at the center of the compound, white buildings replaced with hand made little houses.

Men and women are all around, working around New Eden. Parents playing with their children, carrying their babies; loyal followers allowed to pass through the gates and grow their family. Some members bring back hunted animals to be prepared for meals and others tending to gardens.

And then he sees his brothers and sister.

A fact that changes time and time again as his visions come to him in waves. He’s seen New Eden with and without them. He’s seen each of his siblings die time and time again, old and young, premonitions of what will be or what could be.

In this version, this vision, he’s been allowed his siblings. Faith, Jacob, and John talk at a distance where Joseph can’t quite hear the words, only taken in the moment. Jacob and John’s ages showing more clearly in the gray just starting to pepper their hair.

A voice rises above all others, cutting through the mumbled conversation through the compound, and Joseph knows it’s calling towards him. The soft voice calls him a name similar in meaning to his title, but it cuts to his heart so differently.

“Papa!”

Through the eyes of his older self, he can only watch and take in what happens, no control as he turns to see the source.  A young boy of about five comes running towards Joseph, bright blue eyes and an even brighter smile. Joseph’s body moves of it’s own volition reaching out to hug his son, his son, but before he can feel the embrace of his child the world cracks apart again.

Pain splinters through the world and rips him from the moment, when he opens his eyes again he’s back in his room. And his hands itch to hold his son who’s yet to exist, instead he rubs at his temples, fingers knotting in his own hair as he attempts to soothe the agony within his own head. The only respite being what he hopes is a new promise from his creator. A chance for his family to not only walk with him to New Eden, but the chance to expand it.

He’ll have a son. The very idea soothes his pain and is like a salve to frayed nerves. Becoming an internal mantra as he eases himself back to sleep that night.

 Sweat coats Dahlia’s skin as she does another push up, her muscles aching at the workout. She shifts to lay on her back on the living room floor, t-shirt riding up her sweaty stomach. Her second day of no work has turned into an impromptu work out, push up and using doorways for chin-ups. She uses her shirt to wipe sweat off her forehead before grabbing her phone to check the time. Dahlia must have gotten her way through the day, it has to be late by now.

“Fucking hell.”

It’s noon, it’s only fucking noon.

“Ahhhhhhhhhh!” She screams into a pillow, how the fuck is it only noon? Dahlia looks at the mess of her coffee table, trying to consider what to do just to eat at her time, she could draw again. But her hand is still cramping. She read somewhere you’re suppose to do warm up for drawing, she’ll have to start doing that.

Then she sees the Book of Joseph, her drawing still sticking out of it. She’s burned through her backlog of manga on her phone and fuck, it’s something to do. Joseph seemed like a genuinely sweet man, maybe he has something interesting to say.  Music still blasting, because everything in her life requires a soundtrack, she opens the book.

 “Bless the name of those who have dealt you blows.

Be grateful to those who have caused you harm.

For it is these sufferings that have led you to me.”

 The first sermon in the book, she chews her lip, it’s not that much different from things Joseph told her yesterday, that he’s thankful her past led her to him. But, something rubs her wrong about the idea of being grateful for her abuse. Not for her, she plans on dying mad about it. She reads onward, an illustration of a flaming capital building surrounded by waves with someone drowning in the foreground. That’s…dramatic.

“If a person had been walking down the poorly maintained road out front of the Seed’s house on that afternoon in June and felt the strange urge to glance over, they would have witnessed a bizarre sight.

They would have seen a man dress in black pants and a white undershirt, frothing with anger, brandishing a comic book in one hand and a bible in the other at his son, a child of about ten. But no one had been down this in the poor suburb of Rome, Georgia, in a long time. Not ice cream trucks, not social service cars, not even police patrols.”

Dahlia stops almost three pages in as Joseph begins to write about a dying widow who once gave him and Jacob cakes before she grew sick. The picture he’s painted is far too clear and hits too close to home for her to continue, at least for the moment. A belligerent bible thumping drunk of a father who derided Joseph for loving Spiderman comics and beat Jacob’s back for the younger brother’s supposed misgivings.

Father Monroe, her stepfather, wasn’t quite the ruddy faced sloppy drunk that Old Man Seed was. But when Joseph describes Jacob offering his back up for a beating, she nearly feels the bite of leather against her own. Stripes for the backs of fools, is all she hears.

She wants to talk to Joseph, she realizes, thinking of both the beginning sermon passage and how their own pasts match up. Does he really bless the man who hurt him? Is he grateful for Old Man Seed? Maybe that kind of forgiveness and peace with it comes with age or is it just him? Ruth has a similar story as well, a little older than Dahlia, and she holds on to the same anger Dahlia does. Has Joseph managed to let it go? Does he still like Spiderman? Did his father beat the passion for comic books out of him or does he still enjoy them? Its hard to imagine, the intense Joseph Seed casually reading a comic book.

Less than three pages is a pathetic excuse for reading and didn’t pass much time, but it’s intense for her. So, she’d rather just…stare at the wall for a bit until she’s ready to tackle it again.

It’s Saturday night, Pratt and Hudson won’t be going to The Spread Eagle tonight, because no work. Meaning a rather mundane day with no interruptions. Other than a short walk, Dahlia spends the rest of it fucking around on her phone and watching shitty tv; passing out after downing an unevenly heated microwave meal.

Sunday morning rolls around, spent much like the last, Dahlia using her down time and excess energy to work out. It’s important to stay on top of exercising and staying in shape, given her profession, she makes a mental note to order some weights online. There’s not really a proper gym in the county and she doesn’t want to lose muscle.

She’s in the middle of another round of pushups when there’s a knock at her door; she jumps up from her position, skin still slick with sweat as she rushes towards the door. Finally, something to disrupt the monotony.

It’s Pratt standing on her porch, hazel eyes looking her over. She’s expecting a shitty comment on her appearance, dressed in shorts and a baggy shirt, hair mussed with sweat.

“You need something?” She asks him, slightly out of breath. Dahlia lifts the bottom of her shirt, using it to wipe sweat from her face, breeze skimming the bare skin of her stomach.

“What the hell has you sweating, Rook?” The older deputy chews his lip, avoiding eye contact for a moment.

“I was working out.”

“With a head injury? Seriously?”

“The fuck else am I suppose to do?”

“Figured you’d be bored out of your mind, reason I’m here,” he grins, “throw some clothes on and we can head out.”

“You mind if I shower first?” She asks, while she’s not sure where he plans on dragging her but she’d rather not stink like sweat while she’s there.

“Uh, yeah, sure that’s fine.”

“You wanna wait in here?”

He nods and Dahlia steps aside to let Pratt into her trailer, it’s not the most tidy of place because, well, she’s not the most tidy of people. She can feel the judgement starting to build up as Pratt looks around her messy living room. A pillow and blanket haphazardly on the couch; her duffle bag on the ground with clothes falling out of it. Her table has her sketchbook, thankfully closed, and the Book of Joseph is tucked under it. It’s a messy little nest, but it’s hers.

“Are you sleeping on your couch?”

“Uh, yeah, it’s just, I prefer it,” she explains with a shrug, not really sure how to elaborate on her weird feeling about sleeping in a bed.

“You have a bed, right?”

“Yes, I have a bed, I just, shut up. I don’t barge into your house and start judging how you live,” she pinches the bridge of her nose, “just sit down, I’ll be back in a minute.”

Dahlia grabs a change of clothes, hearing the couch springs creak as Pratt sits down. It’s weird seeing someone in her trailer. The closest she’s had to visitors have stayed on her porch. Pratt is the first person to be in her actual trailer, he looks immensely out of place and judging by his eyes glancing around, he seems to feel that way too. She tries not to think too hard about it, making a beeline to her bathroom.

She tries to keep her shower short, not wanting to make Pratt wait too long and not wanting him to snoop while he’s left alone. That doesn’t stop her from playing music as she showers, just limiting herself to two songs before she jumps out. A quick dry off and she tugs on her clothes, towel still on her damp hair as she walks back out to her living room.

Pratt, sure enough, has found something to snoop through. Dahlia grimaces at the sight of him picking through her little jewelry box of photos. Was he rifling through her dufflebag? She clears her throat, smirking when he jumps up.

“I was just-”

“Snooping,” she cuts him off, ruffling the towel over her hair.

“It fell out of your bag.”

“No it didn’t.”

“It did...after I kicked it a little, but it did fall out.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she snatches the little wooden box off the table, Lloyd and Caroline’s photo booklet was on top, so at least she probably avoided him seeing baby photos.

“You, uh, don’t look much like your parents. You adopted or something?”

She can’t help but chuckle as she puts it away; she can’t blame him for thinking Lloyd and Caroline must be her parents. The pair are both about Whitehorse’s age and why else would she have so many photos with a couple that age. But, the couple absolutely look nothing like her. Both fairer skinned and blue eyed; Lloyd with dark strawberry blonde hair and Caroline with light honey blonde locks. Short of some shenanigans the chance of them producing an olive skinned, brown eyed brunette is slim. And while the couple have their share of adopted children; Dahlia isn’t one of them.

“No.”

“Oh, uh…” She can nearly see the gears turning in Pratt’s head,  her usual one word style of answering has put Caroline’s devotion in question and Dahlia won’t have that.

“They’re not my parents; legally or biologically.”

“Oh, you just hang out with old couples?”

“Maybe, maybe not, ain’t really any of your business,” she shrugs, “more importantly, where the hell are we supposed to be going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“I don’t trust your surprises.”

“Would you rather sit here and twiddle your thumbs all day?”

“Fuck  no.”

“That’s what I thought, you ready to go then?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she throws the damp towel onto her laundry chair before shoving her feet into her boots, “lets get going.”

She locks up behind Pratt then follows him out to his car. Compared to the last time she was in his car, this is infinitely more relaxing. She hums along to the radio, resisting the urge to sing along. He probably already heard her yelling along to her music in the shower, she doesn’t need to blast his eardrums at close range. After one song ends and another shittier one begins she starts to fiddle with the radio setting.

“The driver is supposed to pick the music,” Pratt tells her as she flips through stations, trying to find a station playing something other than country.

“The driver needs to worry about the road, while I find something worth listening to.”

“Yeah, ‘cause your taste in music is so good.”

“I have excellent taste in music,” she turns to one station and it sounds like a choir.

Help me, Faith

Help me, Faith

Shield me from sorrow

From fear of tomorrow

“Turn that crap off, right now.”

“The hell is that?” It’s not a bad song like technically speaking, but it’s definitely a bit much.

“Peggie station, it's all crap, Eden’s Gate runs it. It’s all their choir music and sermons.”

“Gross, but the song ain’t that bad.”

“You might wanna have your head checked again.”

“Piss off.”

She finds something better, even if she doesn’t necessarily mind Eden’s Gate music, she’d rather listen to something without fear of a sermon coming up after. At the very least, Pratt doesn’t complain about her choice, a few more songs playing before they cross into Holland Valley.

“How’s your impromptu vacation been going?”

“Boring.”

“That’s what I thought,” he laughs, “figured you’d be going stir crazy by now.”

“So, you decided to come end my boredom?”

“No need to sound so excited,” Pratt rolls his eyes, not appreciating her lackluster response.

“Sorry, I, uh, do appreciate it,” she admits, looking out the windows, cheeks warming at it. It’s embarrassing to say that she is genuinely thankful. Hell she nearly jumped up and ran to the door like a dog when he knocked. Boredom is hell.

“Oh, it’s fine, I was bored too.”

They pull into the police station parking lot and she raises an eyebrow at him as he parks. He’s taken her to work? What on earth is he planning?

“Don’t look at me like that, you’re gonna enjoy this, c’mon.”

She follows him out and around the building to the helipad she noticed before, a black police grade helicopter on it.  He doesn’t hesitate to climb into the pilot's seat, telling her to get in. She listens, climbing into the seat next to him. It looks like a mess of buttons and controls to her, none of them making sense. But Pratt confidently starts turning switches, lights coming to life in front of her.  They’re going for a helicopter ride, holy shit.

“Pffft,” Pratt huffs out a laugh, “we’re not even in the air yet and you’re already grinning.”

“This is okay, right? Like, no one will mind.”

“I’m the only person at the station who can fly, so if they needed it, they’d be calling me anyway. Don’t worry.”

“I’m fine, I just wanted to know I can enjoy this guilt free.”

“And lift off,” Pratt says as he brings the chopper up off of the ground. The station grows smaller and smaller as they ascend up into the air.

“Wow…” Is all as can seem to say at first as the chopper kisses the sky.

They’re surrounded by a bright blue sky and puffy white clouds as Pratt flies across the county. Lush green forests and farms beneath them, mountains along the edges of the county. A top down view of animals running through, specks in their vision. She oohs and awes, unable to help acting like an excited child over the view. They fly along the county, Pratt is kind enough to answer her stupid questions about flying, what buttons and switches mean. She’s certain to a seasoned pilot her naïve question must be frustrating, but he grins with every answer. Before she knows it the sky around them has shifted to an awash of pinks and purples, the sun setting, before a midnight sky takes it place. Brilliant stars twinkling around them, feeling so close, like she could reach out and touch Andromeda.

Once it gets too late, Pratt lands back at the station, her cheeks ache from all the time smiling. He drives her back to the trailer park, the pair in comfortable silence as she hums along to the radio.  Her thoughts drifting off as they are so quick to do. Pratt and her butted heads a bit when they first met, but he’s quickly become her closest friend in the county. Their light-hearted bickering and shenanigans have become her favorite part of her days in Hope County.

He walks with her to her trailer, shoulders brushing occasionally as they move. She turns to look at him when they reach her door. Dahlia clenches and unclenches her hands searching for what she wants to say.

“Thanks, a lot, really.”

“You like flying that much?”

“Not just for that, not to be all mushy and crap, but coming out here, keeping me from going nuts, being my friend. It, uh, means a lot, seriously.”

“Eh,” he scratches at the back of his neck, avoiding her eyes, “just watching out for you, probie.”

“Well, I appreciate it, I, uh, know I’m not the easiest person to get along with.”

“No one in this county is.”

“Good to know I fit in, I guess.”

“Uhh, you’re getting there, once you start stinking like beer all day and have a house full of deer heads, we’ll call it good.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she grins, “night.”

“Night.” She waves Pratt off before going back to her trailer to settle in for the night.

Monday is spent showing up to the station just to play with Petunia behind the building; just laying on the ground while the fluffy opossum crawls on her. She scratches along the marsupial’s back as they nuzzle into her neck.

“Aren’t you supposed to be home relaxing or something?” Beau asks and Dahlia shifts her head back to look at him.

“I am relaxing, what are you doing?”

“Well, everyone asked me to go see what that weirdo deputy was doing, so here I am.”

“Oh no, you hear that Petunia,” she looks at her opossum friend, “people think I’m weird.”

“Yeah, talk to the ‘possum, that’ll really show ‘em.”

She sticks her tongue out at him and he just rolls his eyes, leaving her alone for the moment. Pratt and Hudson invite her out to The Spread Eagle once the sun starts to set, but a steady throbbing ache has built in her head, she skipped pain meds. And the idea of the jukebox booming in her skull makes her turn it down for the night, once she’s back to work she’ll treat them to a meal there, she decides on the quiet ride home.

Dahlia wakes up the next day and decides to finally take that hike, wanting to explore some of the mountains and woods that surround the county. The brunt of the trails seem to be within the Whitetail Mountain area up north, the mountains in the Henbane are mostly around that statue and as much as she likes Joseph more than before; the statue is still creepy.

She tucks her sketchpad, pencils, water, and her pain meds in the storage under her motorcycle seat before she drives up to the mountains; the north section of the county is colder, a chill from the air as she rides up. She stops in at an Old Sun Outfitters, buying a little black backpack to carry her stuff in when she hikes.

The woods around her get thicker and thicker as rides further into the mountains, land growing steeper with every minute, civilization sparser and sparser; buildings harder to find, just peeks of wood or cement through trees. The trees clear on her right as a turn of the road leads her to a large parking lot with little hutch and a sign that says, ‘rest area’. The hutch says Valley View Overlook. It’s built at the top of a plateaued piece of land, not as towering as the mountains in the distance, but higher than the meager hills of the valley or river. She parks her motorcycle and packs the bag before taking in the view.

A small navel high fence, she imagines waist high for others, keep animals or children from just running off the side of the mountain. It’s a beautiful sight; she can see why the lot is named after it. She takes a deep breath of fresh mountain air looking out at the soft blue sky that meets the mountains in the horizon; the deep green forests further down. Air so clean and refreshing, but for some reason she finds herself pulling out a cigarette, to fill her lungs with smoke. Too much good needs a bad, she supposes. She watches the white clouds and birds flying through, as she lets smoke settle heavy in her lungs, only parting from the sight when her cigarette threatens to burn her fingers.

She follows along a little beaten trail through the woods, kicking up rocks and crushing grass underfoot as she lets the trees surround her. Grass rustles around where animals sneak through; deer running through, other hikers crossing her path, and hunters packing bucks back home with dogs sniffing along after them.

It doesn’t take long for her to go off the path, just walking in any direction that catches her interest. Deeper and deeper into the woods, following divots and drop offs, walking along the occasional stream of water that passes through the area.  Her feet and head start to ache as hours pass, the cool air no longer able to chill her body as exertion coats her skin in sweat.

A hunting stand, one of many, is within the woods. Gray metal built around a tree with a ladder leading up. It’s empty, but if a hunter really needs it, she’ll move along. She climbs up curling her legs under her on the stand as she pulls off her back pack and red flannel, the sleeves now sweaty after her walk. Dahlia ties it around her waist, feeling the cool air on her skin as she takes a deep breath.

She takes a deep swig of water and one of the pain killers. There’s a crush of grass and she looks up to see a group of deer a short distance from the stand. A fawn and what may be younger deer, with a buck among them. The buck’s fur grayer in color than the richer warmer brown of the others. Dahlia gets out her sketchpad and pencils, balancing them on her knee as she takes the drawing the creatures. A calm energy and flow falls over her as she draws, the only sound the animals rustling within the woods. She’s better at drawing people than animals, she realizes, when she can’t quite get the right slope of the buck’s muzzle, but she doesn’t stress herself over it. No one will ever see her wonky deer. She looks up; the buck has gotten much closer, shuffling near the stand.

Dahlia puts her sketchbook aside, half finished wonky deer abandoned, as she moves to lay on her belly over the edge of the hunter’s stand. She stretches her hand out, his antlers high enough for her fingers to just brush the velvety texture. But that’s not what she’s after, wanting to pet the stags head. Dahlia shifts to a knee and a foot, she forces the fingers of one hand into the grating to keep a solid grip on the stand. She leverages herself to lean further and further out, stretching a hand out and nearly hanging completely off the stand. Her fingers just centimeters away from touching the stag’s head.

The fuzz of fur brushes across her fingers and the soft brown eyes looking up at her go blank; blood spraying from the side of the buck’s head as it’s body goes limp to the ground. She can’t help but jump back and fall on her ass; gasping at the now dead deer in front of the stand, the rest of them have scattered at the sight.

Maybe she should have expected it, being in hunter territory, but the closeness of it still startles her. There’s a heavy thud of boots, steady consistent footfalls crushing branches and grass beneath them. Ginger hair with shaved down sides and an army jacket; Jacob Seed.

This is likely the only time she’ll ever be taller than him, watching him from the stand as he shifts a bright red rifle from his hands to on his back. It seems so vivid and ostentatious compared to his utilitarian style of dress.  There’s a childish urge to jump on his back and scare him. But, they don’t know each other well and he’s a veteran, so she can’t know how he’d react to the sort of thing. Maybe a boo would be okay, just something small?

“You enjoying the show, honey?”

Dahlia jolts, taken aback by the sudden acknowledgment. She tucks a strand of hair back behind her ear and chews her lip watching as he starts to gather up the slain deer; then he looks up at her, blue eyes sharp and harsh. All the masculine Seeds have blue eyes and intense stares; but Jacob’s gaze is colder than Joseph’s and more steady than John’s. Something almost predatory to it. 

“I was drawing him,” she says after a moment, looking down at the stag. 

“And I was hunting him.” 

“Still would have appreciated another minute or two,” she says as she grabs her bag, throwing the sketchbook back inside before she jumps off the stand. 

“So, you could flail around and try to pet him for another five minutes.” 

“Hey,” she pouts, she was caught hanging from a hunting stand like the child she is, but, “wait, you saw me?”

He gives a vague grumble of agreeance, more preoccupied with tying up the hooves of his latest hunt to make it easier to carry. 

“And you still shot? You could have shot my hand off.” Has this man never taken a gun safety course, she catches a glimpse of the scope on his rifle, there’s no way he didn’t see how close his shot was to her hand. He chuckles, dry and deep, mocking her. 

“Relax, if I wanted to shoot you, you’d be dead by now.” 

“Wow, that’s not comforting.” 

“Wasn’t trying to be,” he says, standing up and packing the giant deer over his shoulder, like it’s nothing.  

Dahlia reaches out to touch it, fingers brushing through soft fur, no warmth beneath it. She might as well be petting a rug. Jacob starts to walk off and she doesn’t know why, but she follows him. Hands clasped behind her back and walking heel to toe after him. Maybe it’s just because she’s curious about him. He’s the only one of the Seeds not to take a strange interest in her for whatever reason. 

He doesn’t say anything at first, allowing her to follow along after him. Leaves and grass crush under foot as she follows along behind him, curious as to where he’s going or doing. She’s not sure what she expects, but it’s something to do if nothing else. 

“You got somewhere to be?” 

“Not really, no.” She tries to crane her head around, trying to get a better look at his face to gauge his reaction, but their height difference is too big to truly do so. The man has to be around a foot and a half taller than her; he seems even taller than the sheriff.

“Well, I do, so get out of here.” Her smirk drops, she was hoping to see him get more agitated like the youngest Seed brother, but his voice doesn’t rise. Staying the same steady deep timbre.

“Where are you going?” 

“Nowhere you need to be, sweetheart.”

“The nicknames aren’t really necessary.” She can’t help but say, wrinkling her nose in annoyance, the condescending way he calls her sweetheart and honey make her nauseous.

 “Neither is following me like a lost puppy dog; but here you are.” 

“I’m bored.”

“Not my problem.”

“You killed my only entertainment, so it is now.”

He comes to a sudden stop and Dahlia has to stop herself from running into his back; she doesn’t particularly want deer corpse on her face. He turns to face her; expression still the same stern look he usually carries, and she misses his grin when he was talking to kids at the barbecue.

“Look here, deputy, sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong and irritating me isn’t a habit you want to form. Get out of here.”

“Oh no,” she rolls her eyes, “I’m really scared.”

“Keep pushing, sweetheart, won’t get you anywhere.”

“God, you’re no fun.”

“Wasn’t trying to be.”

“Jacob is something wrong,” a voice cuts through their conversation, rough and masculine. And Dahlia see the long-haired man and short haired girl from the barbecue; the ones who shot her dirty looks when she talked back to Jacob.

“Nothing you need to concern yourselves with.”

“What are you doing here?” The woman asks Dahlia directly.

“Standing.”

“Fallon,” Jacob says the woman’s name, stern tone making her posture snap straighter, “I said it’s none of your concern. Let’s go.”

The three of them start to leave down a path; Fallon and the long-haired man have heavy bucks they pack as well. A hunting trip for Jacob and his…friends? Are they friends? That didn’t seem like friendship, but Dahlia is far from an expert on the matter. She offers a goodbye wave; but Fallon just rolls her eyes. Their steady footfalls leaving the deputy behind.

Well, it staved off the boredom for a while she supposes.

Dahlia lets out a huffy sigh, blowing loose strands of hair from her face as she begins back down the path she came. The sun is setting by the time she’s back to the parking lot and climbing on top of her bike.

Her stomach is growling by the time she’s driving down a main road, she sees the sign for The Grill Steak as she reaches the intersection. Dahlia pulls in, letting her stomach guide her actions, as she’s one to do.

It’s a small restaurant packed with groups of people from friends to families; she can feel the heat of the grill radiating through, the smell of her making her stomach growl. She settles into a booth by herself, when she reads through it the menu is full of gamey meat burgers and steaks. No signs of beef or pork; it’s all bison and deer. She wonders if the cook hunts everything himself, it wouldn’t surprise her, given what she’s seen of the county. He can hear the cook yelling something she can’t understand from the kitchen. Dahlia settles on ordering a cola and a deer burger; thinking about the hunted stag she saw Jacob kill.  

As she waits on her food, the chatter of a group catches her ear. They’re not from Hope County; the different cadences of how they speak mingled with fancy latin technical terms tells her as much. Trying to be discreet; she glances at them over her shoulder. A group of four; two women and two men all around the same age. Dahlia’s not the brightest bulb in the pack by her own admission, but when she hears the words corvids and lupine, she realizes they’re talking about animals. It doesn’t shock her, given the abundance of wildlife in the county, certainly people would come to research them. 

The door to the restaurant swings open and a man comes walking in, shoulders back and footfalls confident. It reminds her clearly of Jacob, the walk of a soldier, though this man isn’t quite as intimidating a figure. Older than Dahlia, though most people are, with a full dark beard and long scraggly dark hair. He doesn’t bother to take a seat at a booth or look at a menu, only giving a single wave to the cook in the back as he makes a beeline to the group. Dahlia shifts a little further down into her booth, not that anyone could truly tell she’s eavesdropping, but it gives a little more secrecy to it. 

 “You the conservationists?” 

 “Yeah, we’re studying the wildlife here… And you are?” 

“Eli, not here to ‘cause trouble or anything like that, just wanted to give some friendly advice.” 

“Friendly advice?” 

“You need to watch yourselves out in those woods.”

“Pffft.” 

“We’re well aware of how dangerous the wildlife out here can be. You-” 

“No, you aren’t. There’s wolves-”

“And bears and mountain lions, oh my,” one of them jokes, “look, we know what we’re doing.” 

“You’re not listening, they’re not regular wolves. They’ve been trained to kill and hunt people down on sight. Even if you avoid ‘em, you get on the cult’s bad side and they’ll send ‘em after you. You gotta be careful out here.” 

“Okay, sure,” the eyeroll is nearly audible, “we’ll keep an eye out for killer cult wolves, don’t worry.” 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, alright.” 

The man, Eli walks away, and Dahlia considers stopping him. Admitting her nosiness and ask him some of the million questions going through her mind. Surely by cult, he means Eden’s Gate, right? Dahlia can’t imagine who else he could mean. They’re small and close knit, but they’re not a cult, right? Cults imply something more out there or intense; they’re just a little Christian church. Joseph may have his own book, but they still follow Christian ideas of sins and scripture.

And wolves? How could they possibly be training wolves? It’s all so ridiculous and asinine, making gears spin and churn in her head until they overheat, but it was said with such conviction. By the time she brings herself to make a noise, Eli has already left, and it’s probably for the best. It’s too crazy to be true. Maybe he’s a tinfoil hat wearing type of guy, a conspiracy theorist like the Zip guy who leaves a newsletter in every damn corner of the county, screaming about chemtrails and baby farms.

She fills her stomach, deciding to leave that as it is, finally returning to her trailer late that night. A restless night of sleep with images of wolves and deer creeping around through her brain, nothing concrete enough to latch onto, but enough to unsettle.

A boring morning leads into a boring afternoon, time blurring before the sun has set and Dahlia’s finding herself pulling up to The Spread Eagle to catch her coworkers after their shift. She’s popped enough pain killers that the throb of music and noise is welcomed instead of irritating. A smile already gracing her lips when she catches Pratt and Hudson shooting the shit in the bar’s lowlight. As she sneaks up closer to them, their conversation starts to be audible over the tunes playing through the bar.

“I bet you break before then,” Hudson says, a teasing grin directed at Pratt.

“Hey, it’s only six months.”

“Please, you’re weak and you know it.”

“How much you wanna bet?”

Dahlia strikes, throwing her arms over Pratt’s shoulders, effectively hugging him from behind and leaning her weight into him. He’s warm and Dahlia can’t fight the impulse to squeeze him a little tighter. She breathes in the faint smell of coffee and cologne that still cling to him; comforting after so much time spent around him.

“Jesus fuck, when’d you get here?” Pratt blusters and at this close of a range Dahlia can see his cheeks pinkening under the scruff of his beard. Does this bother him?

“Right now.”

“You decided to come hang out again?” Hudson asks, grinning at the flustered Pratt.

“Mmhmm,” Dahlia hums into Pratt’s shoulder, pressing her face into him, “bored.”

“Get off me,” he grumbles and reaches back to swat at her hip.

“Ugh, buzzkill,” she bitches as she detaches from Pratt and climbs onto a bar stool, “so what the hell are you guys making bets about?”

Pratt coughs, trying to dislodge something from his throat, and Hudson laughs, “yeah, Pratt why don’t you tell her about our bet?”

“Don’t worry about it, Rook.”

“We still need to set an amount.”

“Fifty,” Pratt suggests and Dahlia wants to know even more what the hell they’re making bets about.

“Mmm, hundred.”

“Fine, if you’re comfortable losing that much.”

“Anyone gonna tell me what’s going on?”

“Nope.”

“Well, that’s gonna drive me crazy now, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

She sticks her tongue out at him and orders food, stuffing her face as she listens to her coworkers fill her in on anything of interest she’s missed during her off time. It’s not much, as usual, the workload in Hope County is pretty low stakes. Hunting violations, speeding tickets, and the like. Seems like her assault is about the most interesting case in a while. Dahlia’s tempted to ask if they know anything about wolf attacks but bites her tongue before she does. Hope County is filled with wildlife, wolf attacks have no doubt occurred to some degree and if she mentions the idea of trained cult wolves, they might start to think she’s buying into the conspiracy shit.

“Stop,” Pratt says suddenly, putting hand on Dahlia’s knee, “you’re shaking the whole damn bar.”

Her leg she realizes has been bouncing the whole time, the hike helped, workouts help, but she’s still breaming with pent up energy. There’s a rustle of movement and Dahlia is drawn to the open floor near the jukebox, she’s seen a few people dance here and there, a couple now and again swaying to softer tunes while she’s been here. But, it’s more crowded tonight, people laughing and dancing together.

“People are dancing,” she states the obvious.

“It’s ladies’ night, women drink free, so everyone’s extra, uh, energetic tonight,” Hudson tells her.

An upbeat song starts and Dahlia’s up in the next breath, she needs to move, burn off excess energy. And while her favorite club in Lake Charles isn’t exactly available to her anymore, she’ll jump at the chance to lose herself in a song.

You should be wilder, you're no fun at all.

Dahlia’s singing along as she sways and shifts through the crowd, body moving instinctually to the beat. There’s a woman about Dahlia’s age, long blonde hair and brown eyes, dancing as well and the deputy finds herself gravitating towards her.

Yeah, thanks for the input.

Thanks for the call.

She asks low into the woman’s ear, so she can be heard over the music, if she can dance with her. The response is a smile, lighting up the girl’s face, a nod of her head and then she’s pulling Dahlia in by the hips.

With dull knives and white hands

The blood of a stone

Cold to the touch, right

Right down to the bone

And then she loses herself in it. In the music that fills the bar, the feeling of a stranger touching her, the slide of her feet as she moves,  the way hips knock together, the scratch in her throat as she sings lyrics in the woman’s ear, their grins as they laugh and bump noses together. It’s fun and it’s silly, a reason to move and forget life for a moment.

Cause you give me the electric twist and it kicks and it kicks like a pony.

And true, you might run away with it, it's a risk it's a risk yeah.

Because it kicks yeah.

It really kicks yeah.

Dahlia spins the woman with a laugh, before pulling the woman close against her again, wide smiles and bright eyes as their foreheads touch. There’s sweat sticking to their skin as the song winds down. Panted breaths ghosting over each other’s faces as they come down from exertion.

And the touch of your lips it's a shock not a kiss

It's electric twist, it's electric twist

“How much I gotta pay to see you kiss?!” A loud voice booms out, making Dahlia and her dance partner of the night separate. There’s a man, couldn’t be older than his mid twenties, sitting at the bar with his legs sprawled open drinking a beer at the table between the bar and the dance area. His eyes linger and look over both women’s bodies

“Can I help you?” Dahlia asks and furrows her brows, glowering at the man as she draws closer.

“Oh just enjoying the show, sweetheart.”

“Not your sweetheart and I’m not a damn show.”

“Pfff, don’t get your panties in a twist,” he turns back to his table and rolls his eyes, as if Dahlia’s the problem, “fucking dykes.”

The junior deputy grits her teeth and she sees from her peripheral the woman rubbing the back of her neck, letting her bangs fall into her face looking like she’d rather disappear.

“The fuck did you call us?” She can’t stop herself from speaking, barely managing to reign her anger in enough not do something worse.

“You heard me.”

“Fuck you!”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Pratt’s voice cuts through as the man starts to turn to retort, the warmth of her coworker’s hand wraps around the clenched fist she didn’t realize she had raised.

“Is something wrong?” Mary May calls out, starting to walk out from behind the bar.

“Everything’s fine,” Pratt responds before Dahlia can say anything and when she starts to speak, he looks at her to whisper, “you’re barely three weeks into your job, you really wanna be getting into bar fights?”

“He ca-”

“I heard what he said, Rook, but it ain’t worth your job.”

“You’re right,” she gnaws on her lip and looks down on the ground, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, I get it, I just don’t want you doing anything stupid.”

“I need some fresh air.”

Dahlia leaves The Spread Eagle, noticing the woman she danced with has already vanished, unwilling to deal with the bullshit. A cool breezes ghosts over her sweaty skin as she sits down on the porch steps at the front of the bar; running her hands through her hair as she fights to ease her nerves. She digs a pack of cigarettes out of her jacket pocket

There’s a crush of footsteps as she lights one, bringing it to her lips, shiny black leather boots entering her vision.

“Dep-yoo-tee.”

“You Seeds can just smell when I’m sad, can’t you?” She teases looking up to see John, the neon bar sign setting his face aglow in the night as he chuckles at her.

“Not my intention, but if you’re in need of a talk, I’d be happy to oblige.”

“You weren’t coming out here to harass Mary May again, were you?”

“Deputy,” he puts his hand to his chest cartoonishly dramatic in his hurt, “h-harassment? That’s ridiculous. am I not allowed to visit with Ms. Fairgrave and just discuss our difference of opinions.”

His voice is ramping up in pitch as he defends himself and Dahlia can’t help but smile, appreciating the distraction from her own troubles.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure Mary May would have a different of opinion about that one. We still gotta talk about members stealing booze.”

“Our members would do no such thing; and I assure you, if there’s any harassment here, we’re the victims. We’ve been insulted, had our sermons interrupted, our practices mocked, Mary May herself once showed up our church simply to cause trouble.”

“Okay, okay, it’s a two-way street, I get it. Sit, we can chat for a bit,” she pats the section of porch step beside her and reluctantly after a beat of silence, he sits down, “so, Mary May caused trouble for you guys?”

“Yes, yes, she has and she’s not the only one; the people of this county have persecuted me and my family since we’ve been here.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, no one should mistreat you that way,” she looks him in the eye as she speaks, “and if it ever happens again, I want you to call down to the station, ask for me, and I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

“Well, it’s certainly nice to know you’re on our side.”

“Ah, ah, I’m on everyone’s side. Mary May is owed the same respect as you and your family; and if you cause issues for her, I won’t hesitate to intervene for her sake as well. I’m here to keep everyone safe. Got to treat everyone like you wanna be treated, the whole spiel.”

“I know you’re not preaching biblical principles to me, dep-yoo-tee.”

“Not biblical, just a little maturity.”

“Are you implying I’m immature.“

“You’re a grown man spatting with a woman ten or more years younger than you; throwing a tantrum and pointing fingers when you’re told to behave.”

“First of all, I’m not that old,” Dahlia raises an eyebrow at him, “don’t look at me like that, I’m 32. Secondly, I am not a child. Mary May has-“

“And if she does something again, now that I’m here, let me know and I will help. But her actions don’t justify yours.”

“Fine, I’ll be sure to hold you to that promise, then.”

“I mean it’s less a promise and more so doing my job, but alright.”

She breathes out a plume of smoke, making sure to aim away from John’s face, his blue eyes track the movement and the nicotine fumes that escape into the air. An ex-smoker, she deems as she watches him staring at her lips and the cigarette between her fingers.

“You want a smoke?” She asks, offering her pack of cigarettes.

“Smoking is forbidden in Eden’s Gate.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Tattooed fingers pick out a cigarette and she lights it for him with a grin, watching him take a deep inhale and blowing out the smoke that fills his lungs. The soft rise of his chest and the gray clouds that billow out from parted lips. She notices for the first time the freckles on his neck and chest, shirt unbuttoned low enough to expose them. There’s thin fresh scratches along his hands and forearms, too superficial and fresh to match the deeper worn in scars, they look like cat scratches. And yeah, he seems like a cat guy.

“So, now that you’ve berated and tempted me, deputy,” he speaks after an exhale of smoke, “why were you out here pouting?”

“BREH!” She plops her back down on the porch with a vague animal long groan and throws her arms over her eyes, cigarette still between two fingers, must he remind of her own issues.

“Well that certainly wasn’t immature or dramatic.”

And she laughs, because he’s right, she can preach maturity all she wants to him. But, she’s still a brat herself. She’d justify herself with their massive age difference, because no way he’s thirty-two, but that feels flimsy at best. They’re both just two temper tantrum throwing children, hell they’re even both fibbing about their ages. Though, she suspects his own much more severe than the few months she adds to her own.

“Don’t wanna talk about it.”

“You know,” he lays back on the porch, matching her position, “I take the confessions for our church, if there’s anything you need to get off your chest, I’m the man to talk to.”

“Not much to say; guy called me a slur, I nearly throttled him.”

“Someone else’s actions don’t justify your own,” he parrots her words back to her.

“Yeah, someday I’ll follow my own advice.”

“Has that happened before?”

The gears in her brain churn, she’s been called many a thing, but her sexuality has been one of the less insulted facets of who she is.

Her stepfather, as religious as he was, was adamant on his hatred of gay people. But her own disinterest in exploring her sexuality or romance saved her from his scorn in that area, his focus more on the other various things he found deplorable about her.

Her mother’s side is Ashkenazi Jewish, and Dahlia remembers the few people of her stepfather’s church who despite her mother converting were disgusted their preacher would marry a Jewish woman. A handful leaving the church, a few sticking by just to call Dahlia and her mother slurs when their backs were turned.

The nightclub she favored in Louisiana was considered a gay bar, though not exclusive to LGBT folks. Women dancing with women, men dancing with men, men and women dancing; and a healthy amount of people who didn’t quite fit either label. Only one-night sticks out, a car speeding past the line outside the bar just to scream a slur out the window.  

Maybe what bothered her most was the boldness. This wasn’t someone whispering when they thought Dahlia couldn’t hear, and this wasn’t a man just screaming out at the public as he speeds away. Just a man emboldened and willing to hurt her in front of a bar filled with people.

“We’re blocking the door.”Everything else died on her lips; unable to spill her guts.

“And we weren’t while you were lecturing me?”

Her phone buzzes in her jacket as she brings her cigarette back into her mouth, unwilling to justify her evasiveness to a man she barely knows, she answers a number she doesn’t know at all.

“Hello?” She says around her smoke.

“H-hello, is this a deputy?” A soft broken voice, she remembers from the diner,  asks her and Dahlia sits up, tension pricking at the back of her neck.

“That’s me, Cassie?”

“You remember me…”

“What’s going on, are you okay?”

“Yeah, uh, I…” a beat of silence and a choked sob comes next, “no, I’m sorry, I’m, I’m not okay, I-“

“Where are you?” Dahlia’s on her feet, heartbeat in her throat as she waves off John’s furrowed brows and concern, running to her bike.

“I’m at the diner. I didn’t know where else to go…”

“I’m headed your way now, Cassie, are you safe?”

“I…I don’t know…I…”

Her voice breaks out into sobs again as Dahlia starts her engine, slams on her helmet, and switches her phone to the speaker in her helmet. The girl’s cries echoing around her as her wheels kick gravel across the parking lot, speeding out of Falls End.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

“i’m sorry, i didn’t know”

prompt: “i’m sorry, i didn’t know”

whumpee: kyle valenti

fandom: roswell new mexico

hi hi i bring again whump of a character that caters probably only to Me!!! i absolutely love kyle and alex so much and i like to write them sweet...there is plenty of pain in here tho!! def pre-ship vibes but you don’t Have to read it that way?

It hurts. A burning kind of pain that radiates out from his right ribcage all throughout his torso, hot and constant and spiking in intensity whenever he tries to breathe. Broken ribs, he thinks, dismally. Why? Anything but broken ribs would be fine. Pretty much any other kind of break can have something done about it. But for this? He can take a couple ibuprofen and set an ice pack on them and get back to work. 

Not that he particularly should, with broken ribs. A few days off is wise, as is getting checked out by a colleague, but to be honest he doesn’t feel like telling anyone. He doesn’t have any internal bleeding and nothing’s poking out of his skin, so he’s fine. He’s fine.

Except that his whole chest hurts every time he breathes, let alone speaks, or, god forbid, walks. But he has to do all three of those things, because he’s got work today, and then he and Alex are hanging out tonight. He’s not about to skip either of those things.

Work sucks. There’s no sugarcoating it. He hides his injury as well as he can, excusing his awkward posture, slight limp, and occasional wince as being products of a late, sleepless night, and if his colleagues doubt him, they’re kind enough not to say anything. 

Everything goes about as well as it can go until around lunch. He’s operating, a procedure he’s done so many times he could do it in his sleep, but he can’t fully extend his right arm or he’s pretty sure his whole chest will tear in two. He tries to ignore it, but he swears he’s on fire, and he drops his scalpel right on top of the patient. 

Nothing bad happens, but a fellow doctor gives him a curious look. He reaches for the scalpel and can’t quite hide a wince as he stretches out his side a little too much.

“Are you alright, Dr. Valenti?”

“Fine,” he says, a little more snappishly than he’d intended. He bites down on his lip to stop himself from making any more noise and stubbornly blinks away the tears of pain that have formed unwillingly in his eyes. 

The rest of the procedure goes off without a hitch, but Kyle can’t quite escape from the other doctor afterwards. 

“You sure you’re okay? I saw you wince when you reached for that scalpel.”

“Yeah, it’s nothing,” he says, as casually as he can, not wanting a repeat of his reply from before. “Just slept a little weird.”

“Thought you didn’t sleep at all.”

“Barely,” he says. “I barely slept. What I did get...not the best.”

Evidently this is a sufficient explanation, as the other doctor leaves him alone to go grab lunch. Kyle is definitely not hungry, so he skips out, hiding in the locker room until his break’s over. 

He gets home shortly after six, now slightly hungry, but unwilling to eat, lest it cause him more pain. The whole drive home his seatbelt had pressed against the lower side of his ribs, jostling them whenever he’d come to a stop. It hadn’t bothered him too much that morning, but evidently all of the ibuprofen is wearing off. He just wants everything to stop hurting.

He limps his way through the door, not bothering to take off his shoes or remove anything from his pockets. He makes a beeline for the bathroom, where he again takes too much ibuprofen and carefully lifts up his shirt to inspect his injury.

His entire right side is a vivid purple with the occasional splotch of red. It’s slightly swollen and excruciatingly painful to touch. God, it hurts. 

He very slowly makes his way to the couch, stopping by the freezer for a soft ice pack. He lies down carefully and places the ice pack onto his ribs, through his shirt so as not to freeze his skin off. Which would be just what he needs, he thinks. 

The light contact of the ice pack hurts like he’s been punched, and its steady pressure is almost unbearable. He lets out a groan of pain and finally gives in to the hot tears building behind his eyes. Even so, he leaves the ice pack on. It’ll help in the long run, and he’s still got things to do today.

Things which he could very easily cancel. He could text Alex and tell him he’s just not feeling well tonight, but then Alex would ask what’s the matter? and probably get concerned for him and Kyle really doesn’t want that. So he’ll suck it up. And he’ll ice his damn ribs. 

At 6:30, Kyle lifts himself up off of the couch as gently as he possibly can. It hurts anyway, but slightly less thanks to the time spent with the ice. He’s wearing the clothes he’d worn to work, which are slightly out of place for the Wild Pony, but there’s no way he’s changing again (into and out of his scrubs had been painful enough, especially with the added pressure of making sure nobody was around to see the rather horrific colors painting his torso). So the work clothes stay on.

He climbs into his car, wishing he didn’t care so much about his own personal safety as he buckles his seatbelt, which again presses itself uncomfortably against his ribs. He drives, doing his best to make the ride as smooth as he possibly can.

He arrives at the Pony five minutes late and slightly sweaty and feeling fairly awful. Still. He can’t help smiling when he sees Alex sitting in a booth, waving at him. He nods in response, not wanting to lift his hand. 

Kyle sinks down into the booth across from Alex, hiding a wince. 

“How was your day?” Alex asks, as one of the waiters comes up to them.

“Pretty boring. One surgery, a consult, no emergencies.”

“That’s good,” Alex says, as they order their drinks and some snacks. 

Kyle nods. Neither of them says anything for what feels like an age. It’s awkward. He can practically feel the tension in the air. But he really doesn’t want to talk. It hurts. 

��So…” Alex says, but evidently can’t think of anything to say after that.

“So,” Kyle replies, softly. He blinks hard as a slightly more intense wave of pain hits his side. Their drinks arrive, and he takes a big sip, hoping to cool off his ribs from the inside.

Which does not happen. In fact, the movement only makes them hurt worse, and he knows he doesn’t hide his wince.

But Alex, apparently sensing that Kyle doesn’t want to talk about it, doesn’t push. God, he’s so nice. And here Kyle is, acting like he doesn’t care about anything and not talking just because, what? His ribs may very well be on fire?

“Hey, I finally watched Star Wars,” he says at last, grinning, stubbornly ignoring the spike of pain in his ribs. 

“Oh really?” 

“What, you don’t believe me?”

“Tell me one thing that happened.”

“Let’s see...some planet got blown up.”

“You’re going to have to be a little bit more specific.”

Kyle racks his brain. “It was red?” he says, at last, not entirely sure of that fact. “Winona Ryder died,” he recalls. 

Alex laughs out loud, and Kyle can’t help grinning along. “What?” he asks. “What’s so funny about Winona Ryder dying?” 

“Kyle, that’s Star Trek. And not exactly the best Star Trek, either.”

 “Oh.” He smiles a little more. “Which is the best one, then?”

Alex goes off on a fair tirade of the various pieces of media in the Star Trek franchise. If Kyle’s being honest, he only follows about half of it, but Alex is clearly into it and kind of ridiculously passionate about which show is better than which other show, and which character was done so poorly in this rendition, and it’s incredibly endearing, so Kyle just pays as much attention as he can, asking questions whenever he feels able. 

On top of it being nice to hear Alex so enthusiastic, the conversation is also a nice distraction from the pain in his ribs, which has only increased due to all the talking. The fire has spread out and gotten hotter and he can barely stand it, but focusing on Alex helps. 

Their food arrives. Alex chews a fry thoughtfully as he explains the merits of The Animated Series. 

“...so there’s these close-ups, right? And it’s like, their entire face fills the screen at this dramatic moment, and…”

Eventually, Alex runs out of things to say about Star Trek, and Kyle runs out of questions to ask to keep him going, and the conversation, rather unfortunately, turns to him. 

“You haven’t eaten anything,” Alex observes, and pushes their basket of fries closer to Kyle.

“I’m not really hungry,” he says, though he carefully picks up a fry. He is hungry, truly, but he doesn’t want to figure out what it feels like to eat with broken ribs. 

“You should still try to eat something,” Alex points out. “You look a little pale.”

Kyle pretends to be affronted, throwing the fry very lightly across the table, where it lands on Alex’s lap. 

“Nice try,” Alex says. “Eat something, Kyle.”

He’d sigh in exasperation, if it weren’t for the fact that it would hurt like hell. He very slowly picks up a fry and bites it. Not too bad, he decides, swallowing. And yeah, that hurts a little more. He barely stops himself from putting a hand to his side in an effort to make the pain stop. 

He doesn’t eat any more. Alex doesn’t try to make him, though he does reach out a hand across the table, putting it to Kyle’s forehead.

“I’m a doctor, Alex. I think I’d know if I was sick.” 

“Hm,” Alex says, like he doesn’t believe that. “Maybe you’d know it,” he continues. “Don’t know if you’d do anything about it.”

Kyle can’t fault his logic on that. Not when he’s sitting here with broken ribs that hurt and hurt and hurt, because he hadn’t wanted to tell anyone and he hadn’t wanted to cancel on Alex. 

Their conversation moves on from that naturally enough, and eventually they find themselves at a natural stopping point. They pay for their food, and Alex stands up. Kyle takes a second to build up the strength to make himself stand, and then does it, shutting his eyes instinctively against the pain. 

Alex’s hand is on his arm when he opens them. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, looking like he’s not going to believe Kyle’s answer.

“I’m sure,” Kyle says. “I’m so okay. I’m super.”

“Sure,” Alex replies. “That sounded so convincing.”

“I’m fine, I swear.”

“If you say so.”

They make their way out to the parking lot, where Alex leans up against the driver’s side of Kyle’s car. 

“Hey!”

“I’m not letting you get in until you tell me what’s up with you.”

Kyle is so not in the mood for this. He walks around to the passenger side, intending on climbing across. Which is a really horrible idea. He gets one leg over the center console and reaches out an arm to balance himself, and his whole world goes white with pain. 

He slowly sinks back into the passenger seat, feeling his body shaking involuntarily. The too-familiar hot tears of pain are pouring down his cheeks, and he’s trying not to take the shuddering breaths his body so desperately needs, because they’ll only make the pain worse. 

Alex’s hand is on his arm again, and then Alex is turning Kyle’s body so he’s facing out of the passenger door, towards him. Kyle knows this only because he can feel a slight breeze on his face, since his eyes are screwed shut against the pain. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Alex asks, and his voice is as soft as anything. “What’s wrong, Kyle?”

He can’t speak. It hurts too much. His face is burning from tears and from shame and his chest is burning with horrible pain and it hurts so much and he just wants it to stop and -

Then it’s worse, it’s worse, it’s so much worse. Alex’s arms are around him in a gesture that would be the most comforting thing in the world were it not for the sheer amount of pain their presence is generating. He must scream, because all of a sudden Alex’s arms draw back. 

Kyle risks opening his eyes, hoping Alex hasn’t left completely. He doesn’t want to be alone. 

“Kyle, what’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

He nods, minutely, and sees Alex’s face fall through a haze of tears. It’s not your fault, he thinks desperately. You didn’t know. 

“Are you hurt? I mean, were you hurt before?”

Another small nod.

“I’m sorry, Kyle, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” Alex sounds pained, almost like he doesn’t think Kyle will believe him. 

That gets through the pain enough to let him speak. “Not your fault,” he whispers. “Didn’t...wanna tell you.”

Alex shakes his head. “I should’ve seen that you were hurting,” he says. “And then I went and made it worse, thinking your pain was just emotional and that maybe you just needed a hug.” He scoffs, like he thinks that was a stupid line of reasoning.

“Alex,” Kyle says, forcing his voice to be a little stronger. “Shut up. Y’ were helping.”

“But-”

“No.”

Alex sighs in defeat. “Okay,” he concedes. “Not my fault.”

“Mine,” Kyle says.

“That’s not how this works,” Alex protests. “How is it your fault?” he asks, after a beat.

“Stupid,” Kyle mumbles. “Fell ‘n hit my ribs...knew they were broken...didn’t tell anyone.”

“Kyle,” Alex says, a mix between exasperated and worried. “Why not?”

He’d shrug, were he physically capable. “Didn’t want to.”

“What do you want me to do?” 

“Don’ need the hospital. Nothing to do about it. Jus’...wanna go home.”

“Okay,” Alex agrees, not even for a second insisting that they do anything else. “We’ll leave my car here. Give me your keys.”

Kyle lets go of the keys he hadn’t realized he was still holding. They’ve left red marks on his palm where they’d dug into his closed fist. 

Alex takes the keys and very gently pushes Kyle’s body to face the front of the car, and then brushes his hair off of his forehead with a light touch that feels like the nicest thing in the world to his warm skin. Alex starts the car, reaching across Kyle to buckle his seatbelt, which now presses against his left side and is a great deal less painful. 

“So it’s your ribs,” Alex says, after they’ve been driving for a few minutes.

“Yeah.”

“And they’re broken.”

“Yeah.”

Alex leaves the conversation at that, though something in his tone tells Kyle they’re not done talking about all of this. The rest of the ride home is quiet, though not uncomfortable, except of course for the pain, which still increases every time there’s a slight bump in the road or the car changes speeds. He’s crying again, though it’s entirely possible he never stopped. 

They reach Kyle’s place, and Alex helps him navigate his way to the door. It’s an incredibly painful journey, but Kyle tries his best not to lean too heavily into Alex, mindful of his leg and not in the mood to be the cause of any more pain. 

Alex slips his hand into Kyle’s pocket and grabs his house key, then wraps his arm around Kyle’s waist as he starts to list to the side. He inserts the key into the lock and turns it, then leads Kyle inside and directly to the couch.

Kyle very carefully sinks down onto the couch in a sitting position. He hears Alex walking around, apparently gathering...things, and then sees Alex standing in front of him with his arms full of various medical supplies, food, a bottle of water, a blanket…

He moves to say something, but Alex interrupts him. “I know you said you can’t do anything about your ribs, but I’ve got some ice for any swelling and some pain meds and some food and water because you really do need to eat, and blankets so you can sleep out here…” He trails off. Kyle gives him a little smile, for once glad there are still tears dripping down his face, so Alex won’t see him again tearing up at his sheer kindness. 

Alex gets to work in a very businesslike manner, stuffing a pillow up against the arm of the couch and guiding Kyle to lie back against it, picking up his legs and setting them onto the couch. He pulls off Kyle’s shoes and very gently undoes the buttons of his shirt, until it’s open enough to reveal his bruised side, which can’t look any better than it had earlier, if Alex’s horrified gasp is anything to go by.

“Kyle.”

“‘S bad. I know.”

Fingers gently touch the bruise, not hurting as much as Kyle expects. They’re cool against the burning feeling, and they don’t press into it. Alex drapes a soft hand towel over the bruise, then lies an ice pack atop it. 

Kyle is familiar with the sensation, having done a similar thing earlier, but it still hurts. He sucks in a sharp breath, which of course only exacerbates the pain. 

Alex’s hand moves to his face, cupping it with that same gentleness. “I know it hurts,” he says, “but it’ll help. You know that.”

“Yeah,” Kyle whispers back, because he does know. That doesn’t stop it from hurting, though. 

As though reading that thought, Alex holds out an opened bottle of ibuprofen. “You’ve probably taken way too many of these today, but I trust you’re not going to overdose.”

He lets Alex shake two of the pills into his hand, which he very carefully and slowly reaches up to his mouth. He swallows the pills dry, which is a terrible mistake. He coughs on them and feels his ribs explode with pain again. He groans. He is so damn tired of this. 

Alex’s hand is back, wiping away the fresh tears of pain from his face. “Easy,” he says, and holds out a bottle of water. Kyle takes it with a shaking hand and can’t find it in himself to be embarrassed when Alex’s hand joins it, helping him lift it to his mouth. 

He drinks a little water and feels the pain minutely recede. Alex pulls the bottle away, and Kyle leans his head back into the pillow, closing his eyes.

“I’m not gonna make you eat anything right now,” Alex says, and he holds up the assortment of items he’d brought from the kitchen. “But I’m guessing you haven’t eaten anything all day, so when you wake up you are going to eat. Okay?”

Though it’s phrased as a question, Kyle knows full well it isn’t. “Okay,” he agrees. 

“Good,” Alex replies, and puts a soft hand in his hair. “Now sleep. I’ll be here to remind you of that promise when you wake up.”

 thanks so much for reading this!!! like i said i am a huge sucker for kylex and i love them so so much :) i hope you enjoyed!

[shxwmaster]

@archmage--khadgar​ sent: retrouvaille - the joy of meeting or finding someone again after a long separation; rediscovery

✧°⋆ 𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐞 ————send  in  a  word  for  a  drabble  or  starter  based  on  it.

——

(( I don’t know how canon I want to make this just yet BUT I was hit with a specific idea that I had to run with. Shaw doesn’t have many people he can reunite with, let alone feel happy about it, but this is... ONE. ))

...

          [ARCHIVE: YEAR 32 — LOG SHW009876]

     Shaw owes his life to the Uncrowned. Without them, he’d still be suffering, still be trapped as Stormwind crumbles under the influence of Detheroc wearing his face. Or, more mercifully, he would have died there, starved, infected, weak, pathetic. They’d saved him, saved Stormwind, spared them from an unnecessary war — he loathed that such an intense debt was placed on him.

     Some time after his rescue, and after defeating Detheroc in Stormwind, he returned with the Champions and the rogues into the Uncrowned’s hideout. He pledged his loyalty, he thanked them, and he sought to get straight to work.

     But he was weakened already from the months of imprisonment, and moreso from a neglected wound in the fight at SI:7 against the dreadlord. Ravenholdt and the others set out to get back to business, and he collapsed.

     Infection, he remembers hearing someone say as he was being tended to. He was in and out, barely registering what was happening. Laid to a bed, cold cloth to his head, someone dressing a wound at his side he hadn’t noticed festered with fel. They called a priest from the Netherlight Temple, and he was given a strict order: rest.

     Through the fever, he drifted, coming to now and then. How aggravating, to lose such control. Any of these rogues could have their way with him, and he’d be helpless to it, but he hardly has the strength to fuss and fight over it.

     He awakes briefly to the sound of a door opening, his head spinning with the effort it takes to lift it to observe. A young woman, short cropped black hair and a stark red bandana toting a tray of tea had entered.

Vanessa.

     He drops his head back down to the pillow, letting out a shaky laugh. “ So it seems I’m dying, then. ”

     Vanessa gave pause, gaze flicking towards him briefly before continuing, setting the tray at the nightstand beside him. “ So negative. What makes the great Master Shaw say so? ”

     His head lulls to the side, facing away from her. There’s an emotion caught in his throat he can’t quite identify. Grief? Fear? Sorrow? Humor? It’s all so tangled, and his limbs are so cold. “ It’s not the first time I’ve been stuck like this. Wounded. At the brink of death. Funny how sickness makes you see things. ”

     “ Hmm. And funny how fevers always bring the most dramatic out of the finest soldiers. ”

     He’s quiet for a long moment, enough that Vanessa wondered if he’d drifted off. “ I was seventeen. Tried to outrun orcs, fell off a wall, broke my shin. It was rainy and muddy, exposed bone was wrought to infection. I’d almost died — funny things, I saw, battling that fever. I hallucinated the dead. I thought I had saw my mother, but I didn’t remember her face. All so... wrong. ”

     His voice lacks the usual restraint he would give it, so loose and strained it was. Delirious — the fever is perhaps worse than she’d anticipated. He rolls his head back to see her, tired green eyes searching hers, his face pallor and sweaty. Unbecoming.

     “ I wish you were real. ”

     Ah. That’s what this was. Vanessa doesn’t say anything, simply turning away from him to pour the cup of tea. He still has his gaze on her, however conscious he is, and for whatever reason, Vanessa can’t look at him.

     “ You think you’re hallucinating. ”

     “ I am. I read the field reports. I already know... ” He forces his head up to stare at the ceiling, vision spinning and blurring. “ I... I was never given a chance to say goodbye to you. After the riots, your father and I — we fought, Light, I could not... I had come home one day and you were gone. I wasn’t given a chance. ”

     “ You had plenty of chances, Shaw, ” She says harshly, quiet voice spoken through gritted teeth. “ You sent your agents after the Defias. You knew what happened, you knew they were innocent. You could have come with us. ”

     “ I am blood-bound to Stormwind, Vanessa. There was no choice for me. ”

     “ There’s always a choice. You chose a broken kingdom over us. ”

     He closes his eyes tightly, feeling the brunt of the dizziness wash over him. The pain is deserved, he feels. It’d be mercy if the infection killed him. “ I live with my mistakes. They haunt me every day, everything I could have done differently. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t wish I could have done more. Saved him. ” He pauses, and on these last words, his voice breaks. “ Saved you. ”

     Vanessa stirs the cup of tea, mostly to avoid looking at him directly and to keep her hands busy. “ How noble, ” She says, retrieving a small, black vial from her belt. Just as practiced, just as planned. “ Those thoughts do much for us now, doesn’t it. ”

     “ I prayed, Vanessa. I believe in nothing, not a single higher power but I prayed that you could have had a chance at a different life. After Edwin... — the Saldeans, they could have taken care of you. Given you a different path. You did not need to be confined to your father’s footsteps. ”

     Her fingers are on the vial’s cork, ready to pop it open, but a thought stops her. She snaps her head to him, searching his bleary expression with furrowed brows as a realization dawns on her. “ ... You were the bandit that escorted me from the Mines... weren’t you? ”

     “ You were just a kid... They orphaned you. Left you with nothing. Left the Brotherhood with nothing. They killed him, and did not bother to see what consequences were left behind. I had to look for you — I had to at least give you a chance. ”

     She abandons the vial on the tray, reaching to his bedside to grasp his jaw and force him to look at her. There’s no strength to him; his head is loose with no indication that he can fight back. “ You went all that way — you found me, and you abandoned me at the Saldeans?! ”

     The touch almost feels real — this image of Vanessa fills his blurred vision. Those fine angled brows resembled Edwin’s so much, those piercing blue eyes, that charcoal hair — it twists his gut and fills his heart with sorrow. “ They would have given you a normal life. ”

     “ Why... Why didn’t you just take me? ”

     The pain in her voice makes his eyes sting. Desperately, he had wanted to take her. Edwin was dead, and she was left with nothing — he hadn’t seen her in ten years but he could still raise her, still give her all the opportunities Stormwind had to offer, had the SI:7 induct her and change her life.

     But he remembered then, what that connection to Stormwind, to the SI:7 and Assassin’s Guild, what that had all done to him, how loyalty was embedded so deeply in his blood he was forced to abandon love to further the crown — he could not sentence her to that fate. Not to this same fate that killed her father, that doomed her and the Brotherhood, he couldn’t do that to her. She could be normal — no VanCleef, no Shaw, just simple, humble farm girl Saldean. She could have been saved.

     She staring down at him, fury and sadness in her eyes that were so familiar. His voice breaks when he answers. “ Would you have forgiven me if I did? ”

     She glares at him for a long moment. The bandana conceals the number of times she’d opened her mouth to spit a retort but died in her throat, and eventually, she releases him, his head falling back to the side as she turns away. Forgiveness was not an option for her. This world, this kingdom, this man had taken so much from her. Forgiveness would be concession, surrender, to accept defeat. She had a legacy to uphold, one that couldn’t be won through something as pitiful as forgiveness. No, perhaps she wouldn’t have forgiven him, but it would have been nice to have a home.

     The rage is enough to get her back to her plan. She resumes her work, popping open the vial and its viscous liquid. She’d designed it herself — a terrible neurotoxin, engineered just for Shaw. It’d be mistaken for the fel poisoning, stir up his memories and leave him paralyzed and numb, forced to watch his life play back. It’d shut everything in him down in minutes — no master rogue would be able to detect it. Potions, poisons, these were her specialties.

     This is what he deserves.

     She dumps the vial into the tea, watching the steam fly out as it mixes. Odorless. Beautiful. A work of art. Shaw’s lulling off, utterly disoriented and so far removed from reality she almost feels sorry.

     “ I still remember sitting for hours trying to figure out a name... ” He murmurs. “ Kelsa. Variana. Llana. Charlene. Valeria. Maria. Rebecca. Edwin hated all of them. ”

     He laughs a little at the fond memory. “ I’m not good at names. That was always Edwin’s strength — and I still remember. He said, no middle names, you get the first one down right or not at all. Which, in hindsight, was solid advice. Vanessa VanCleef — it rolls off the tongue so well. ”

     She huffs. “ Better than Hope Saldean. ”

     “ Leagues better. My grandmother tried so hard to have you named after her, or my mother. She gave me hell for not letting you take my surname too. Funny how different life could have been. ”

     Vanessa frowns, carefully seating herself at the edge of his bed. She hadn’t seen him up close in years — it brings her mixed feelings. The memories she had of him were so, drastically different. Younger, cleaner, and without that stupid damn mustache. But now, he’s aged, wrinkled, greying at the temples and nothing of the energy she remembered him with. It’s weird, really, how it makes her feel.

     Shaw’s saying something, so quietly under his breath she has to lean in to catch it.

     “ I miss you. Every day, I have missed you, Ness, ” He murmurs, tear-filled eyes holding her gaze. “ I could not bring myself to take you. I prayed, prayed that you’d be better off without either of our legacies, and somehow, somehow things still... I tried. I tried to sabotage those efforts to take down the Defias. I kept the SI:7 out of Westfall, I redirected everyone to the Twilight’s Hammer. I prayed every champion that went into the Deadmines died before they could find you. And still... ”

     “ History repeats. ”

     “ Doomed to an ugly destiny, aren’t we? ” He laughs bitterly, weakly bringing a hand to cover his pale face. “ When you died... I feel as though a part of me died too. So many years it’s taken me to realize just what I was a part of. How much blood my loyalty spills. What I’ve let it take. ”

     “ And now... ” She turns to stare at the cup of tea, her own gaze growing distant. “ Now that same loyalty will kill you too. You loved Stormwind so much, demons took advantage of it. ”

     “ There is no love. I don’t think there was ever any love for Stormwind. ” His chin lifts, just slightly. “ Only duty. ”

     What a prison.

     The concoction on the nightstand would free him from it. Relieve him from his duty, from his loyalty. She’d finally have some semblance of revenge against those who’d wronged the Stonemasons and killed her father. She needs only feed it to him. It’d be so easy too, so, painfully easy. He’s ready to die already, still not even aware that she was real and solid and sitting before him.

     It’d be so easy.

     So why can’t she do it?

     In the end, the truth was, a small part of her had also missed him. Even through the anger and the betrayal, the hurt and the grief, in the end, the only memories she had of him were good. Picking her up as a child, showing her Stormwind, teaching her nifty tricks and getting into minor trouble. How her, Mathias and Edwin would sit on the half-finished towers overlooking Stormwind with a packed lunch and watch the sunset, play for hours until she’d fallen asleep. In the end, all she remembered of him was that he was family at some point. Something she could never have again.

     “ Moth. ”

     The word almost seems to bring him to life. It grasps his attention, and he looks to her expectantly, still bleary, but alert. How many years had it been since he heard that word?

     He watches her, examines her, somehow sharper than before. “ You still remember that name. ”

     “ I never forgot it. ”

     Tiny Vanessa, still learning her words, had heard everyone call him Mathias, but she tripped on her own pronunciation and called him ‘Moth’. Oh how it stuck — he remembers the name only on the voice of a child, but she’s grown now, she’s older, and he missed all of those years.

     “ I came here to kill you, ” Vanessa continues, looking away from him. “ I’ve spent years hating you. Resenting you for everything. You took everything from me. ”

     A dawning realization slowly sets in on the feverish Spymaster as he listens. He doesn’t know if he’ll remember this exchange if he heals up and recovers, but there’s a gnawing feeling about this, about this hallucination, about her —

     “ You should, ” He says quietly, closing his eyes. “ There is no reason why you shouldn’t. And there is... no one on Azeroth who deserves to end my life than you. ”

     “ You’re surrendering? ”

     “ Accepting my fate. My consequences. ” His breath picks up, he forces himself to open his eyes and truly see her. Carefully, he reaches out a hand to grasp her wrist, faintly squeezing with what strength he had. “ You’re no hallucination... are you? ”

     She stares at the hand for a long moment, contemplating. Then, slowly, she moved to wrap her own around his. “ Don’t trust the word of a mind-addled adventurer. I never died. ”

     Hope blooms in his chest, tears spilling from the corners of his eyes. How he had mourned her — but she lives, she’s so young and still the chance to live this life —

     It’s all he’s needed to hear. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he’s desperately hoping this isn’t a fever dream, that this is real, that she is alive. He holds her hand, as if she’d disappear if he didn’t.

     “ Then I have no qualms with dying. ”

...

     The fever breaks a few days later, and Shaw makes his swift recovery. The Champions of the Uncrowned request his aid along the Broken Shore, which he obliges as much as he’s able. There’s still plenty of broken pieces to pick up. Azeroth in turmoil, Stormwind in disarray with the false Shaw planting lies, and on top of it, Anduin ordering him to rest, forcibly taking work away from him to leave him with nothing.

     Vanessa had left and taken the poison with her. They never spoke directly again, and for a while, Shaw was almost convinced she wasn’t real once he was fully awake and better.

     But Greymane and Ravenholdt informed him otherwise. The Defias were as much intertwined with the Uncrowned as the rest of them.

     Vanessa lived.

     By the time Shaw had returned safely home, he wept.