#hes silly he gets like four hours of sleep a night and is being hunted down by the physical manifestation of his own self loathing. yippie

[falst]

the coiner

[nanamis-bigtie]

Round 2: It's a Match!

about, rules & navigation | previous round

After a few hours of browsing the app you settle on nine the most promising candidates. They set the bar of your expectations quite high, and you're itching to finally get to know them a little bit more...personally. Of course, it's still FAR away from making any binding decisions but the first conversation will make for a big part of the final score.

Remember you vote for a character you don't want to advance further! The character with the biggest number of votes will be eliminated.

Profile One: Toji Fushiguro ELIMINATED

Profile Two

The first message comes almost immediately after you swipe right: a simple hi and a quirky kaomoji. You can't help but chuckle: what kind of adult man would type like this? It's a little weird but endearing—and matching the vibe you got to taste from his profile. Well, if you already swallowed that bait, you gotta accept those little consequences.

He types fast—and you catch yourself trying to match his pacing, answering faster than you normally would. Now you understand why he uses so many abbreviations, writing has close to no chance of following his thoughts. Despite that and his general extravagance, he's good at keeping conversation in line—and keeping a smile on your face. He's just so silly and charismatic.

From time to time, when too many typos make his messages unintelligible, you have to pause and ask for explanation. He answers then slower, apologizing for his clumsy hands, too big for his phone, but can hold himself only for a few exchanges before he returns to prior craziness.

Conversation stops as abruptly as it started, leaving you a little uneasy—have you said something he found offensive? He keeps you antsy for a few hours before he returns as if nothing happened, chirping about a snorkeling class he's taking. And then comes a photo. He's showing you colorful shells on open palm, you get a glimpse of blue beach shorts (with a trace of happy trail poking over the hem) and a really good view on his tum, still wet and showing the first signs of slight sunburn. He's not flexing but you can easily spot the outline of his abs and v-cut. That's...a surprise. He didn't look so athletic in the photos you saw before.

Profile Three

It's already dark outside when notification from him finally pops out. You're on your way to a local bar, to catch a glimpse of more traditional adventure hunting, but you change your mind almost immediately. Frankly, you're not quite in the mood for dealing with drunk people right now, and he's just offered you a perfect opportunity to withdraw with dignity to the smaller and calmer bar by the pool at your hotel.

He starts with a profound apology for keeping you waiting and an explanation for his absence. Apparently, he's been invited to a spontaneous bird watching trip and couldn't resist the temptation of trying something new.

As expected after his introduction, he's an amazing conversation partner. You worried you might end up overwhelmed by his volubility, but he smoothly adjusts to your style instead of expecting you to follow his—right as if he knew what kind of thoughts bother you. He even apologizes here and there for being too talkative, giving you the impression that he's not as confident as you assumed at first, hiding his insecurities behind a neatly built wall of pretty words.

Even so, he keeps you awake late at night. There's something about his expression that has you glued to the screen; you put your phone away only two times, for a quick toilet break and for ordering a new drink. You're sitting by the pool alone, cooling your feet in the water and giddy like a teenager talking for the first time with their crush. And if he wouldn't cut the chain first, concerned about your sleeping schedule, you wouldn't be surprised if you survived like this till the morning.

Profile Four

Something tells you he'd wait for you to write first, so you give yourself an appropriate quarter and attack. Funny enough, he answers exactly fifteen minutes later, and shamelessly admits it's on purpose when you playfully point it out.

You're not surprised that he asked if you really read through his profile. What takes you aback is that he apologizes after your confirmation. As if you took a great weight off his shoulders, confirming that your dating goals align and that no, you're not looking for a sponsor for your vacation (well, you already paid for them out of your own pocket anyway).

When you think about it now, after exchanging a few photos as you two chatted about your day, he does give a vibe of someone who could have been interested in a sugar daddy kind of a deal. No suits are spotted but here and there you're flashed with an expensive-looking watch and for lunch he's ordered himself a luxurious set of cheese. The worth of the latter you wouldn't guess but he takes his time explaining every single one of his treats, how it should be paired with wine and fruits, and where exactly you could try sets of similar quality: a few proposals for a few different budgets.

Once you break the ice, he's turned into a decent conversation partner, but he has an ugly tendency for keeping you waiting. You're not sure if he's busy (he hasn't told you much over his lunch and vague plans for the afternoon) or just likes to keep you on edge. He's still hard to read to you and has some liking for flirty teasing.

Profile Five

After over twelve hours of silence, you're ready to assume he ghosted you. Maybe he changed his mind when he looked at your profile again, maybe he already found someone to occupy his time, maybe swiping you right was an accident. It's a little pity but you don't want to grieve over it, not with so many other options available.

But you wake up to a message sent at 5am. Who in their sane mind would be awake so early on a vacation? Well, you're up early too, your stomach demanding a visit at the hotel buffet, so you can't really judge him. Plus, he could be still awake after a party...or rather from some other kind of all-night escapade, since he didn't give you the impression of a party-hard guy. Either way, his next answer comes almost immediately, so he keeps you company during the breakfast.

Majority of your conversation is taken by comparing your meals. He's still quite dry and formal but way more open, compared to how he presented himself in his profile, as if talking about food genuinely excited him. He opted for a typical hotel-style buffet, but he still took almost artistic photos of what he had on his plate. Its amount could feed a small family too and when you jokingly point it out, he admits he's here to enjoy his life to the fullest, so he's not trying to tame his gluttony.

Before you part, you manage to squeeze the name of his hotel out of him. It's on the same side of the town, thirty minutes or so by foot, if you chose to walk by the beach. You take it as an interesting sign.

Profile Six

Right in the first message he apologizes for being busy today. But if you don't mind having the conversation chopped by longer breaks, he can lead it this way without a problem.

You don't mind, at least for now.

Out of necessity the conversation leans more towards his part of the day. You can't pretend you're not curious (and a little wary, you would rather not be a sneaky date for a man who plays a perfect husband or dad on the other side), and he doesn't mind sharing, at least as much as it's appropriate for this level of proximity. Apparently, he's accompanying a good friend of his during a cooking competition. It doesn't take you long to google which hotel holds it but from a few photos they shared on social media you can't spot him anywhere. Given his appearance and posture, it wouldn't be hard; apparently the official camera is not on your side today.

Frequency of his messages increases closer to the evening. He returns your curiosity and prompts you to share glimpses of your day. He even gets you to send him a photo; you promised yourself to not share too much but something about his tone—both soothing and somewhat demanding—has changed your mind. You send him a selfie that reveals a little more of your body compared to what you posted in your profile. Maybe it's a little bait, maybe an earnest opening for flirting.His answer, a very subtle compliment, is a pleasant surprise. And so is his selfie taken for you, tactfully keeping the same amount of skin revealed but very deliberately underlining his big assets.

Profile Seven

At first, the exchange has more in common with interrogation than with a normal conversation. He's so unwilling to talk it gets on your nerves but as soon as you don't answer for longer, he sends another message, so you assume there is interest on his side, just something stops him in his tracks. Maybe he's shy, maybe he's awkward, maybe he's busy, maybe everything all at once.

His desperation to salvage the mood eventually pays off as the conversation becomes more natural. He apparently needed time to warm up to you and your vibes, his messages lose stiffness with time, and he even starts talking more about himself instead of trying to squeeze approval out of you. He's still not on the level you would call a good conversation but he remains interesting enough for you to poke at his shell over and over again.

You just can't help but wonder how far his patience will reach and how much you can bring out of him before one of you two gets tired with this wary dance.

And if he's not a surprise. You assumed he would give up after three hours at best—but he keeps returning. At some point he even dares to compliment you and that's where you perk your ears up more out of enthusiasm than only out of curiosity. It's been...a while since someone told you something so smooth and almost erotic while staying in the appropriate line. In seconds he turns you from almost bored to a little flustered, to the point you lose the upper hand in the conversation. 

You can't help but wonder if his distanced demeanor from earlier wasn't just a smart bait.

Profile Eight

It's not the first time you're immediately asked out by your match, but it still takes you by surprise. You didn't expect it from him in particular and you feel a little disturbed by this sudden confrontation with reality. You decline, tad disappointed that a person so promising significantly lowered his chances with the mood-ruining hurry. A hot fling is your goal, yes, but you would rather take some proper time to assess if he's a person worth that adventure.

And another surprise—you misread his intentions! You're relieved to learn he just wanted to pass you a word about a fun party in a club he knows, not to go there with you with one goal in mind. 

He's not a tourist but lives with a relative and helps around in exchange for some "pocket money" he saves for a rainy day during the next term of college. It's not his first summer rodeo and he knows the area through and through. You propose a little game to test his knowledge: you give him very vague descriptions of your surroundings and prompt him to guess where you are now.

He makes the right guess after the fourth clue.

At times you forget you're on a dating app, with the way he advertises you the best spots all over the area and even starts to adjust them to your preferences. But you don't really mind it, he's cheerful and tickling the right parts of your mind. If only he didn't avoid any romantic inclinations like a plague, you surely would catch yourself regretting you declined that party invitation instead of letting the misunderstanding flow.

Profile Nine

You suspect this is going to be a tough row to hoe and with every exchanged word you're only hugging yourself over your intuition more. He somehow hangs in there but he's so shy it's cute and painful at the same time. At least you can read between his words that he's a rather good-natured man but someone less patient would probably abandon the conversation a long time ago.

He's prone to jokes and flirting but answers precise questions without any hesitation. For a try you share a link to your favorite Spotify playlist, and it does wonders to the ice breaking process. This way you finally learn the root of his interest in music and rather original appearance: he's in a semi-amateur band and works in one of more alternative clubs around to support his younger brother's education.

Overall, a sweetheart and a little bit of a nerd. Awkward but a sweetheart, nevertheless.

Despite everything, the words are coming together, and you manage to lead the conversation for him while not feeling frustrated with it. He's surprisingly mature and genuinely trying to connect with you, with time shedding the awkward shell and letting himself be bolder with his questions. Your profile has definitely been scanned profoundly for all possible conversation topics and something tells you he has a list of them on him because their order is weirdly particular.You even manage to convince him to share a selfie, still curious how he will present himself in his own eyes. He's striking handsome in a kicked-puppy way, with a rather athletic build to it—which you didn't expect at all.

Profile Ten

The moment you see a message from him—about an hour after you matched—you brace yourself for a tough battle. Given how mysterious he presented himself, you're ready to assume this is going to be another pull-by-tongue marathon or contrary, honest and precise to a fault statement that he wants to only fuck, no sentiments and flirting needed.

You're pleasantly surprised to be welcomed with a smooth, natural conversation.

Oh, he has the power of a preacher, you realize as the upper hand you had at the beginning just slips out of your reach. He's 100% in his element, playing that meticulously designed game of a cat and mouse. Indeed, you feel like a little mouse observed by a bird of prey perched somewhere above your head. And more, you find yourself curious how it is to be grabbed between talons.

He's not the kind of a man who would take advantage of it, though, as he keeps appropriate distance and never allows himself to go further than some smooth yet very cautious compliments. It's too considerate to pass as a part of a calculated strategy...probably. When you think about it after putting the phone away for a moment, he could convince you to believe in anything with all that smoothness. But you just can't stop yourself from reaching for it again as soon as you see a notification. Your instinct prompts you to trust him and his intentions for now.

Maybe it's that gentle smile you can somehow feel from the words on the screen. Despite everything, he's soaked in nice vibes.

Plus, he's hot.

[generalhumancloudalmond]

Hello! Thank you for your request. The work turned out to be surprisingly big, so I divided it into two parts. And I really hope you don't mind.

...

Part 2: Freedom

Four walls

Platonic!Yandere!Decay of angels x Child!Male!Reader

You never told your father that you knew about the coffin in which the great and terrible Bram Stoker lay. As a child you tried to keep your distance with the vampire and even tried to forget this unplanned meeting, but curiosity and loneliness brought you to him again and again. So, these meetings became almost permanent, as soon as Fukuchi left on a missions, you rushed to the basement with burning eyes.

"Silly child..."

You're a teenager now, but Bram kept calling you that. You guess you'll always be a silly child compared to him. However, Stoker was right, you were probably too silly and naive for your age.

"You live within four walls and aren't interested in what is beyond them..."

"I can't go outside, you know that yourself, or maybe you forgot..."

"You're being chased by a dangerous ability user, I remember, but isn't that too convenient an excuse, and shouldn't you have been found in that case. You live in one place and never move..."

Bram's words made sense, even though he was yawning and with his whole appearance, showing how bored he was with talking about such primitive things with you. But he didn't take his eyes off you. Recently, he has been calling you to run away more and more often. The vampire understood that there were too many holes in this situation and the story of the dangerous ability user, and most likely you are a tool just like him. But unlike him, you had legs and the opportunity to try to leave.

"Silly child, listen..."

"Damn it! Father is coming back today! Sorry, Bram..."

Without wasting a second, you hurriedly began to close the coffin. Bram only sighed.

"Until the next mission. Good night, Bram."

"Good night... Y/n..."

Closing his eyes and falling back into an instant sleep, the vampire began to hope for your soon new meeting. Lately, he had been hoping more and more often that it would happen...

Two hours later, Fukuchi returned, he spoke loudly and confidently enough, but you could see that something was wrong. Fukuchi... No, your foster father was obviously upset about something.

"Y/n, I know you're still underage, but it would be a great honor for me to have at least a glass good alcohol with you this evening."

Not to say that this proposal caught you by surprise. After all, he has repeatedly told you about his intention to get you drunk closer to adulthood. You didn't refuse, even though it was still far from evening.

"Well, in the meantime, it's still day, I suggest we play a few rounds of cards."

"Father, aren't you going to change your clothes?"

"No, I still have some unresolved mission tonight."

"Then what's the point of drinking this evening?"

"Well this... For my relaxation!"

Seeing your completely unimpressed face and skeptically raised eyebrow, Fukuchi patted you on the head and lifted you up. It was unexpected for both of you. And as a result you both fell.

"Looks like I've clearly become stronger."

"I don't think that if you held me in your arms for two seconds longer in a sober state than in an intoxicated state, then this is a positive indicator of an increase in your strength."

"Ugh... Y/n, don't act like Juono..."

"Who?"

"Doesn't matter."

Your day went exactly as you planned. Playing cards, Fukuchi told you stories from the missions. You listened attentively and imagining how you would follow in his footsteps. And during your alcohol test, you even told your desire, but Fukuchi just laughed at that.

"Y/n, you are my only son and I tried to give you everything I could. And believe me, you're already doing your job and follow my footsteps."

"Me?"

The leader of hunting dogs gulped down the remaining alcohol in the bottle and laughed out loud. How will he even go on a mission in this state? In any case, seeing that your dad started to get drunk, you left the table and went to get ready for bed, leaving him alone...

Fukuchi came into your room when you were already peacefully snoring. He smelled strongly of alcohol and he had to hurry, but he came up to you anyway. He sat down on the very edge of the bed and, clenching his jaw with all his might, still gently hugged you, mourning you.

"Forgive me, Y/n, I hope that when you get to a better world you will be able to understand me. After all, in order to build a better world without wars and violence, I will have to get my hands dirty even in your blood..."

For several years, the agency has been holding and mocking the child of important politicians, in order to then publicly kill you for the sake of general panic and terror, burning down the dilapidated house in which you were being held...

This is what is roughly written on the torn page of the book, and what should have been fulfilled...

However, that day, the devil himself prayed for your life.

[walkingfandead]

Title: All The Same, Part Five.

Chapter Summary: How to deal with an unrequited crush at the end of the world? A healthy dose of denial and PTSD. Reader bonds with Amy and you reveal a little more about the circumstances that led to you being saved by the Dixon brothers, and why your infatuation with Daryl brings up so many conflicting feelings.

Warnings: descriptions of grisly death, beginning to reference PTSD.

When you woke the next morning to the sound of Amy drumming pots together outside your tent, all you wanted to do was roll over and sleep for another twenty four hours. Your night had been restless and you tried to tell yourself it wasn’t because you were listening for the sounds of a certain set of footsteps disappearing into the woods, or of a truck’s engine being started before tires screamed away from camp. Because you didn’t care if Daryl decided to leave under cover of night. It was none of your business what he did.

You pulled on worn shorts, your boots and a light cotton shirt as you yawned and rubbed at your bleary eyes. As you emerged from your tent Amy looked at you which alarm.

“Are you feeling okay?” She asked.

You stretched your arms over your head in an attempt to loosen your sore muscles. “I’m fine.”

“Well you look like shit.”

You snorted, unable to stop yourself.

“Well roughing it in the middle of nowhere doesn’t exactly leave me at my best Ames.”

You made your way across the camp making light conversation about the type of beauty treatments you missed most, imagining the cooling feel of a face mask on your sunned skin. You absentmindedly ran a hand over the hair sprouting on your shins and almost laughed at how important silly things like a razor had once been to you. Now your priorities were things like rationing out the remaining food supplies and boiling water so no one shit themselves to death.

“So,” Amy began slowly as you heaved a large jug of water between you from the lake, “how did it go yesterday?”

You frowned, slightly annoyed. Had Shane said something to the group? “We really were just hunting you know.”

Amy smiled knowingly.

“Of course. But still… all alone out there in the woods, anything could happen. I mean I know he’s older but Daryl’s… kinda hot.”

You almost dropped the jug as Amy blushed pink.

“What? Just an observation. What if we’re the last people on Earth? There are worse options!”

You tried to shake off the creeping feeling in your chest that you recognised as some kind of possessive jealousy.

“I’m surprised he’s your type…” you managed to croak as nonchalantly as possible.

“Everyone always thinks I’m this breakable doll or something. Quiet. Timid…”

You remained silent as Amy’s eyes glazed over as she looked into the distance. You could relate. People often underestimated you too.

“But I have needs you know. I am a woman. And Daryl has nice arms.” You choked as Amy grinned mischievously. “Don’t tell me you don’t notice those muscles.”

“I… my boyfriend died.”

Amy’s smile froze as you tried to get the words to somehow jump back into your mouth. You had no idea why you’d suddenly blurted out that little tidbit of information about yourself or how it related to Daryl’s and his muscles.

“I’m so sorry,” Amy said gently. “I didn’t mean to… I wasn’t implying anything…”

You dropped your gaze to the stoney ground as guilt squirmed in your stomach. You’d just used the rather gruesome and brutal death of your boyfriend to distract her from leering over Daryl, the man who - if you were honest with yourself - had caught your attention even before loosing said boyfriend.

“It’s okay,” you said quietly, “you didn’t know. I’d just rather not talk about guys or-“

Sex? Love? Repopulating the planet?

“Stuff.” You finished lamely, hoping she’d take your shaking voice for grief.

“Of course. I’m such a moron… but if you ever do want to talk, I’m just a tent away.”

More guilt riddled you as Amy’s smiled warmly. You’d found her to be quite likeable, much easier to talk to than her sister Andrea or some of the other women in the camp. You liked Carol but Ed never let her out of his sight and Lori was always disappearing…

“Thanks but I’d rather try to forget. It was… bad.”

Sticky blood coated your hands. The sound of Merle yelling and people screaming as Daryl dragged you along behind him through crowds of panicked faces.

Your boyfriend’s face growing pale and grey as he choked out a gargled, blood filled breath…

The walk back to camp was in silence. Dale greeted you at the top of the hill, taking the heavy water jugs from your aching arms and toward the lit fire pit. You expected Shane to be on watch atop the RV but spotted a familiar set of squared shoulders covered by a dirty chequered shirt facing away from you. You glanced at Amy who was staring with an unnecessary amount of concentration at the crackling flames. You could see the rosey pink of her cheeks as she avoided your eyes.

You groaned silently until an idea sprung to mind. You wanted to forget about Daryl, and Amy clearly had huge crush. Plus Andrea’s head exploding at the thought of one of the Dixon brother’s so much as touching her precious sister would be an added bonus. Perhaps the best way to get over your own little infatuation would be to play matchmaker. Amy was pretty, smart, funny and kind. Daryl… yes, he had nice arms. You remembered being held by those arms when he’d dragged you away from the snarling corpse of your dead boyfriend…

“You know I don’t feel too good,” you told Dale, who looked you over with concerned eyes.

“You do look a little… peaky.” He agreed.

For a second you considered just how bad you must have looked for the second person that day to think you must be unwell.

“I think I’m just a little dehydrated. Too much sun yesterday. I’m gonna take over watch, sit up under the umbrella and get some rest.”

Dale nodded in agreement with your plan as he whistled for Daryl to come down. You shot Amy a conspiratorial look as she frowned at you.

“I guess you’ll need someone else to help you top up the firewood for tonight.” You said pointedly before walking toward the RV, grabbing Dales binoculars from Daryl’s hand as you passed without a word until you decided to spin on your heel and jab your finger into his chest.

“Try not to be an asshole. She’s nice.”

Daryl blinked at you, clearly confused and irritated by his sudden change of role as you pulled yourself up the ladder to the roof of the RV.

You settled down in the rusty chair and stared out at the vast amount of nothing that surrounded you. Just trees and cliff side. The odd bird flying overhead.

You ignored the sound of a nervous laugh below you, your foot tapping against the metal roof until a thump and a voice that sounded like Shane told you to quit it.

It was a good idea, you told yourself. Perhaps it would put a spring in Daryl’s step to have a little female attention thrown his way and he’d stop being such a moody son of a bitch. He clearly wasn’t interested in you, that much was obvious. Perhaps Amy was more his type.

You didn’t care when the two of them disappeared from view and you certainly didn’t count the minutes they were gone silently in your head, picturing Amy’s shy smile as she ran her slender hands over Daryl’s bicep-

You slammed the binoculars against your tired eyes and scanned your surroundings, desperate for a distraction from your thoughts. At some point Dale brought you a bottle of water that would be safe to drink and insisted you go back to your tent for some real rest. You declined until he threatened to tell Shane you were unwell. Not that you were scared of the former cop, you were just too fatigued to continue to argue.

Back under the cover of the thin fabric of your tent you tried your best to wrap your thin pillow around your ears to drown out the sounds of voices and the day to day sounds you’d grown familiar with. Lori was calling for Carl, Ed was rambling on at his long-suffering wife about kids having no respect… you closed your eyes and tried to ignore it all.

You must have been more tired than you realised as sure enough you fell into a sleep deep enough to keep the twisted faces of the dead from your dreams. Instead you dreamt you were lost in the woods, following a brown hare through shadows as things hidden in the trees followed unseen.

Panic shot through you, an instinctual warning that came too late as the hare disappeared from view and you felt something tighten on your throat. You reached up, feeling for whatever had caught you but only making it choke you further until your fingers came away slippery and wet.

You wanted to scream but could only let out the faintest wet gasp as a figure emerged from the trees, limping toward you with outstretched hands and a mouth dripping blood and spit. It’s gargled moan reached your ears. His throat was torn open, blood covered you both-

You woke with a start, sweat drenching your skin and your discarded pillow. You pulled open the zip of your tent as you tumbled out, grazing your knee as you gasped for air.

You shrieked as a hand pressed against your shoulder and leapt to your unsteady feet.

“Whoa there… I was just making sure you were okay.”

You blinked at the tall, bearded man whose name you remembered was Jim.

“I’m fine.” You told him, the words less than convincing as you tried not to hyperventilate.

Jim shifted as he glanced over your shoulder. “You we’re screaming,” he told you quietly.

You froze before glancing behind you. Sure enough most of the camp were either staring at you like you’d gone mad or were deliberately avoiding eye contact. All except for one set of eyes that made your pounding heart skip a beat entirely until it dropped to your feet as Amy pressed herself against Daryl and whispered something that made him scowl.

You dragged your eyes back to Jim, thanked him for checking on you, and stumbled as far from anyone’s view as your shaking legs would take you, glad Shane didn’t seem to be around to tell you to get your sorry self back to camp when you finally collapsed, sobbing, in the cool shadow of a broken tree.

[letsasoiaftogether]

Joffrey x Twin!Sister!reader

Imagine....being Joffrey’s twin and having some measure of control over him

Word Count: 2,167

Warning: None, I think

A/n: I dunno where this idea came from. It was just on my mind so I wrote it. Sorry if it feels...jumbled or just completely....silly. I hope you all enjoy!

(Gif isn’t mine)

“Ser Illyn, bring me his head!” 

Even hours later you could remember that scene perfectly. Your mother trying to order Joffrey to not do it, the Stark girl crying about how Joffrey had promised, and you…you stood there in shock. 

You had always known your older, twin brother was a monster. Anyone who knew him knew that there was something mentally wrong with him. Perhaps it was just the lack of true love that you and your siblings got from your mother and father, but…you had heard it whispered that Joffrey was just a bad egg and that nothing could have changed that. 

But you knew differently.

Joffrey had the ability to be charming, but when he was nice, no one ever paid him true attention.

Yes, he was doted on because he was the heir to the throne. And he was always treated as the most important person in the room. That would cause anyone to get a big head.

But you had seen the way your legal father had hit him at least once which was awful, you knew, in Joffrey’s mind because he idolized Robert Baratheon, or the way that instead of explaining to Joff why something was wrong, his behavior was excused.

And he is now the product of that.

You were born the second of four children to Cersei Lannister and Robert Baratheon. At least, legally that’s who you were. But you had known for years that the Stag King wasn’t your father. You didn’t look anything like him and neither did your siblings. You weren’t super into family lines and the traits that were passed on, but you were quite certain at least one of you would have gotten dark hair. 

Of course…your thoughts on your real parents also stemmed from the one time you saw your mother and uncle together. They didn’t know you were there. You had gone to your mother one night not feeling well and had heard strange noises as you approached the door. There were no guards outside which meant your uncle Jaime was meant to be the Kingsguard on duty. You had always been an inquisitive child so you had opened the door just a crack to check on your mother. 

They had been in bed together. In a way you knew only those who were married were meant to be.

You had known immediately what was happening and had fled back to your room with tears in your eyes - worried for your mother if your father caught them together.

You never breathed a word to anyone, and when your legal father died after a hunting accident…you didn’t need to tell anyone.

Your Uncle, Stannis Baratheon, had begun to tell everyone that you and your three siblings were born of incest and although it wasn’t said directly to your faces, you had heard the whispers over the past month.

“Joffrey is going to get even more mean, isn’t he?” Tommen whispered as you tucked him into bed, lifting his kittens up so they could snuggle with him. 

“Don’t you worry about Joff, I’ll handle him.” you tried to reassure him, leaning over to place a kiss to his forehead “Get some sleep, little prince.”

You tucked Myrcella in as well, trying not to feel sad over the fact your mother should have been the one to do it. Or, at the least, she should have come to say goodnight.

It had been this way for as long as you could remember.

The Queen had always doted on Joffrey while leaving her other children to the septa and handmaidens. It wasn’t that she didn’t care for you, Myrcella, and Tommen - you knew she loved you - but Joffrey was the heir to the throne. There was so much he needed to be taught and so much attention he needed to get before he was crowned king and could no longer show such weakness.

Of course, Mother went a little too far in her spoiling of him…

As you shut the door to Myrcella’s chambers, your gaze flickered up and down the darkened hallway - the torches pushing shadows onto the walls as you headed for your twin’s chambers.

Joffrey had moved into the King’s chambers two days after your father’s death. You heard that he had carelessly thrown your father’s things into the hallway in a way that even your mother was a little uneasy at the thoughtlessness of it (although, you imagined it had more to do with the image your mother felt Joffrey should have been presenting - the mourning son - than the actual disrespect of the dead). 

You hadn’t spoken to your brother since he and your mother had had Lord Stark arrested. You had been far too sickened by his actions to be able to look at him let alone hold a conversation.

But you were done with that childish behavior now.

Lord Stark was dead, Arya Stark was missing, Sansa Stark was being cruelly treated every day, both of your legal father’s brothers had declared themselves King, and Robb Stark had marched south with a Northern army.

You didn’t have the luxury to remain petty and angry. 

You had always been the one to get a hold of Joffrey when you could be bothered to, and now more than ever, you felt that power was crucial to the survival of your younger siblings and to yourself.

Sorry Mother. Sorry Joffrey.

You have made your beds.

Now, you must lie in them.

You found the Hound, Sandor Clegane outside the King’s chambers and after only a moment of hesitation, you grabbed the door handle and pushed, stepping into the room. 

Joffrey was seated on the edge of his bed, fiddling with his crossbow. His green eyes lifted to meet yours as the door shut behind you. 

“Joff,” you curtsied before slowly crossing the room toward him.

“What do you want?” he asked, frowning with a hint of suspicion in his voice.

Giving him an easy smile, you reached out and placed a hand to the crossbow. Gently, you took it from him and set it to the bed. “I was just checking in on you before going to bed. I know you’re the King now, but that doesn’t mean I have to stop caring for my twin. Does it?” you lifted a hand and brushed it through his hair. 

It was well known that many feared Joffrey. He was impulsive in his actions and cruel.

But you had always made sure to be gentle to him, caring. Often you felt like your mother; giving him false love just to try and pacify him. But it wasn’t like your mother, entirely. Your Mother knew only how to use people as pawns. Even you and your siblings, the Queen saw only what she could gain. 

You, however, truly loved your brothers and sister. No matter their faults, they had been your best friends. And…you still remembered the gentle boy Joffrey had been before he began to catch on to how your parents saw him and viewed others.

Joffrey seemed confused, for a moment, before he shook his head, “I…I suppose not.” It was said arrogantly, with an impatient tone like you had kept him waiting.

“Good.” Grabbing his crossbow, you turned and carried it over to the chair under the window. You sat it there, staring at it for a moment longer - hiding your shiver at the thought of how easily Joffrey could kill with it - before turning and moving back over to your brother. “Come on, you need to lay down now. As King, you’ve got to get your sleep whenever you can.” you kept your voice low, almost cooing at him like you would a small child who had just been hurt.

Joffrey didn’t seem to think much of your tone as he stood and began to undress. No doubt, it was so similar to the way your mother coddled him that Joffrey wasn’t even phased.

You turned and waited for him to be under the covers before looking back at him with a smile. “Are you happy with yourself, Joff? About what you accomplished today?” you asked, your soothing tone slipping more into sadness as you fixed the blankets around him.

“What? With killing the traitor? He deserved it.” Joffrey smirked, smugly as he tucked his hands behind his head

“No,” you shook your head and reached out to grab his chin, “Joffrey, you killed the Warden of the North. The Lord of a Great House and the liege lord to one of the biggest pieces of your Seven Kingdoms. Yes, he was attempting treason when you had him arrested.” You couldn’t argue with that. No matter what Lord Stark had been thinking, Joffrey was the legal son to Robert Baratheon which made him the rightful heir to the throne. The Starks, Renly and Stannis, they were all attempting coups. 

Even if my mother’s children are bastards of incest…

“But, Joff, there were other things that could have been done.” you added, pressing a finger to his lips to stop him from talking “Now, we can only end the war that has erupted.”

“Do you pity her? Sansa? Do you pity her for the death of her treasonous father?” Joffrey demanded as he shoved your hand away, wrapping his fingers around your wrist.

You shook your head, “I know what Sansa did. I am sad for her House who lost their father. Just as we lost our father. But for Sansa personally…no.” Only because she had lost her father. But you knew she had gone to your mother and told the Queen that Lord Stark was going to send Sansa and her sister away. You knew it had given your mother the last straw of paranoia she needed that had resulted in Sansa being a prisoner of your family. 

She’s a child, yes. 

But so are we.

The difference is that Sansa has been kept clueless of things - left to dream of songs and fairy tales. 

You were lucky to have not been granted that privilege. King’s Landing would have eaten you up if you had been raised naive - like Tommen.

“I’m going to show her Lord Stark’s head - I’ve had it put on a spike.” Joffrey began to laugh but you were quick to slap your free hand over his mouth, squeezing slightly as you shot him a warning look.

“The girl will already suffer while in the city. Do not be pointlessly cruel to her.”

“She’s - “ 

You cut your brother off by tightening your hand even further, “Do not, Joff. The daughter should not be punished because of the crimes of the father.”

It hadn’t always been this difficult to make him do as you asked. It used to be a few sweet words and Joffrey was wrapped around your finger, but your mother had caught on a few years earlier and the Queen had made sure to distance the two of you.

Essentially, Cersei Lannister hadn’t wanted someone else to have more control over her eldest son than her.

After a moment, you removed your hand from his face and whispered, “Joff, please, for me do not harm her more than is absolutely necessary. You can be a great King, but your people will not respect you if you become as cruel and careless as the Mad King.”

This gave Joffrey pause and after a long minute of just staring at you, he lifted a hand and brushed his knuckles over your cheek. “I am not the Mad King. I won’t lose my reign to those beneath me.”

“To other great houses? At the end of the day, you are only a Baratheon, Joff. The head to a branch of a Great House. Just as Robb Stark is, just as Grandfather is…they are only beneath you because you have the crown. A good king knows when to admit he has equals.” 

It was difficult for you to try and explain it to him. These were concepts you understood, but not in the sense that you knew Joffrey would need to. You were raised to do and understand Lady things - you had only picked up on the male pieces through conversation and observation. You could never understand the sort of expectations that were on Joffrey because of being born a boy.

Joffrey didn’t say anything. He huffed and turned away, like he used to do when you were kids and he pretended you weren’t there.

But you knew him.

You knew he had heard you and was thinking over your words.

“Joff.” you murmured, placing a hand to his side, “You’re better than this. You don’t need to be mother or father. Nor Uncle Jaime or Tyrion, or Grandfather. It’s time you became your own person.”

Just because his reign had begun so…questionable, that didn’t mean the rest of it had to be. Right?

Sure, Joffrey would always be an asshole, but he didn’t have to be an abusive one. 

Right?

Right?

At the least, you hoped it would save Myrcella and Tommen.

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 8

Chapter 8: Judgement

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | seven

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: Things have changed, things have stayed the same.

Word count: 3.7k~

Rating: Mature

Warnings/tags: e m o (i can't stress this enough), illusions to mental health issues (?), emo, mature themes and language, EMO, family-trauma related angst, emo

Notes: I wanted to completely cut Din's perspective out of this chapter to emphasize the reader's pov. Hopefully it tracks? Big lovey-dovey shout out to @pedros-mustache for bonking me in the head with a proverbial pool noodle. ily friends. Be kind to yourself. Cheers x (gif credit: @bestintheparsec)

This is fine. You’re fine.

You’re okay with this.

You’re okay with this.

You’re okay

You’re

You think, perhaps, the sting is made worse by the normalcy of it all.

You think, perhaps, that this stabbing—this splinter in your gut, prodding prodding prodding—would not be so sharp if it were different between you—if things were different; if it were clumsy and cumbersome and mauled. Ruined.

But it isn’t; it’s the same. You and Din and his boy, his adi’ka—it’s ordinary. Evergreen.

You suppose you should be grateful—grateful your dynamic hasn’t shifted, hasn’t sullied any. Grateful you still have your Mandalorian piloting you home. Grateful you have his foundling to keep you company, to keep you preoccupied.

But you feel false.

It’s as if you slipped into an alternate reality—one where you and Din touched each other, held each other; one where he buried his frustration to the hilt in your womb and you moaned his name like your tongue was formed for it—and then were snapped back to this one here—this nothing, this void—without anyone taking note of your absence. Because your routines—those domestic tableaus—remain unchanged. They are well-oiled and operate regardless— undeterred, succinct.

The days start the same.

You set aside a warm bowl of fruit and porridge, steam rising to greet him as it fans over his helm. Good morning.

Exiting the fresher, you find the dishes washed and dried—the towel folded neatly into a square beside them. Good morning.

You return the bowls to their shelf, nestling them right next to your unfulfilled expectations and embarrassing desires—butted against your silly, silly heart.

“Anything good?” he asks one night, passing through the galley as you thumb through the news on your holopad

You nearly choke on it—your throat closing up tight around the casual banality of the question. Because that’s what you two share now: you have things. You have quips and lines and normal and none of that disappeared after you’d made each other unravel not four paces away, pressed there against that wall—the wall that stands there even now, a tall and mocking reminder.

You wonder, if you sealed your ear to the bulkhead, could you still hear yourself? The symphonic reverb—your girlish pants, Din’s hoarse rasps— trapped there in the seams of the steel siding like the grooves of a record, to be played and played again.

“Never,” you say, like you’ve always said, and do your best to flash him a grin—the one you’ve worn before, the one, perhaps, you hope he likes. The one where you go dimpled and dove-like.

And then he makes for the cockpit and you are left

without.

The afternoons stretch familiar, too.

Din flies the ship and you watch the child—steering him clear of disasters and shenanigans the best you can. He tugs gentle at your hair; you nip at his little hand until he’s dissolved to giggles—the same the same the same, all of these acquainted patterns continuing to revolve on. Din lands and prepares for his hunt—banging around the belly of the ship, gathering weapons and ammunition and rations—and your eyes skitter along after him, following his hulking figure as he steps past where you and Munch are seated, heading towards the mouth of the Crest.

Din.

You’re half afraid of what it will sound like now— what it will feel like, bruised and jagged in your mouth. Like it doesn’t belong there, like it has no right laying claim to your tongue.

“Din,” you call hurriedly to the span of his broad back as he leaves the ship, your spine straightening out of the chair. You say it; you speak his name and to your surprise find it is none of those things—none of those ugly fears, none of those roughened gums. It’s worse.

Because scarier still, it comes out cotton soft; it comes out comfortable and true. It tastes like home maybe — like a version of home where people could come and go and laugh and not be frightened. Where they could hold little children in their arms and sleep and breathe and be and say I am here with you. Here we are. How special. I have chosen this. I have made this with you.

Din.

His shoulders tense and his feet stop short, just before the apex of the ramp. He turns to you, slow. Controlled.

“Good hunting.”

Din looks at you, the heavy umber of his eyes settling on your own, and he freezes—stock-still, his blood and muscles and bone thickened to paste, rendering him motionless. His dark gaze scans over you—the wisps of hair dancing around your face, the sag of your shirt lolling from your shoulder, his son in your lap. You bounce Munch on your knee and he gurgles out a quieted hum, glancing between his surrogate parent and you.

“Thank you,” Din replies, stilted, and you think you discern a subtle scrape of his modulator; you think you sense his lips part, pained and breathy, the cusp of another thought—of more, anything more— corralled by his sense of duty, hampered by the armor that plates him.

You untangle the boy’s claws from your hair and slip your fingers around his wrist, waving his green hand in a delicate to and fro.

Goodbye, it says. We’ll be right here when you get back.

He stays. For another glimmer of a millisecond he remains, sunlight pouring in through the opening of the Crest—shining off his beskar, off the gunmetal grey covering his body—focus trained on you both—before he pivots, cape whipping behind him as Din vanishes like he does without fail—away. Away.

To vapors.

Three days of this—three miserable days. Seventy-two suffocatingly mundane hours.

You figured this would be easy. You figured it could be as painless as you chose to make it. You were two consenting adults, after all—you both had needs, and you both met them—and you thought that this would be simple.

What you failed to take into consideration however, is that Din Djarin is anything but a simple man.

Because he is all these things, paradigms and paradoxes, coiled into one very tightly wound warrior—a warrior who can dismember a blaster just as effectively as he can sop up baby vomit from his foundling’s brown robes—one handed, no less. In flight. Din is all sharp edges and smooth silver, he’s cold and calculating and roguish and endearing and you can’t grapple with the dichotomy of him—with all these mismatched pieces at odds with themselves that somehow fit perfectly, inexplicably together.

You were naïve to assume you could go back—as if you could unremember the shape of his fingers as they filled you; as if you could make yourself forget how needy he bowed against you, how hot and thick his cock rested in your palm when he pitched his hips and released his desperation in white streaks along your skin.

And when your mind isn’t wholly consumed—smothered with the crushed velvet sin of that time-capsuled memory—it’s tortured in other ways, with crueler techniques. Pointed. Specified.

You watch him. You wish you could look away, but there isn't anywhere else to look. There isn’t a corner you can escape to, nor an inch of the Crest that isn’t him—isn’t an emblem of him, isn’t an extension of his personage.

You see him - day in, day out - interact with the child and Maker, it’s so precious and he’s so damn good. Two arms, cradling Munch snug to his chest—you know their strength now, you know their weight—and you observe as Din holds this boy with the same hands that unmade you—that molded you like clay and parted your wet heat. You see this man—so stoic, so reserved—dote on his child in a way that you never were, and bit by bit, it breaks you.

You caught them napping together once, compressed in that dingy of an alcove by the refresher. Your feet halted in their tracks at the sight and you held your breath—he’s a light sleeper, you didn’t dare wake them—Din’s helmet nodded to his chest and the kid, open-mouthed and adorable, nestled into the crook of his arm.

It made you want to sing. It made you want to cry.

You had to pry your boots from the floor and force yourself to move, to scram. You had to be anywhere else but there, ogling like a spectator at a zoo, nose smushed against the glass, watching the last of some great species simply be as nature intended—calm, drowsy, at peace.

You busied yourself then, scuttling preoccupied about the Crest but the image never evaporated, it never faded—it dogged you, tacking itself onto your psyche: the picture of him there, Din and his boy, holding on to one another like anchors while they slept, and you can't resist drawing the question.

Is that what it’s supposed to look like, to feel like—a father’s arms around your shoulders? Is that what safe looks like? Is that what family is?

You wouldn’t know. You cannot recollect the glow of it—the memory of such an embrace—on your own skin, and isn’t that what makes it all so achingly befitting, so inevitable. As if the Moirai—those weird sisters—spun this string of fate tailored to your being and plucked it like a harp, curating a melody for you and you alone.

Because you see Din give what you never got, and it makes you want. You want him. You curse yourself for it, but fuck you want him—every sordid part of you is tugged and pulled in his direction. You want him, magnetically, you want him you want him you wa—

And Din is fine. A Mandalorian pillar, undisturbed. He is bedrock. This is the Way.

And while he withstands the weathering, you crumble beneath it. It's eroding you. Like tides crashing monotonous against a beaten shore, you are in granules—and these morsels, ever-fine, they nick you - gritting - sanding you raw, abrading you rugged.

You thought you could ignore them at first. They were but lace whispers behind your ear—muted and tickling and just far off enough to deflect. But with each passing moment those feathered words grew loud—rude and vocal and you couldn’t keep them out. Round and round, they wriggled into your most tender swathes of skin. Skipless. Poison.

He regrets it.

He didn’t want it.

He didn’t enjoy it.

He didn’t want me He doesn’t want me I’m not wanted

These thoughts, insistent and pervasive, they are sewn into the bed of your mind one ugly seed at a time. You water them. You don’t mean to, you don’t wish to cultivate these errs but you know they will fester and grow with or without you. So you tend them—watchful, you garden—and they push up through the soil, sprouting weeds, choking the dirt. Marring it fallow.

But you’re okay with this. You’re fine—look at you, you’re fine.

///

The planet of Jelucan is bustling.

It’s got a pulse of its own, energetic and thrumming; there’s an electric current charging the cool air. It’s alive. This place is alive. Towers and buildings are chiseled into the cliff faces of the mountains framing the city, reaching tall towards the pale blue sky overhead. The capital—Valentia, you learned—is almost offensively busy— far busier than any of the backwater territories you and Din had explored in the recent months. There’s so much noise, it’s cacophonous— speeders dodging pedestrians milling about the throughway, engines whirring and backfiring, merchants arguing, hawking foods and goods from their windowed shops and brightly colored stalls, politicians and well to-dos seemingly gliding above it all as the common rabble of varying species and origins mingle and mix.

You suppose it reminds you of Coruscant. You suppose that makes you nervous.

Because you’ve been holed up in his ship and flitting through the Outer Rim, seeing the stars and the moons and planets and there’s just so much life—everywhere, everywhere— this galaxy is chalked full of it; it’s spilling over the sides with it all. And Maker, these months have felt like an adventure; they’ve felt like a fantasy, like an escape. You’ve eloped, caught in the whirlwind romance of it all—shirking your duties, your career, absconding from your shitty, shoebox of an apartment back home.

But Valentia is all too quick to ground you, all too eager to remind you of that blissfully forgotten reality; it taps on its wristwatch, gutting you with a look:

your time, my dear, is up.

The cobbled pavement underfoot is stony and industrial, each step landing too hard, too hollow—like everyone can hear your chipped heart pounding through your boots—exposing you, coloring you a liar.

This is fine. You’re fine. You’re okay with this.

You’ve been telling yourself that—bargaining, pleading—attempting to manifest into fruition; speaking it to yourself like a chant in hopes it’ll stick—in hopes you’ll fall for the ruse.

But it’s as if each dulled footfall shakes the rust from your neglected truth, revealing all too plainly that no. No, you’re not. You aren’t.

You and Din do not walk in tandem—his gait is longer, and he’s a stride in front of you—but there isn't so much space between your bodies that his presence doesn’t distract you completely, doesn’t eat you up and make you fizz. Your gaze could latch anywhere in this packed, teeming city, and you would still see him. Still feel him—on the nape of your neck, in the wet pink of your cunt. Throbbing reminders of the man that has knotted himself so seamlessly into your world.

You shake your head, locks rustling— as if you could rock him loose from where he clings on to your mind— when you feel a spindled hand at the wing of your back. Startled, you spin towards the touch.

There’s a woman— she isn’t human, but judging by her general appearance she’s some species close to it. She’s old. Whittled. Her maroon eyes are clouded, her silvered hair swooped back into a low bun, wiry frizz haloing the crown of her head.

She’s petite, but it looks wrong— inorganic. Too knobby, she’s all elbows and boney angles where she shouldn’t be. It’s as if she’s shrinking, right there before you. Time, pressing her in— pressing her down.

She’s lived a life in the sun; she wears lines on her face, deep and haggard, and her skin is pulled taut around her skull like hide stretched over a tanning rack. She’s ancient, prehistoric.

She’ll probably outlive you all.

An alien language you don’t recognize comes spilling fast from her thin mouth. You can’t decipher the string of words rushing like river water, the current unstoppable, but you garner she’s insistent; there’s no misconstruing the earnest fervor in her voice. Something woolen is held tight in her grasp—a blanket, by the looks of it, intricate and pleated—and she’s handing it to you like her very existence depends on it.

“I’m sorry,” you begin, confusion evident on your brow, “I’m sorry I don’t—”

She continues speaking, urgent and desperate and pleading—gesticulating as she offers you the throw, the shiny golden thread needled into the patchwork winking in the afternoon sun. The child slung at your side chirps curiously, saucer-large eyes following the shimmer of the fabric.

“I’m sorry, it’s beautiful - really - but—”

You’re jobless and blowing through your savings at a blistering speed. You barely have two measly credits to rub together; getting supplies is tricky enough as is. Purchasing something as ornate and superfluous as a blanket was out of the question. Munch coos sadly, a twitter of his voice, and it ruptures your heart to say it, “I can’t afford something like this.”

The bell on the door to the adjacent shop grabs your attention, producing a Twi’lek as it opens. She’s younger, perhaps around your age, and her lilac lekku bob as she bounds over to you.

“Hi,” she breathes, lips pulling back to reveal a charming smile as she glances between you two. “Everything okay?”

Before you can get a word out the elder resumes chattering, incensed as she addresses the other store attendant—you think it might be Old Corellian, some archaic dialect you presumed died out eons ago, predating the Battle of Yavin by centuries.

Just how old is this woman?

There’s a hushed exchange between them—the Twi’lek’s attempt at the language proving stiff. Her cadence is clunky, nowhere near as smooth and lilted as the other woman’s, but they must come to some sort of a conclusion, because they face you—two sets of eyes, burrowing blinkless into yours. The girl takes a small half step towards you, speaking - blessedly - in Basic.

“The blanket. It’s for you. She wants you to have it,” she explains, “for the little one.”

A twitch notches your eyebrow, gaze flickering back to the older woman, something akin to a crinkled smile worn into the grooves of her wizened face. She nods, fervent and solemn—a seriousness set in the desperate way she bores into you, urging you to understand. To see.

More foreign utterances pass between them— the younger woman listening to her soft vowels and gritting consonants for a beat, before continuing to translate.

“She says, you have a beautiful family. It makes her—” the Twi’lek pauses, choosing her next words, “yearn for the past, to reclaim time.”

Family. A beautiful family. A beautiful—

You consider telling them.

You consider correcting her, informing these kind souls that you’re only temporary. A fleeting thing— like the seasons, autumn dying cold into winter— you’ll leave when the time comes. You consider telling them that that’s the arrangement you agreed to, and that you’ll be delivered back to Coruscant and deposited off at your doorstep with nothing but a cheap, portable cot and an unused blaster the bounty hunter had unfathomably given to you once upon a time. That they’ve mistaken you for someone else—someone important to Din and his foundling. Someone relevant. Someone permanent.

But, you don’t.

You don’t rectify their assumption. Your silence betrays you, confirming the lie, and you grant yourself to revel in it. Like slipping into silk sheets, you roll in the luxury of the imaginary sentiment— letting it swaddle you, comfort you, kiss your skin.

And just for a moment, maybe you allow yourself to believe that this is real: the three of you, a perfect band of misfits; entwined together, fated and star-crossed.

A family.

“She hopes you know that what you have is special. She says, she hopes you hold onto them—never let go. Never.”

Fuck.

Can they hear it? Can they hear the way parts of you fracture like slate and quake to the asphalt in shards? Can they see the shiver in your knees—how your nails dig into the rough tweed of the satchel hung long beside you?

You steal a trepid glance back at Din who has since stopped and stands idle in wait—there in the middle of the lane, a single stone splitting the sea of people passing through. He’s unreadable, his visor illegible. He appears statuesque, arms immobilized in plaster by his sides—inhuman under all that effacing steel as life moves in flurries, eddying around him.

The kid babbles, snapping your focus off the Mandalorian and returning it to the two women. They adorn their sincerity openly, as one would a badge, extending the blanket to you—you, a perfect stranger.

Shit. Tears prickle the wells of your eyes. There’s something lodged in your throat— a canary in a cage, batting violent against its bars. You attempt to swallow it down with an ugly gulp, but it provides no relief. This emotion you’ve leveed—your joy, your pain and embarrassment, your desire and need—it swells in you, threatening to slosh over. You blink it back, keeping it confined safely behind your lash line.

“I—thank you,” you manage, looking between them. Awed and humbled, you accept their offering, handling it with the care of something holy—something sacred—and drawing it to your chest. Immediately, Munch latches a claw into a drooping corner of the woven material, a happy hum sounding from his droll grin. “Thank you,” you murmur again, reverent and breathy, reversing away from them—refusing to drop their gaze until you must—before finally righting yourself and walking on.

You’re shaken. You’re shaking.

And it is on shaky feet that you meet Din some steps later, pausing once you arrive next to him. His helm shifts; you register the sweep of his eyes roving over you—the burn of them along your shoulders, sloping down to the blanket folded against your breasts, slipping lower to his adi’ka sitting in the satchel at your hip. He’s clutching at the new token, dipping the edge of it into his tiny mouth to teethe.

And then,

he lifts at the wrist, orange glove tips raising - reaching - towards you. Din takes the hem of the quilt between his fingers experimentally, massaging the feel of the fabric—his knuckles brushing the exposed skin of your arm, searing into your flesh like a hot iron, lingering there mesmerizingly.

It’s the first he's touched you. It’s the first he’s touched you since, since—

His hand drops, hinging back to his side.

“Ready?”

His modulated voice crackles indiscernible and your stomach leaps to your neck. Are you breathing? Kriff, you’re not sure. You have to check—deliberately drawing in a gust of chilled air, the rush burning your lungs as you suck it down. With a nod of your head, a placid smile glosses over the shudder of your features, dousing the singe of your nerves.

“Ready.”

///

You think about that old woman later that day, and the many days that follow, her visage marked with centuries and regret and history. Life, evident in the spider’s web of wrinkles engraving her. But there was love too, clearly wormed into the lines of her face. So much of it— almost too much for a galaxy this hard and war-torn. The things she’s possibly witnessed: the atrocities, the devastation, the loss.

The wisdom she has gained while all of those she’s ever known succumb to the inevitability of age, as her past decays around her. The knowledge she absorbs while she withers—while time does nothing but skip by. Blameless. Forever onward.

In your dreams that night, she appears in front of you like mist rising off a lake, astral and ephemeral— there, but not. Haunting you, inescapable wherever you fix your eye. The woman nods silently. She’s mouthing something to you, but the words never come.

You understand.

tags:

@girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @djarrex @djarinsbeskar @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled @bookishofalder @helmet-comes-off @grumpymuffinmama @niiight-dreamerrrr @spideysimpossiblegirl @janebby @greatcircle79 @gracie7209 @thatonedindjarinfan @altered-delta @email2ash @stevie75 @shegatsby @onebrownoneblue @sammysdaisy @uniquebiscuitmongerdonkey

[delimeful]

or set your teeth against my throat (2)

warnings: illness, mild emeto, bad decisions, miscommunication, short panic attack/flashback

---

As the night turned to dawn and then day, Roman didn’t stop running.

He couldn’t stop, even as his pace grew more and more sluggish, his path erratic. Every time he thought about pausing, finding a good campsite and finally letting himself take a breath, it was as though phantom sensations grasped at his skin or tore at his throat.

He kept moving.

It was stupid, probably, being driven forward by fear like a mindless animal. … It was definitely stupid. Still, after ages spent trapped in one form, the full moon’s pull on the wolf in him was irresistible.

For the first time in ages, he worried about the possibility of coming astray of a human settlement once the moon was overhead. Normally, Virgil was the one who dedicated himself to making sure their pack’s turning ground was far from any stab-happy humans, always double and even triple-checking.

In his current state, Roman could barely discern a single natural scent around him, let alone any human scents he should avoid. He kept feeling eyes on him, silent watchers, but the distinction between reality and his own terrified delusions was growing thinner.

When the sun finally sank below the horizon, Roman allowed himself to collapse on a soft patch of earth under a shielding copse of saplings. He had some hope, however shallow, that by wearing himself out, his wolf would spend the night curled up somewhere, settled into a sleep heavy enough to erase the pounding headache settled deep in his skull.

He’d been a fool to let himself hope.

His memories while fully-turned were foggy as usual, but the emotions were clear: he’d spent his entire night on the move. His wolf had been howling long, agonized calls into the dark around him, desperately searching for the other members of his small pack. Desperately waiting for a response that would never come.

To top it all off, when he woke up human-shaped in the early hours of dawn, his headache had only grown worse.

His only turn of fortune was that his wolf hadn’t traveled back the way he’d come, driven away by some immutable sense of danger. He could at least be grateful he wouldn’t have to make up for any lost progress, even if his body was weak and trembling from being pushed past the brink of exhaustion.

The further he got from those bloodsuckers, the better.

His vision blurred slightly with each step. It was seeming more and more likely that he was growing feverish, though it was hard to tell with nobody else around to ask. He kept pressing a hand to his forehead and neck, trying to gauge his temperature, but his hands were warm, too.

He’d complained about his packmates’ terrible circulation and icy fingers before, but there was very little he wouldn’t do for them now… Just the phantom memory of Virgil’s cool hand on his head, voice sharp but touch unbearably gentle, was enough to make tears prick his eyes.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself up on shaky legs. There was no way he could give up now, feverish or not. What would his packmates advise?

“For survival, shelter and water are most important,” he mumbled to himself, wincing at the poor imitation. He cleared some of the raspiness from his throat, imagining Logan’s face when he really got into sharing his newest bit of knowledge. “Running water is preferable to still water, which can carry illnesses, and for larger rivers there is also the potential to find freshwater food sources, like salmon, catfish, bass, um… pike, trout… cod?” He frowned, losing the careful enunciation. “Wait, is salmon freshwater?”

Logan could have listed more off, Roman was sure, but the effort helped cheer him nonetheless. He spent the next few hours winding his way through the forest, attempting every so often to sniff the air for damp soil with little success.

His ears still worked fine, however, and so when he caught the first distant trickle of rushing water, he wasted no time in following the sound. It was no river, but the stream was plenty to help quench the dryness in the back of his throat.

“Go upstream,” he could imagine Virgil demanding, “make yourself harder to track. Wolves aren’t the only ones out there with good noses.”

“The water is so cold, though,” he complained to himself even as he began sloshing through it. “I have squishy human flesh, I’m going to freeze to death.”

Here was where Logan would point out his exaggeration, and Virgil would snap something snarky to distract him from the chill.

The burbling of the water was a poor substitute.

Once his feet grew truly chilled, he waded back out, mimicking Virgil’s voice to caution himself against the more slippery-looking rocks. He probably looked a little silly, holding both parts of a conversation, but it wasn’t as though anyone was around to see.

“Cut me some slack,” he muttered to nobody, allowing the comfort of his wolf form to slide back into place as the day turned to a chilly evening and he lay to rest. “I’m maybe-possibly-feverish, I deserve good things.”

He slept fitfully, and when he woke, there was a gray coat draped over him, and a small pile of walnuts and blackberries sat at his side, the nuts already shelled and the berries freshly washed.

The incredibly suspicious nature of their appearance only stopped Roman from eating them for about five minutes, and four of those five minutes were dedicated to imagining all the reasons Virgil would list to not eat them.

“Sorry, Virge,” he said through a mouthful of fruity deliciousness.

There didn’t seem to be anyone around, and no matter how he buried his face in the coat lining, his nose was too stuffed to pick up anything. It was an extraordinarily soft coat, though, and he felt awfully cold. It was hard for even him to imagine what harm could be done with a coat.

“I’m accepting this Possibly Evil Coat, but only for a little while, so don’t get any ideas!”

The woods were quiet in response to his declaration, and he sniffed daintily before climbing to his feet, internally bemoaning the way the world swayed slightly as he moved.

Couldn’t he just sleep here a bit longer…?

He imagined the unimpressed looks his packmates would give him. Imaginary Virgil in particular wouldn’t stand for sitting around when there was every possibility he was still being hunted.

“For all you know, that vamp was just a sick mind trick, and they’ve been toying with you this whole time!” Virgil would say, jumping to the worst-possible scenario that Roman always stalwartly tried to ignore. He shuddered, glancing around himself.

“You are not helping my mood, mister,” he muttered to Imaginary Virgil as he tromped through the underbrush with much less elegant grace than usual.

The little mystery offerings from the morning had helped stave off his plummeting energy levels, but they weren’t enough. It was only midday when the lightheadedness and the chills shuddering through him became too much, and he found himself collapsed on the ground between one blink and the next.

He was contemplating the benefits of simply remaining facedown on the dirt for a while when a cool hand wrapped around his wrist, carefully tugging him onto his back.

Roman blinked at the face above him, the blurry features slowly resolving themselves into the shape of the vampire who had freed him only nights before. The fear that shot through him didn’t make him any more lucid, and Roman bared his teeth in a snarl that was probably much less fearsome on a human face.

“Told you so,” Imaginary Virgil said, instead of doing anything helpful like tearing a vampire’s throat out. Roman missed Real Virgil.

The vampire was talking, a low, constant noise meant to soothe as he shifted an arm around Roman’s shoulders, lifting him to his feet. The blood rushed to his head, vision going black-- the next thing he knew, he was inside a small cabin, swaddled in blankets, the hearth crackling merrily feet away.

… What had he been worrying about? He couldn’t remember.

A chill shuddered through him. He was still so cold, even as sweat drenched the cloth around him, and he complained relentlessly.

His packmates tolerated his sickbed whining as graciously they always did, though for some reason they were more hesitant than normal to hold him close when he called for them. They seemed to be taking his care in shifts, as there was only ever one person in view, and sometimes he woke up completely alone.

(Strange, since they normally all piled up together when one of them got sick. They probably just needed to prioritize hunting or checking their territory boundaries or something. Roman wasn’t that sick.)

When they were there, Roman rambled and bickered with them nonstop, through shudders and chattering teeth, telling old stories and adding new twists to distract from the sickness ravaging him, only pausing when they pressed coriander seeds or wormwood to his lips.

(That was a little strange. Logan knew mint worked better for Roman’s nausea. Maybe they were out?)

Time passed in a haze, marked only by the frequent offers of fresh water and stale rations. Eventually, he was able to even measure out his healing progress by how often he could keep the aforementioned nutrients down.

(One of them was busy hunting, but somehow there was never any fresh kill.)

He knew his fever had finally, properly broken when he reached out for the one who had been taking care of him all this time, and registered that their skin was icy-cold.

Roman jerked back and then instantly regretted it as every nerve in his body protested severely.

“Ah, careful!” warned the vampire, who was at least smart enough to stay out of immediate biting range. His hands fluttered around as though he was attempting to bat away the dark spots that were currently dotting Roman’s vision.

Unbidden, a rough growl tore from him. He had a heartbeat to feel vindicated at the vamp’s flinch before his breath caught in his throat, kicking off an uncontrollable coughing fit.

Each wheeze brought less and less air, and when he caught the vampire shuffling closer, it suddenly felt like he had no air at all. He hunched over his knees, shifting his hands to cover his neck pathetically, as though the motion could protect him.

“Back off,” he snapped, cursing himself when the words came out as barely more than a choked whisper. How many times had he said some variation on the phrase in the past few weeks? He should have learned by now that it never worked.

When he glanced up, though, he found the vampire had practically teleported all the way across the room. The sight of the vamp peering at Roman worriedly from the furthest corner was odd enough to yank his mind out of the half-formed flashback.

He took a deep breath, trying to remember the grounding exercises Virgil always ran through. His wrists were light, his knees didn’t ache; he wasn’t chained down. There was soft fabric around him, and warmth in the air; it was a far cry from cold cement platforms in lifeless forts.

There was a vampire here, but his eyes weren’t red, and he didn’t wear a cruel smile like a second skin. Roman might still be a prisoner, but he wasn’t there anymore.

Instead, his current location was… a curiously cozy cabin?

Roman blinked. It was a single room, a bit sparse in decor but containing a small coal stove, stocked pantry, and a cheerily roaring fireplace. He was sitting on the solitary bed, a nest of blankets creased around him.

He turned his blank gaze back to the vampire. For a moment, the only noise in the room was the low crackle-pop of burning wood.

“Are you okay?” the vampire finally asked, brow creased with what looked like genuine concern. “You’ve been really burning up, and fevers like that can take a lot out of you. At least,” a pause, “as fire as I know.”

Any and all snappy responses (both literal and metaphorical) flew instantly from Roman’s mind. He groaned and slumped over dramatically, ignoring the way his vision swam slightly at the movement. “Augh, that was terrible!”

The vampire grinned, his smile somehow dorky even with the visible fangs. “You don’t have to tell me twice: I’m a fast burner!”

“Are you sure?” Roman asked. “Because this is the worst thing you’ve done to me yet, and I’m including the mind games, apparent abduction, and imprisonment.”

“Flameous last words,” the vamp said, and then the rest of Roman’s statement seemed to catch up with him. He drooped like a wilting flower. “You’re not imprisoned here! And I’m not trying to... mess with you, or anything.”

Roman gave him an unimpressed look. “Just so we’re on the same page, that’s a yes on you abducting me, correct?”

“I mean, yeah, just a little bit,” the vampire admitted, “but I meant it in a helpful way! I wasn’t going to bother you at first, I promise, but then you got sick, and I could tell how feverish you were just looking at you, and--,”

“Wait,” said Roman, his brain slowly churning through the implications of that sentence, “you were just going to follow me without me knowing, the entire way--,” home, he didn’t say, because the mere thought of accidentally leading a coven of vicious vampires to his vulnerable packmates made his stomach turn, and then he was leaning over and being violently ill in the bucket beside his bed.

A cold weight settled against the back of his neck, soothing against his overheated skin for the few seconds it took him to realize what-- or rather, who it was. He jerked away with a halfhearted snarl, probably looking rightly pathetic.

“I’m sorry,” the vampire said mournfully, stopping him short. “I wasn’t trying to upset you, I just-- I knew it was my fault. If I’d gotten the key sooner, or been braver, you wouldn’t have been out in the cold for so long, you might not have caught sick at all. It wouldn’t be right for me to abandon you.”

“Abandon me?” Roman spluttered. What did this guy think he was, some lost pup? “I can take care of myself just fine alone, thank you very much! I have absolutely no need for suspicious sanguinous stalkers on my tail.”

For emphasis, he shoved the blankets off of himself, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and stood up in preparation to leave.

One blink later, he was facedown on the floor, his body numb yet his nose stinging from the impact. “Ow.”

The vampire offered him a hand up. “Autumn is my favorite season, but that certainly didn’t seem like a very nice fall.”

“Must you kick a man while he’s down?” Roman bemoaned, ignoring the proffered hand in favor of pushing himself up.

His traitorous legs wobbled under him, and he ended up collapsing back into a seated position on the bed, right where he’d started. He felt a wave of familiar despair wash over him. The sickness had sapped every ounce of strength from him; whatever villainous plans lay ahead, he had no chance of foiling them.

… Maybe he could still foil some of them.

Roman met the vampire’s gaze as solidly as he could. “No matter how adeptly you try to play the kindly stranger role, I’m not going to fall for it.” I’m not going to lead you to my family. “You may as well cut your losses and do whatever it is you’re planning to do to me.”

He waved a dismissive hand for emphasis, as if it didn’t matter to him. As if the mere idea of getting so close to freedom and then dying (alone, far from his pack, without them ever even knowing what happened to him) wasn’t enough to make him feel like there were roots tangling in his lungs and weeds clogging his throat.

The vampire nodded slowly, a troubled look on his face. “In that case…”

He moved closer, and Roman focused very intently on not flinching, no matter how badly he wanted to, or how hard his body was already shaking. The vampire reached out--

“My name is Patton,” he said, very carefully offering his hand at the midpoint between them, “and what I want is for you to stay right here in this house until you’re healed, and then you can go wherever you want to go, and I’ll make an oath not to follow.”

“What?” Roman blurted, staring at Patton’s hand with blatant confusion. “You-- I-- What?”

“I really don’t want to hurt you, kiddo.” Roman stiffened, because that was a classic villain line setup if he’d ever heard one, but-- “So, once you’re healed, whatever you need me to do to prove it, I’ll do it.”

Roman’s increasing headache had nothing to do with his fever and everything to do with the oxymoron that was a philanthropist bloodsucker.

What was the right option? He couldn’t get away, but he couldn’t trust that this bizarre hospitality would last, either. Perhaps the best course of action here was inaction-- lulling the vampire into a false sense of security by pretending to be sick even as he grew healthy enough to escape?

Roman could act. He was good at it, and the bar for his illness had been set quite convincingly with his earlier faceplant. He let his muscles go lax, slumping over slightly to give off the impression of conceding without actually ever agreeing to Patton’s proposed plan.

“If you’re so intent on me trusting you, you can start by telling me where I am,” he sniffed, graciously not mentioning the abduction thing again.

Patton brightened, letting his offered hand drop without comment. “This is an aidhouse! It’s part of a system recently set up in this division of the kingdom for common good and to prevent spread of disease.”

That explained the insulated, if somewhat bare, interior. Roman raised a curious eyebrow. “And they’ll let just anyone use it?”

“That’s the principle behind it, yep! Normally, with non-plague cases, an apothecary apprentice would stop by to check in and offer guidance, but I told them I had it apothecovered!”

The puns were apparently a permanent fixture in the guy’s repertoire. Logan would be in agony. Roman ignored the pang in his chest at the thought, leaning further back against the pillow mound. “Yes, you wouldn’t want some poor apprentice to stick around long enough to find out there’s a lone vampire in their midst, would you?”

Dial it back, he could imagine Virgil hissing, as though the emo had any room to talk about unnecessary vitriol.

“Well, no,” Patton admitted, his smile turning a little strained. “But I turned them away because I already have all the experience I need! I worked as a full-time doctor before-- um, before...”

The smile turned full-on tremulous, and Roman was seized by a strange panic at the sight of it. He sprawled over the bed haughtily, the way he always did when demanding attention from his workaholic packmates.

“If you’re such a skilled doctor, then I’m sure you won’t have any problems running me through your treatments so far?” Roman challenged, inspecting his nails. It wasn’t a pointless query, either; some common human treatments were toxic to werewolves.

“Oh!” Patton said, voice still a little choked up. “Of course, let me see…”

The brink-of-tears quality to his words faded as he began to recount everything Roman had missed in his feverish haze. Patton’s exposition was nothing like Logan’s, cheerful rambling and jokes thrown in where Logan preferred efficient lists and muttered tangents.

Roman found himself drifting off to the sound regardless.

It seemed that pretending to trust Patton wouldn’t be as hard as he’d thought.

[impala1967dwinchester]

Dean Winchester: Pose

Picture found off of Google search 

Pairing: Dean x reader

Pov: Deans (Mentions of Sam X Eileen only once)  

Warning: cute Dean, Dean being funny, posing for Dean, maybe a kink i don't know, lots of sleep 

Summary: Dean buys you a new and very expensive camera thinking about how you said that you wanted to take pictures while you guys were in different states for hunts. What you don't realize is that Dean wants to take pictures of different scenery.

Word Count: 1.6k

Masterlist

Taglist: @akshi8278 @deanswaywardgirl 

I bought her a camera, not any camera an expensive camera. She always fussed about how on trips to motels and long drives she wanted to be able to have memories about where we were.

Like any good boyfriend would do I bought her a camera. Partly to stop her from pushing my buttons about a camera, but mostly because I wanted to see her smile.

I gave it to her as a random gift. Setting the box in front of her and sitting down next to her. She was in the library, just her and I. "What's this?" She asked.

"This my dear is called a gift." I said lightly pulling on the string connected to the green bow that was wrapped around the box.

"I can see that Sherlock, but I'm asking you what it is?" She said having a sassy tone. I rolled my eyes and spoke. "Well, that would ruin your gift now wouldn't it."

I pushed the gift closer to her. She dramatically huffed and set her phone on her lap. She quickly undid the green bow and tore through the newspaper that wrapped the gift.

Y/n could just barely see what the box said. "Dean?" She said excitement starting to crack through her voice. "Hmm." I hummed in response.

"Dean did you... is this..." Y/n said getting caught up in her words and most likely her emotions as well. "Yes, I did. And yes, it is." I said gently patting her thigh.

The camera was a brand-new Canon camera. Mostly made for taking scenery pictures. A wonderful camera according to all of the Amazon comments.

Unwrapping her gift Y/n tore into the box. Unfolding the flaps and opening the box. Taking the bubble wrap off of the many accessories that came with said camera.

Y/n pulled out her phone, searching up a video trying to figure out how to use her camera. “You know that there’s a packet of instructions and other such things in the box, right?” I asked her, taking her phone from her grasp.  

Looking up at me her eyebrow frowning, and giving me a stink eye. “I thought you didn’t know what instructions were?” She said coming back with a sassy comment.  

“Here.” I said pulling the packet from the box along with the camera. I unwrapped that. Setting it up, putting in an SD card, and taking the first picture on the camera.

The very first picture on her camera, was Y/n. She was smiling, dimples showing, eye bright under the flash of the camera. I can see the bookshelves, and the bindings of all books behind her.  

“Does it look good?” She questions me. I roll my eyes in love and frustrations for her question. “Of course, you look amazing my dear.” I said turning the camera around so she can see herself in the screen.  

At the start of our next hunt, I pack my bags, along with Y/n doing same. For this hunt it is just her and I. Sam and Eileen already on route to another hunt out near the coast.  

We pack the impala, and we are off. What I didn’t know was that Y/n and both packed her camera with her, and was going to use it the entire drive to our destination.

Our drive was peaceful, the radio playing my rock music, and both Y/n and I humming and singing. At one point I looked over at Y/n and she had her camera out taking pictures of the passing lands and hills. Bringing my attention back to the road, I continued to drive.

A few miles down the road I again look over at Y/n, this time instead of Y/n facing and looking out the window, she has her camera pointed towards me, I could see her finger pointer bouncing rather quickly on the button.  

“How many of those pictures are you going to take of me?” I asked bringing my attention back to the road again. “I plan on taking as many pictures of you as I want.” She said moving her head in a very odd way.  

The rest of the drive was fine. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Y/n set her camera done, and back into her bag. I then feel her, lightly place her head on my shoulder snuggling closer to me.  

“Are you tired dear?” I asked her. The only response I get it is a soft hum. “Okay my dear, I’ll wake you when we get there.” I spoke. Turning down the radio and cranking the heat up.  

The sun sets, and rises again. Just barely rising over the hills. I pulled in to another shitty motel. I pull into a spot, shutting the engine off, and gently waking Y/n up.  

“We are here, love bug.” I said kissing her forehead. Her eye flutter open, and she yawns, stretching her arms. Talking through her yawn “Where are we staying?” Y/n asks.  

“At another shitty motel, I thinks it's called the Clover” I said, “Let’s go get us a room, I need my four hours of sleep.” I said squeezing her tightly in my grasp, before letting her go and getting out of the impala.  

I headed to the front desk, getting a key to our room. A small flirt with the young lady at the front desk to speed the process up. When I leave the front desk, I see Y/n had her bags and my bags are next to her on the ground.  

“Let’s go get some sleep baby.” Y/n said, handing me her bag and linking her pinky together. I of course unlocked our room, and let Y/n walk in first, setting out things on the small kitchen table.

Y/n flops onto the not so bouncy bed. I strip of my boots, jeans, and to many flannels. “Wow, big boy. I thought we were going to sleep.” Y/n said a silly tone falling into her words.  

“I’m going to sleep, but I would like to sleep next to your bitchin’ body.” Y/n rolled her eyes before removing her boots, jeans, bra and then her shirt. Dean watched, something that he always did, something that Y/n had allowed long before they were together.  

I watched as Y/n lightly lifted the back of her shirt up unclasping her bra and removing it from the bottom front of her shirt. “You’ll have to show me that trick.” I said winking at her before falling into bed with her. “I sure will, lets sleep now.” She said, curling up against my side.  

I wake up long before Y/n does, like I had said before I only ever really need four hours of sleep. I leave Y/n to go find coffee and food, when I come back Y/n is still asleep now cuddling against the pillow that I was laying with.  

Sitting and looking through my phone. I wanted so badly to get on with this hunt, but the idea of it being just Y/n and I for a few days before the adrenaline and rush of this hunt was needed. Seemed like a great idea. Still seeing that Y/n was asleep.  

I dug out Y/n’s camera, and turned it on. I went over to the blinds just barely opening the shades. So, the morning afternoon sun can stream in finding their way to beam over Y/n’s body.  

I moved around the room, finding that as I did so I could get better angles of her face, body and hole frame. After what seemed like ten pictures, I had taken Y/n stirred in her sleep. Opening her eyes and cringing at the sunlight that had fallen on her face.  

“What are you doing?” She asked her morning voice a little deeper than her normal everyday “Well my dear, I’m taking pictures of this lovely creature in front of me.” I said pointing at her. In return she pointed back at herself.  

She giggled and smiled, taking the moment because it was there, I caught another picture of her smiling, hair a mess, the tips of her ears deepening as she giggled more, the top of her chest just barely showing.  

“You know you are beautifully photogenic.” I spoke. Y/n’s eyebrows furrowed and she gave me a look of ‘I’m sorry what did you just say’ her nose scrunched. “I’m sorry. That makes utterly no sense.” She said turning her face away from the beaming sun.  

“You understood what I meant, so that means it meant sense.” I said, knowing that I had only confused myself with my statement. I sat down next to Y/n leaning against the headboard.  

“Are we going to the hunt today? Because if so, I need to go get a shower, and get my FBI suit on.” Y/n said. I grabbed Y/ns hands before she could slip from the comfort of her boyfriend, “No hunt for today. We can start in a few days' time.” I said dragging her slower to my body.  

Grabbing the camera from the night stand table. I looked over at Y/n, “Take a picture with me my love.” I spoke. She smiles and slightly shook her head before leaving her head against my black Henley, I could feel like heat of her cheeks even through my shirt.  

“Alright you ready baby?” I asked. Again Y/n shook her head, figuring it out I was able to take that picture the flash now not needed because of the sun light falling into the room.  

“I love you.” Y/n said cuddling up closer to my frame. Smiling down to her, kissing her temple and speaking into her temple an. “I love you too my dear.”

Completed on: 03/21/2021 

[justforbooks]

The many lives of John le Carré, in his own words.

An exclusive extract from his new memoir, The Pigeon Tunnel.

How I write

If you’re ever lucky enough to score an early success as a writer, as happened to me with The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, for the rest of your life there’s a before-the-fall and an after-the-fall. You look back at the books you wrote before the searchlight picked you out and they read like the books of your innocence; and the books after it, in your low moments, like the strivings of a man on trial. ‘Trying too hard’ the critics cry. I never thought I was trying too hard. I reckoned I owed it to my success to get the best out of myself, and by and large, however good or bad the best was, that was what I did.

And I love writing. I love doing what I’m doing at this moment, scribbling away like a man in hiding at a poky desk on a black clouded early morning in May, with the mountain rain scuttling down the window and no excuse for tramping down to the railway station under an umbrella because the International New York Times doesn’t arrive until lunchtime.

I love writing on the hoof, in notebooks on walks, in trains and cafés, then scurrying home to pick over my booty. When I am in Hampstead there is a bench I favour on the Heath, tucked under a spreading tree and set apart from its companions, and that’s where I like to scribble. I have only ever written by hand. Arrogantly perhaps, I prefer to remain with the centuries-old tradition of unmechanized writing. The lapsed graphic artist in me actually enjoys drawing the words.

I love best the privacy of writing. On research trips, I am partially protected by having a different name in real life. I can sign into hotels without anxiously wondering whether my name will be recognised, then, when it isn’t, anxiously wondering why not. When I’m obliged to come clean with the people whose experience I want to tap, results vary. One person refuses to trust me another inch, the next promotes me to chief of the secret service and, over my protestations that I was only ever the lowest form of secret life, replies that I would say that, wouldn’t I? There are many things I am disinclined to write about ever, just as there are in anyone’s life. I have been neither a model husband nor a model father, and am not interested in appearing that way. Love came to me late, after many missteps. I owe my ethical education to my four sons. Of my work for British intelligence, performed mostly in Germany, I wish to add nothing to what is already reported by others, inaccurately, elsewhere. In this I am bound by vestiges of old-fashioned loyalty to my former services, but also by undertakings I gave to the men and women who agreed to collaborate with me. It was understood between us that the promise of confidentiality would be subject to no time limit, but extend to their children and beyond. The work we engaged in was neither perilous nor dramatic, but it involved painful soul-searching on the part of those who signed up to it. Whether today these people are alive or dead, the promise of confidentiality holds.

Spying was forced on me from birth much in the way, I suppose, that the sea was forced on CS Forester or India on Paul Scott. Out of the secret world I once knew, I have tried to make a theatre for the larger worlds we inhabit. First comes the imagining, then the search for the reality. Then back to the imagining, and to the desk where I’m sitting now.

My Father: conman and inspiration

It took me a long while to get on writing terms with Ronnie, conman, fantasist, occasional jailbird, and my father. From the day I made my first faltering attempts at a novel, he was the one I wanted to get to grips with, but I was light years away from being up to the job. My earliest drafts of what eventually became A Perfect Spy dripped with self-pity: cast your eye, gentle reader, upon this emotionally crippled boy, crushed underfoot by his tyrannical father. It was only when he was safely dead and I took up the novel again that I did what I should have done at the beginning, and made the sins of the son a whole lot more reprehensible than the sins of the father.

With that settled, I was able to honour the legacy of his tempestuous life: a cast of characters to make the most blasé writer’s mouth water, from eminent legal brains of the day and stars of sport and screen to the finest of London’s criminal underworld and the beautiful creatures who trailed in their wake. Wherever Ronnie went, the unpredictable went with him. Are we up or down? Can we fill up the car on tick at the local garage? Has he fled the country or will he be proudly parking the Bentley in the drive tonight? Or is he enjoying the safety and comfort of one of his alternative wives?

Of Ronnie’s dealings with organised crime, if any, I know lamentably little. Yes, he rubbed shoulders with the notorious Kray twins, but that may just have been celebrity-hunting. And yes, he did business of a sort with London’s worst-ever landlord, Peter Rachman, and my best guess would be that when Rachman’s thugs had got rid of Ronnie’s tenants for him, he sold off the houses and gave Rachman a piece. But a full‑on criminal partnership? Not the Ronnie I knew. Conmen are aesthetes. They wear nice suits, have clean fingernails and are well spoken at all times. Policemen in Ronnie’s book were first-rate fellows who were open to negotiation. The same could not be said of “the boys”, as he called them, and you messed with the boys at your peril.

Ronnie’s entire life was spent walking on the thinnest, slipperiest layer of ice you can imagine. He saw no paradox between being on the wanted list for fraud and sporting a grey topper in the owners’ enclosure at Ascot. A reception at Claridge’s to celebrate his second marriage was interrupted while he persuaded two Scotland Yard detectives to put off arresting him until the party was over – and, meanwhile, come in and join the fun, which they duly did.  But I don’t think Ronnie could have lived any other way. I don’t think he wanted to. He was a crisis addict, a performance addict, a shameless pulpit orator and a scene-grabber. He was a delusional enchanter and a persuader who saw himself as God’s golden boy, and he wrecked a lot of people’s lives.

Graham Greene tells us that childhood is the credit balance of the writer. By that measure at least, I was born a millionaire.

Sixty-something years back, I asked my mother, Olive, how prison changed Ronnie. Olive was a tap you couldn’t turn off. From the moment of our reunion at Ipswich railway station, she talked about Ronnie nonstop. She talked about his sexuality long before I had sorted out mine, and for ease of reference gave me a tattered hardback copy of Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis as a map to guide me through her husband’s appetites before and after jail.

“Changed, dear? In prison? Not a bit of it! You were totally unchanged. You’d lost weight, of course – well, you would. Prison food isn’t meant to be nice.” And then the image that will never leave me, not least because she seemed unaware of what she was saying: “And you did have this silly habit of stopping in front of doors and waiting at attention with your head down till I opened them for you. They were perfectly ordinary doors, not locked or anything, but you obviously weren’t expecting to be able to open them for yourself.” Why did Olive refer to Ronnie as you? You meaning he, but subconsciously recruiting me to be his surrogate, which by the time of her death was what I had become.

There is an audiotape that Olive made for my brother Tony, all about her life with Ronnie. I still can’t bear to play it, so all I’ve ever heard is scraps. On the tape she describes how Ronnie used to beat her up, which, according to Olive, was what prompted her to bolt. Ronnie’s violence was not news to me, because he had made a habit of beating up his second wife as well: so often and so purposefully and coming home at such odd hours of the night to do it that, seized by a chivalrous impulse, I appointed myself her ridiculous protector, sleeping on a mattress in front of her bedroom door and clutching a golf iron so that Ronnie would have to reckon with me before he got at her.

Ronnie beat me up, too, but only a few times and not with much conviction. It was the shaping up that was the scary part: the lowering and readying of the shoulders, the resetting of the jaw. And when I was grown up, Ronnie tried to sue me, which I suppose is violence in disguise. He had watched a television documentary of my life and decided there was an implicit slander in my failure to mention that I owed everything to him.

For the last third of Ronnie’s life – he died suddenly at the age of 69 – we were estranged or at loggerheads. Almost by mutual consent, there were terrible obligatory scenes, and when we buried the hatchet, we always remembered where we’d put it. Do I feel more kindly towards him today than I did then? Sometimes I walk round him, sometimes he’s the mountain I still have to climb. Either way, he’s always there, which I can’t say for my mother, because to this day I have no idea what sort of person she was. I ran her to earth when I was 21, and thereafter broadly attended to her needs, not always with good grace. But from the day of our reunion until she died, the frozen child in me showed not the smallest sign of thawing out. Did she love animals? Landscape? The sea that she lived beside? Music? Painting? Me? Did she read books? Certainly she had no high opinion of mine, but what about other people’s?

In the nursing home where she stayed during her last years, we spent much of our time deploring or laughing at my father’s misdeeds. As my visits continued, I came to realise that she had created for herself – and for me – an idyllic mother–son relationship that had flowed uninterrupted from my birth till now.

Today, I don’t remember feeling any affection in childhood except for my elder brother, who for a time was my only parent. I remember a constant tension in myself that even in great age has not relaxed. I remember little of being very young. I remember the dissembling as we grew up, and the need to cobble together an identity for myself and how, in order to do this, I filched from the manners and lifestyle of my peers and betters, even to the extent of pretending I had a settled home life with real parents and ponies. Listening to myself today, watching myself when I have to, I can still detect traces of the lost originals, chief among them obviously my father.

All this no doubt made me an ideal recruit to the secret flag. But nothing lasted: not the Eton schoolmaster, not the MI5 man, not the MI6 man. Only the writer in me stuck the course. If I look over my life from here, I see it as a succession of engagements and escapes, and I thank goodness that the writing kept me relatively straight and largely sane. My father’s refusal to accept the simplest truth about himself set me on a path of enquiry from which I never returned. In the absence of a mother or sisters, I learned women late, if ever, and we all paid a price for that.

A trip to Panama

In 1885, France’s gargantuan efforts to build a sea-level canal across the Darien ended in disaster. Small and large investors of every stamp were ruined. In consequence there arose across the country the pained cry of “Quel Panama!” Whether the expression has endured in the French language is doubtful, but it speaks well for my own association with that beautiful country, which began in 1947 when my father, Ronnie, dispatched me to Paris to collect £500 from the Panamanian ambassador to France, one Count Mario da Bernaschina, who occupied a sweet house in one of those elegant side roads off the Elysées that smell permanently of women’s scent.

It was evening when I arrived by appointment on the ambassadorial doorstep wearing my grey school suit, my hair brushed and parted. I was 16 years old. The ambassador, my father had advised me, was a first-class fellow and would be happy to settle a longstanding debt of honour. I wanted very much to believe him.

The front door to the elegant house was opened by the most desirable woman I had ever seen. I must have been standing one step beneath her, because in my memory she is smiling down on me like my angel redeemer. She was bare-shouldered, black-haired and wore a flimsy dress in layer after layer of chiffon that failed to disguise her shape. When you are 16, desirable women come in all ages. From today’s vantage point, I would put her at a blossoming thirtysomething.

“You are Ronnie’s son?” she asked incredulously. She stood back to let me brush past her. Laying a hand on each of my shoulders, she scrutinised me playfully from head to toe under the hall light and seemed to find everything to her satisfaction.

“And you have come to see Mario?” she said.

If that’s all right, I said.

Her hands remained on my shoulders while her eyes of many colours continued to study me. “And you are still a boy,” she remarked, as a kind of memo to herself.

The count stood in his drawing room with his back to the fireplace, like every ambassador in every movie of the time: corpulent, in a velvet jacket, hands behind him and that perfect head of greying hair they all had – marcelled, we used to call it – and the curved handshake, man to man, although I’m still a boy. The countess – for so I have cast her – doesn’t ask me whether I drink alcohol, let alone whether I like daiquiri. My answer to both questions would anyway have been a truthless “yes”. She hands me a frosted glass with a speared cherry in it, and we all sit down in soft chairs and do a bit of ambassadorial small talk. Am I enjoying the city? Do I have many friends in Paris? A girlfriend, perhaps? Mischievous wink. To which I no doubt give compelling and mendacious answers that make no mention of golf clubs or concierges, until a pause in the conversation tells me it’s time for me to broach the purpose of my visit which, as experience has already taught me, is best done from the side rather than head on.

“And my father mentioned that you and he had a small matter of business to complete, sir,” I suggest, hearing myself from a distance on account of the daiquiri.

I should here explain the nature of that small matter of business which, unlike so many of Ronnie’s deals, was simplicity itself. As a diplomat and a top ambassador, son – I am echoing the enthusiasm with which Ronnie had briefed me for my mission – the count was immune from such tedious irritations as taxation and import duty. The count could import what he wished, he could export what he wished. If someone, for instance, chose to send the count a cask of unmatured, unbranded Scotch whisky at a couple of pence a pint under diplomatic immunity, and the count were to bottle that whisky and ship it to Panama, or wherever else he chose to ship it under diplomatic immunity, that was nobody’s business but his.

Equally, if the count chose to export the said unmatured, unbranded whisky in bottles of a certain design – akin, let us imagine, to Dimple Haig, a popular brand of the day – that, too, was his good right, as was the choice of label and the description of the bottle’s contents. All that need concern me was that the count should pay up – cash, son, no monkey business. Thus provided, I should treat myself to a nice mixed grill at Ronnie’s expense, keep the receipt, catch the first ferry next morning and come straight to his grand offices in the West End of London with the balance.

“A matter of business, David?” the count repeated in the tone of my school housemaster. “What business can that be?”

“The £500 you owe him, sir.”

I remember his puzzled smile, so forbearing. I remember the richly draped sofas and silky cushions, old mirrors and gold glint, and my countess with her long legs crossed inside the layers of chiffon. The count continued to survey me with a mixture of puzzlement and concern. So did my countess. Then they surveyed each other as if to compare notes about what they’d surveyed.

“Well, that’s a pity, David. Because when I heard you were coming to see me, I rather hoped you might be bringing me a portion of the large sum of money I have invested in your dear father’s enterprises.”

I still don’t know how I responded to this startling reply, or whether I was as startled as I should have been. I remember briefly losing my sense of time and place, and I suppose this was partly induced by the daiquiri, and partly by the recognition that I had nothing to say and no right to be sitting in their drawing room, and that the best thing I could do was make my excuses and get out. Then I realised that I was alone in the room. After a while, my host and hostess returned.

The count’s smile was genial and relaxed. The countess looked particularly pleased. “So, David,” said the count, as if all were forgiven. “Why don’t we go and have dinner and talk about something more pleasant?”

They had a favourite Russian restaurant 50 yards from the house. In my memory, it is a tiny place and we are the only three people in it, save for a man in a baggy white shirt who plucked at a balalaika. Over dinner, while the count talked about something more pleasant, the countess kicked off a shoe and caressed my leg with her stockinged toe. On the tiny dance floor she sang Dark Eyes to me, holding the length of me against her and nibbling my earlobe while she flirted with the balalaika man and the count looked indulgently on. On our return to the table, the count decided that we were ready for bed. The countess, by a squeeze of my hand, seconded the motion.

My memory has spared me the excuses I made, but somehow I made them. Somehow I found myself a bench in a park, and somehow I contrived to remain the boy she had declared me to be. Decades later, finding myself alone in Paris, I tried to seek out the very street, the house, the restaurant. But by then no reality would have done them justice.

Now I am not pretending that it was the magnetic force of the count and countess that half a century later drew me to Panama for the space of two novels and one movie; merely that the recollection of that sensuous, unfulfilled night remained lodged in my memory, if only as one of the near-misses of interminable adolescence. Within days of my arrival in Panama City, I was enquiring after the name. Bernaschina? Nobody had heard of the fellow. A count? From Panama? It seemed most improbable. Maybe I had dreamed the whole thing? I hadn’t.

I had come to Panama to research a novel. Unusually, it already had a title: The Night Manager. I was looking for the sort of crooks, smooth talkers and dirty deals that would brighten the life of an amoral English arms seller named Richard Onslow Roper. Roper would be a high-flyer where my father, Ronnie, had been a low one who frequently crashed. Ronnie had tried selling arms in Indonesia and gone to jail for it. Roper was too big to fail, until he met his destiny in the shape of a former special forces soldier turned hotel night manager named Jonathan Pine.

Working with Sir Alec Guinness

“We are definitely not as our host here describes us,” says Sir Maurice Oldfield severely to Sir Alec Guinness over lunch. Oldfield is a former chief of the secret service who was later hung out to dry by Margaret Thatcher, but at the time of our meeting, he is just another old spy in retirement. “I’ve always wanted to meet Sir Alec,” he told me in his homey, north country voice when I invited him. “Ever since I sat opposite him on the train going up from Winchester. I’d have got into conversation with him if I’d had the nerve.”

Guinness is about to play my secret agent George Smiley in the BBC’s television adaptation of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and wishes to savour the company of a real old spy. But the lunch does not proceed as smoothly as I had hoped. Over the hors d’oeuvres, Oldfield extols the ethical standards of his old service and implies, in the nicest way, that “young David here” has besmirched its good name.

Guinness, a former naval officer, who from the moment of meeting Oldfield has appointed himself to the upper echelons of the secret service, can only shake his head sagely and agree. Over the Dover sole, Oldfield takes his thesis a step further: “It’s young David and his like,” he declares across the table to Guinness while ignoring me sitting beside him, “that make it that much harder for the service to recruit decent officers and sources. They read his books and they’re put off. It’s only natural.” To which Guinness lowers his eyelids and shakes his head in a deploring sort of way, while I pay the bill.

“You should join the Athenaeum, David,” Oldfield says kindly, implying that the Athenaeum will somehow make a better person of me. “I’ll sponsor you myself. There. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” And to Guinness, as the three of us stand on the threshold of the restaurant: “A pleasure indeed, Alec. An honour, I must say. We shall be in touch very shortly, I’m sure.”

“We shall indeed,” Guinness replies devoutly, as the two old spies shake hands.

Unable apparently to get enough of our departing guest, Guinness gazes fondly after him as he pounds off down the pavement: a small, vigorous gentleman of purpose, striding along with his umbrella thrust ahead of him as he disappears into the crowd. “How about another cognac for the road?” Guinness suggests, and we have hardly resumed our places before the interrogation begins: “Those very vulgar cufflinks. Do all our spies wear them?” No, Alec, I think Maurice just likes vulgar cufflinks.

“And those loud orange suede boots with crepe soles. Are they for stealth?” I think they’re just for comfort actually, Alec. Crepe squeaks. “Then tell me this.” He has grabbed an empty tumbler. Tipping it to an angle, he flicks at it with his thick fingertip. “I’ve seen people do this before” – making a show of peering meditatively into the tumbler while he continues to flick it – “and I’ve seen people do this” – now rotating the finger round the rim in the same contemplative vein.

“But I’ve never seen people do this before” – inserting his finger into the tumbler and passing it round the inside. “Do you think he’s looking for dregs of poison?”

Is he being serious? The child in Guinness has never been more serious in its life. Well, I suppose if it was dregs he was looking for, he’d have drunk the poison by then, I suggest. But he prefers to ignore me.

It is a matter of entertainment history that Oldfield’s suede boots, crepe-soled or other, and his rolled umbrella thrust forward to feel out the path ahead, became essential properties for Guinness’s portrayal of George Smiley, old spy in a hurry. I haven’t checked on the cufflinks recently, but I have a memory that our director thought them a little overdone and persuaded Guinness to trade them in for something less flashy.

The other legacy of our lunch was less enjoyable, if artistically more creative. Oldfield’s distaste for my work – and, I suspect, for myself – struck deep root in Guinness’s thespian soul, and he was not above reminding me of it when he felt the need to rack up George Smiley’s sense of personal guilt; or, as he liked to imply, mine.

Lunch with Rupert Murdoch

One morning in the autumn of 1991, I opened my Times newspaper to be greeted by my own face glowering up at me. From my sour expression, I could tell at once that the text around it wasn’t going to be friendly. A struggling Warsaw theatre, I read, was celebrating its post-communist freedom by putting on a stage version of The Spy Who Came In From The Cold. But the rapacious le Carré [see photograph] wanted a whacking £150 per performance: “The price of freedom, we suppose.”

I took another look at the photograph and saw exactly the sort of fellow who does indeed go round preying on struggling Polish theatres. Grasping. Unsavoury appetites. Just look at those eyebrows. I had by now ceased to enjoy my breakfast. Keep calm and call your agent. I fail on the first count, succeed on the second. My literary agent’s name is Rainer. In what the novelists call a quavering voice, I read the article aloud to him. Has he, I suggest delicately – might he possibly, just this once, is it at all conceivable? – on this occasion been a tad too zealous on my behalf? Rainer is emphatic. Quite the reverse. Since the Poles are still in the recovery ward after the collapse of communism, he has been a total pussycat. We are not charging the theatre £150 per performance, he assures me, but a measly £26, the minimum standard rate. In addition to which, we’ve thrown in the rights for free. In short, a sweetheart deal, David, a deliberate helping hand to a Polish theatre in time of need. Great, I say, bewildered and inwardly seething.

Keep calm and fax the editor of the Times. His response is lofty. Not to put too fine an edge on it, it is infuriating. He sees no great harm in the piece, he says. He suggests that a man in my fortunate position should take the rough with the smooth. This is not advice I am prepared to accept. But who to turn to?

Why, of course: the man who owns the newspaper, Rupert Murdoch, my old buddy!

Well, not exactly buddy. I had met Murdoch socially on a couple of occasions, though I doubted whether he remembered them. I have three conditions, I say: number one, a generous apology prominently printed in the Times; number two, a handsome donation to the struggling Polish theatre. And number three, lunch. Next morning his reply was lying on the floor beneath my fax machine: “Your terms accepted. Rupert.”

The Savoy Grill in those days had a kind of upper level for moguls: red-plush, horseshoe-shaped affairs where in more colourful days gentlemen of money might have entertained their ladies. I breathe the name Murdoch to the maître d’hôtel and am shown to one of the privés. I am early. Murdoch is bang on time. He is smaller than I remember him, but more pugnacious, and has acquired that hasty waddle and little buck of the pelvis with which great men of affairs advance on one another, hand outstretched, for the cameras. The slant of the head in relation to the body is more pronounced than I remember, and when he wrinkles up his eyes to give me his sunny smile, I have the odd feeling he’s taking aim at me. We sit down, we face each other. I notice – how can I not? – the unsettling collection of rings on his left hand. We order our food and exchange a couple of banalities. Rupert says he’s sorry about that stuff they wrote about me. Brits, he says, are great penmen, but they don’t always get things right. I say, not at all, and thanks for your sporting response. But enough of small talk. He is staring straight at me and the sunny smile has vanished.

“Who killed Bob Maxwell?” he demands.

Robert Maxwell, for those lucky enough not to remember him, was a Czech-born media baron, British parliamentarian and the alleged spy of several nations, including Israel, the Soviet Union and Britain. As a young Czech freedom fighter, he had taken part in the Normandy landings and later earned himself a British army commission and a gallantry medal. After the war, he worked for the Foreign Office in Berlin. He was also a flamboyant liar and rogue of gargantuan proportions and appetites who plundered the pension fund of his own companies to the tune of £440m, owed around £4bn that he had no way of repaying and in November 1991 was found dead in the seas off Tenerife, having apparently fallen from the deck of a lavish private yacht named after his daughter. Conspiracy theories abounded. To some, it was a clear case of suicide by a man ensnared by his own crimes; to others, murder by one of the several intelligence agencies he had supposedly worked for. But which one? Why Murdoch should imagine I know the  answer to this question is beyond me, but I do my best to give satisfaction. Well, Rupert, if we’re really saying it’s not suicide, then probably, for my money, it was the Israelis, I suggest.

“Why?”

I’ve read the rumours that are flying around, as we all have. I regurgitate them: Maxwell, the long-term agent of Israeli intelligence, blackmailing his former paymasters; Maxwell, who had traded with the Shining Path in Peru, offering Israeli weapons in exchange for strategic cobalt; Maxwell, threatening to go public unless the Israelis paid up. But Rupert Murdoch is already on his feet, shaking my hand and saying it was great to meet me again. And maybe he’s as embarrassed as I am, or just bored, because already he’s powering his way out of the room, and great men don’t sign bills, they leave them to their people. Estimated duration of lunch: 25 minutes.

A meeting with Margaret Thatcher

The prime minister’s office wished to recommend me for a medal, and I had declined. I had not voted for her, but that fact had nothing to do with my decision. I felt, as I feel today, that I was not cut out for our honours system, that it represents much of what I most dislike about our country. In my letter of reply, I took care to assure the prime minister’s office that my churlishness did not spring from any personal or political animosity, offered my thanks and compliments to the prime minister, and assumed I would hear no more.

I was wrong. In a second letter, her office struck a more intimate note. Lest I was regretting a decision taken in heat, the writer wished me to know that the door to an honour was still open. I replied, equally courteously I hope, that as far as I was concerned the door was firmly shut, and would remain so in any similar contingency. Again, my thanks. Again, my compliments to the prime minister. And again I assumed the matter was closed, until a third letter arrived, inviting me to lunch. There were six tables set in the dining room of 10 Downing Street that day, but I only remember ours, which had Mrs Thatcher at its head and the Dutch prime minister Ruud Lubbers on her  right, and myself in a tight new grey suit on her left. The year must have been 1982. I was just back from the Middle East, Lubbers had just been appointed. Our other three guests remain a pink blob to me. I assumed, for reasons that today escape me, that they were industrialists from the north. Neither do I remember any opening exchanges between the six of us, but perhaps they had happened over cocktails before we sat down. But I do remember Mrs Thatcher turning to the Dutch prime minister and acquainting him with my distinction. “Now, Mr Lubbers,” she announced in a tone to prepare him for a nice surprise, “this is Mr Cornwell, but you will know him better as the writer John le Carré.”

Leaning forward, Mr Lubbers took a close look at me. He had a youthful face, almost a playful one. He smiled, I smiled: really friendly smiles. “No,” he said. And sat back in his chair, still smiling. But Mrs Thatcher, it is well known, did not lightly take no for an answer.

“Oh, come, Mr Lubbers. You’ve heard of John le Carré. He wrote The Spy Who Came In From The Cold and…” – fumbling slightly – “… other wonderful books.”

Lubbers, nothing if not a politician, reconsidered his position. Again he leaned forward and took another, longer look at me, as amiable as the first, but more considered, more statesmanlike.

“No,” he repeated.

Now it was Mrs Thatcher’s turn to take a long look at me, and I underwent something of what her all-male cabinet must have experienced when they, too, incurred her displeasure. “Well, Mr Cornwell,” she said, as to an errant schoolboy who had been brought to account, “since you’re here” – implying that I had somehow talked my way in – “have  you anything you wish to say to me?”

Belatedly, it occurred to me that I had indeed something to say to her, if badly. Having recently returned from South Lebanon, I felt obliged to plead the cause of stateless Palestinians. Lubbers listened. The gentlemen from the industrial north listened. But Mrs Thatcher listened more attentively than all of them, and with no sign of the impatience of which she was frequently accused. Even when I had stumbled to the end of my aria, she went on listening before delivering herself of her response. “Don’t give me sob stories,” she ordered me with sudden vehemence, striking the key words for emphasis. “Every day people appeal to my emotions. You can’t govern that way. It simply isn’t fair.”

Whereupon, appealing to my emotions, she reminded me that it was the Palestinians who had trained the IRA bombers who had murdered her friend Airey Neave, the British war hero and politician, and her close adviser. After that, I don’t believe we spoke to each other much. Occasionally I do ask myself whether Mrs Thatcher nevertheless had an ulterior motive in inviting me. Was she, for instance, sizing me up for one of her quangos – those strange quasi-official public bodies that have authority but no power, or is it the other way round? But I found it hard to imagine what possible use she could have for me – unless, of course, she wanted guidance from the horse’s mouth on how to sort out her squabbling spies.

• This is an edited extract from The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories From My Life, by John le Carré, published next week by Viking at £20. Order a copy for £15 from the Guardian bookshop.

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Cracks

 The next chapter is here. I have been a bit off my schedule so I’m giving you this a day early! Please enjoy.

As always I do not own the Linked universe, that belongs to @jojo56830 check them out. 

Trigger warnings: Blood, minor mentions of self-harm

To be honest I’m not sure if these are accurate tags, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. Please take care! I don’t want anyone to get upset so please take heed.

Start Here:

A rumble rocked the tree Wild slept under and he startled awake. He blinked slightly dazed and confused, unsure of where he was or for how long he had slept. He looked up at the oddly purple black leaves above him and watched as they shook along with the rumbling beneath him. After another few moments the shaking subsided and everything returned to the eerie stillness from before. Wild looked around a while longer before he decided it was finally time to get ready for the day. He stretched and marveled at the stiffness in his back. He hadn’t fallen asleep in the most comfortable place. 

After seeing Twilight in the puddle the night before and feeling utterly exhausted both mentally and physically, he had wondered about for a few minutes looking for a place to rest. He had considered a few trees at first but feeling his flagging energy he had simply found a bunch of bushes and had just fallen into them. He had fallen asleep not too long after that, expecting only to sleep for a few hours. However judging by the placement of the oddly bright black sun above him it seemed he had been asleep for a good portion of the day. That thought jarred him slightly, he looked around furtively trying to spot any movement in the trees around him. Sky had to be out on the lookout by now and he didn’t want to be surprised. 

Seeing nothing moving around him Wild took a moment to take stock of his current predicament. He had made a fair amount of poor choices to be sure. His arm ached at the memory of the melted Four, and his body felt sore from his mad dash through the trees. Not only that but he had allowed himself to become separated from Sky, and that bothered him. Now he could be anywhere, and the chances of being caught unawares made his nerves buzz with tension. He tried his best to shake it off as he stood and stretched his legs out. 

He didn’t really have a plan, which again, wasn’t great but he counted that he had woken up alone as a victory, even if it was a small one. And because he hadn’t been found in the night only served to prove that they didn’t know exactly where he was, yet another small victory. His stomach growled angrily and he grimaced. He really should eat something but he didn’t want to break into his lacking food stores just yet. He wanted to make it last as long as possible. He had been through worse, he could make due with a few missed meals. He picked a direction that looked promising and began to walk aimlessly. He still hadn’t thought of a plan but he hoped that maybe the lack of a plan would correct itself once he got his blood moving again. 

Wild picked at some leaves that were tangled in his hair and stared blankly ahead, his feet moving to automatically step over thick roots and hidden stones. The memory of seeing Twilight in the water bubbled to the surface of his thoughts and he chewed at his lip. He didn’t know if that had been wishful thinking or not. Though another memory worked itself to the surface. He remembered when he and Sky had first dropped into this other world. Sky had told him to run and he had been on his way out of the spring when he had caught a fleeting glimpse of the others in the water below. He had just thought it was a trick of the light or stress that caused him to see the others, and it wasn’t as though  he had  much time to dedicate to investigating the oddity then, but now. He slowed to a stop eyebrows furrowing as he thought.

If he had truly seen the others in the water, then maybe seeing Twilight the previous night hadn’t been a figment of his overtaxed mind. He tapped absently at his slate. How would he even begin to test that? Did the others have to be in the same place as him? Did the type of water count? Or would just any kind of water be enough? He grabbed his slate and pulled out a bottle of clear water and eyed it. He could see the warped trees reflecting in the water but no other faces appeared. Maybe he had to be thinking of the others? Had he been thinking of seeing Twilight? Feeling silly he looked around to make sure he was truly alone before he looked back at the water once more and concentrated his thoughts on seeing a familiar face. 

Nothing. 

He huffed in irritation. So maybe just thinking of the others didn’t make the trick work, if it was even an actual thing that could happen. He put the bottle away for now, not really knowing how else to go about testing anything. Though he supposed finding water would be a good place to start. 

He continued his aimless wandering. He didn’t know where he was so trying to find a natural source of water seemed a bit of a larger task than he felt ready for just then. And anyways what if the others had to be at the same place in order for it to work? How likely would it be that they just so happened to meet up in the same place as him. He had been on the run for the better part of a day after all. He was likely miles away from the group and knowing his luck last night had been just a fluke. He kicked at a hidden stone beneath the leaves and watched as it skittered away in the underbrush just ahead of him. 

He kept walking but the thoughts didn’t leave him. They nagged away at him and commanded his attention long after he decided he was done thinking about it. Sighing in annoyance again he stopped and turned his face to the sky. He had to do something, he had to think of something. But as hard as he tried he could get his thoughts away from Twilight’s tired eyes that looked up at him from the puddle. 

He took stock again of what he knew, which was once again very little. Sky and Dark could be anywhere, and while that made him nervous there wasn’t much to be done about it. He could begin backtracking, searching for the missing Sky and keeping an eye out for Dark but at the same time they would be on the lookout for him as well. Which if that were the case why even look at all? He could just climb a tree and keep lookout, which seemed far easier than wearing himself out walking around the forest floor. His curiosity about the water burned through his mind and he knew just hiding in a tree to wait would only serve to drive him mad. Wild shrugged, the idea of waiting for his own personal search party to come to him sounded far easier, yes, but he wasn’t about to make it easy for them. He let a small smile play across his lips. 

“Might as well look for some water then while I wait.” He whispered quietly to himself and with a tiny chuckle he began to trot off into the trees on the hunt for some water. 

*******

It was dark, and cold and the ground below his cheek felt distinctly different than the feel of leaves on a forest floor. Sky groaned and pressed his hands flat against the ground and tried to lever himself up into a seated position. His chest ached from laying on the ground for so long, and his wrists felt raw and stiff. After a moment of awkward struggling he managed to sit and rested his head in his hands. He shivered in the cold and drew his sail’s cloth around his shoulders in a vain attempt to stave off the chill. 

He wasn’t sure how long he sat in the dark, wasn’t even sure what time it was, but slowly he came to realize he wasn’t outside anymore. The air here felt musty and oddly chilled and when he ran his fingers on the ground he felt the distinct feeling of a cobble stone floor. He still couldn’t see anything, the room was too dark and his eyes couldn’t pick out any light. Carefully he stood and felt his legs wobble for a moment. Tentatively he stretched his arms out and walked forward searching for walls. He had only taken a few steps when his knee collided with something hard. He let out a curse and doubled over rubbing at his knee as it throbbed. It had felt like a bench of some sort and he reached out and felt along it’s contours. It was wooden and rough and just long enough to lay down on. He felt chains connecting it to the wall and from there he hugged close to the cold stone and walked around the perimeter of the room. It wasn’t a large room by any means and after a few minutes of awkward shuffling he came back to the bench. He hadn’t felt a door, or even any bars or windows. It was like he was in some sort of closet, or…

‘An oubliette,’ A tiny voice chirped in his mind, as it supplied the word Sky really didn’t want to hear. 

‘A little place of forgetting, a place for madness to grow, how fitting, seeing you’re well on your way to losing your mind,’ a dark whisper drifted through his thoughts and Sky felt himself shudder. The voice drifted away with another soft laugh leaving him alone in the dark and silence. 

He rubbed absently at his knee and sat on the bench. He felt it groan dangerously under his weight but it held. The darkness was suffocating, and the longer he sat the more tense he felt. His wrists itched, his knee still throbbed and he felt distinctly alone. He noted how everything was scarily silent too. The silence beat down on his ear drums and he could hear his own heart pumping blood through his veins. 

“Well, I hate this,” Sky declared quietly if only to fill the air. To somehow lift the oppressive silence. He began to hum to himself, and before long he felt himself curling in a tight ball, pressing his hands over his ears and squeezing his eyes shut. Small bursts of light flashed behind his eyes and he nearly cried in relief. It was something, even if the lights only lasted a few seconds. His humming became strained and warbled, seeming frantic and uneven to his suddenly ringing ears. He started to pick at the healing wounds on his wrists but even the thrum of dulled pain wasn’t enough to fill the darkness. Warmth coated his fingertips. He continued to pick. 

“I see you’re finally awake sky child,” A warm voice suddenly cut through the darkness and Sky felt his head jerk up in shock. His hands stilled their incessant picking, the warmth that covered his fingertips began to cool quickly. He could feel his chest was heaving in great gasps of air and he stood. He felt like he was already going insane and just having something filling the air around him made his whole body quake.   

“What is this? What’s happening?” Sky called into the darkness, his mouth felt dry and no matter how wide he opened his eyes he still couldn’t see a damn thing.

“I thought you needed some alone time.” Dark’s voice floated out into the room once again and Sky whipped his head around trying to figure out where it was coming from. His fingers twitched and he felt warmth drip off of his fingertips. 

“You’re looking a little wild in the eyes there kid, how are you holding up?” His voice chuckled and Sky grit is his teeth, refusing to answer.. 

“Is it the dark that’s got you all whipped up?” Dark’s voice mused, and Sky looked to his left sure that was where the voice came from.

“Maybe it’s the silence? I mean I find it peaceful but that’s just me,” There was a hum and he felt a pressure on his wrists. Sky gasped at the sensation and pulled his wrists away, taking a few steps back to gain some space between him and Dark. The voice tsked and he heard the small bench groan as weight settled down on it. Sky grabbed at his wrist, holding it so tightly  that it ached. He could hear his heart beating in his ears as the silence returned but he knew he wasn’t alone. 

“What do you want?” He hissed out into the black room, his whole body was starting to shake with barely contained anger and fear. His heart was beating like a small frantic bird that had been trapped in a cage and he didn’t know how to make it slow. It was so loud he was sure Dark could hear it from where he sat.

“I just wanted to check in, see how my little buddy was doing. By the looks of it, not well. Poor dear,” Dark sighed and somehow Sky could tell he was giving him a little pout. He sneered back, his hand tightening on his wrist even more and he could feel blood welling out from between his fingers. The fingertips on his other hand were starting to go numb and he tried to relax his grip.

“You know I envy you guys, you all have a purpose you know?” Dark said, suddenly changing the subject and Sky felt his eyes narrow in suspicion. He shook his head clamping his mouth shut tight. He didn’t know what to say to that so he just waited. He wondered where Dark was going with this odd line of thinking. He didn’t trust it. 

“I remember when I first came into being, just a shadow, no thoughts, just there,” Dark said wistfully, Sky heard him shift on the bench again and he imagined Dark leaning back, as if deep in thought. 

“I can still hear the first words I ever knew, ‘conquer yourself’,” the weight of the room grew and Sky found himself holding his breath despite himself. HIs curiosity beat out the careful weariness that had been there not moments before and he felt himself leaning in slightly. 

“I saw the hero of Time standing before me and I thought those words were for me, little did I know they were meant for him,” Dark sighed, the weight shifted again. 

“I was so curious, was that what I looked liked then? A weedy man holding a sword and shield with a bobbing fairy at my side? It was strange and I tried my best to fight him, to follow the only command I knew but I failed.” Dark’s voice sounded like it was miles away, the words drifted like a breeze through his mind.

Sky felt like he was drifting, images floating through his mind that  wasn’t his own. He could see a young Time, face unmarred by his strange markings with a hard look in his eyes. He could feel determination burning in his own soul, a need to win. To conquer his foe. He felt his soul sink as Time swung the final blow, and then he felt nothing at all, just empty. He felt himself sway as the visions left him and he stumbled before catching himself. His hand drifted up to his forehead and he blinked a few times, trying to come back to the room he was standing in. 

“I drifted a while after that, watching the great Kingdom of Hyrule as it grew and prospered. I even watched it fall. The timelines split into pieces and formed back together. I was everywhere and nowhere. I fought the other heroes when I was summoned. I lost every time. A failure, nothing but a tool, or a lesson.” Dark said his voice devoid of emotion. Sky felt as if the room itself held its breath, enraptured at his words. 

 “Tell me, was I only a tool? Wouldn’t you want to be something?” Dark asked but Sky suspected he didn’t want an answer. The bench creaked and groaned as he stood. 

“I need to go now, things are changing as we speak, and I wager you need some more time to think,” Dark said and Sky felt a thrill of anxiety at his words. He didn’t want to be alone with the darkness and the silence again. He heard boot heels clicking against the floor and soft hands grabbed at his arms and this time he didn’t move to pull away. His mind was buzzing too much to fight as a soft grip wrapped around his sore and bleeding wrists. 

“I will have to do something with these wrists of yours, I don’t need you being unable to function,” Dark muttered and Sky felt a blazing heat fair up painfully around abused wrists, followed by the smell of burned skin in the air as the wounds cauterized. Dark’s hands left him and he let his arms fall to his side. 

“Don’t go picking at them again or else I’ll just cut off your hands and use one of your other friends,” Sky felt his breaths coming in short gasps at the threat and nodded slowly. The sound of boots walked away from him and he felt a pop in the air. He was alone in the dark once again and he slowly shuffled over to the bench. It creaked loudly as he sat on it and curled up against the wall. Dark’s story battered at the insides of his mind, and he let it. The visions he had seen filled his permanently darkened room and no matter how hard he tried to blink them away they remained. His fingers twitched but he resisted the urge to touch his wrists. The only sound that filled the room was the noise of his heart racing and his own broken humming. 

********

The sun made it’s slow way across the sky and Wild felt no where close to finding any natural bodies of water. He felt distinctly frustrated at this turn of events and he threw himself down next to a large tree to rest. Sweat beaded on his brow and he wiped it away with a tired sigh. It appeared he was more lost than he had realized and that made his stomach twist. He pulled out one of his bottles of water again and uncorked it, letting himself take small sips of the cool liquid. He was mindful not to drink too deeply, still wanting to conserve some water just in case. Dark had said that with some purification the water here could be drinkable but he wasn’t too sure if he wanted to risk it or not.

The earth rumbled below him again and he put a hand to the ground when he felt a subtle crack below him. He wondered if the earth itself was telling him something. He corked the bottle quickly and stowed it away suddenly uneasy. He didn’t like whatever was coming but he wasn’t sure if there was anything to really be done about it. He stood quickly as he felt another crack reverberate through the ground, deciding it would be better to stay on the move. He picked a direction and continued walking, eyeing the trees with distrust as he went and keeping an ear out for the sound of water.

The ground gave another shudder under his feet and Wild stumbled. There was no doubt that things were happening. It was like the world he found himself was in the process of shattering and now he couldn’t ignore his growing concern any longer. He knew very little about the world he found himself in and it showed in every blind guess and newly formed crack in the earth. He worked his way through the forest with renewed caution, keeping eye out for any shift in the geography of the world around him. 

After a few more minutes of careful hiking he finally came to a break in the trees. It was a naturally formed rock wall that seemed to surround a small clearing. A large tree grew from the ground not ten feet away and Wild made his way over to it and eyed one of the limbs that grew close to the wall. It wasn’t too close but he could reach it, and after more careful consideration he leaned out and snagged the branch. He leapt off the wall and hauled himself up onto the limb and crawled towards the trunk. When he got to the center he found something odd. It looked like a dilapidated roof or sorts.

 Holes were scattered across the tilted surface of the moss covered roof and it looked like the tree was slowly breaking it down. He stepped out onto the roof and made his way over to one of the holes to look in. He noted the ominous creaking as he went and thought light thoughts as he went, taking careful steps in an attempt to avoid falling through the rotting roof.         

It was dark inside and Wild had to squint in order to make out some of the details but he thought he could make out what looked like old dusty and broken down furniture of what must have been a quaint little home. There were even windows, but they were either broken or covered in thick layers of strange black ivy. He felt a little pang of sadness as he looked around the space below him and he wondered what it would have looked like before it fell into ruin. He shook his head and moved away from the hole and picked his way back to the edge of the roof. He swung himself down into the small porch before making his way down the rotting ladder avoiding the broken rungs as he went. 

When his feet touched ground he faced the small overgrown clearing. There were the remains of training dummies almost hidden in the grass, a place where someone must have hitched a horse and even a small trough filled with fetid black water. He sidled over to it and looked into it half hoping to see a familiar face but only seeing his own haggard face looking back at him. He scoffed, he should have guessed it wouldn’t be that easy. He straightened and looked around again, trees grew tall and a thick underbrush was slowly encroaching on what was left of the small clearing. He made his way through the overgrowth, looking for a path or something that would lead a way out of the small clearing when he finally came across an opening. The pathway had tall rock walls on either side of it and a thrill of recognition flooded him. It looked like the small road the others and himself had taken when they made their way to the spring. A satisfied huff left him and he made his way down the path in search of the spring. 

He had to skirt around fallen rocks in the road and the occasional rumble left him wobbling a few times but he managed, and soon he had heard the unmistakable sound of falling water and he rushed into the spring. It was looking a little worse for wear. The rock walls that had surrounded it were well and truly crumbling now. Newly fallen trees disrupted the water’s edge in some places, and large rocks dotted the water where they had fallen into the spring, disrupting parts of the small waterfall. 

There was a thin crack along the edge of the water and he could see sand trickling into it. It was clear then that the earth itself was indeed tearing itself apart. Though he supposed it was possible that this was just an odd passing of time showing what would become of Twilight’s version of Hyrule, but the more he looked around the less likely it seemed. He walked over to one of the fallen trees and examined the roots that stretched up towards the sky. They looked rotted and black with red lines weaving their way across the surface, spreading like veins of an odd fungus. The leaves also looked spotted and ragged and casting his eyes to the remaining trees left standing he could make out the same spots dotting their leaves as well. It was only a matter of time until they too fell. The whole world around him seemed to be dying and he was amazed it took him this long to notice. 

Another rumble rocked the ground below him and a deafening crack split the air as another tree crashed into the spring. The wood groaning long after it had settled into its new watery grave. It was clear that seeking higher ground was not an option anymore. It would be too dangerous, he drummed his fingers against his leg as he thought about what to do. He could always hide amongst the fallen limbs of the trees, their diseased leaves still offered adequate cover still but it still made him slightly nervous. Seeking cover in the fallen trees was a double edged sword, his cover while masking where he was hiding, could also block his view of anyone who could be sneaking up on him. 

A rippling reflection out of the corner of his eye caught his attention and Wild stepped closer to the water’s edge and gasped. He could see Hyrule as he walked into the water with a bucket in hand, and he had just enough time to spot Legend just beside him before the ripples obscured his vision. He felt his mouth drop open in astonishment, so it hadn’t been a hallucination after all. 

He quickly looked around the spring, his eyes falling onto the waterfalls ahead of him and there he could see the two others clearly. He watched as Legend’s eyes fell on him, saw how the other’s mouth fell open and his eyes widen before he said something that Wild couldn’t hear. Legend began to run into the water and Wild found himself running into the water as well. He couldn’t believe it. He didn’t even know how to explain how happy he was to see their faces, he could have wept with joy. As it was he imagined his mouth was hanging so wide open that a passing bird (if there had been any in this place) could have used it as a nest. Legend and Hyrule looked surprised as well and Wild smiled widely and began waving madly at them, joy fluttering in his heart, only to have it crash not a moment later when a soft amused voice came from behind him. He whipped around, already feeling the warm fuzzy feelings turn to ice in his heart. 

“I see you finally figured it out,” Dark said lazily and Wild looked back at the waterfall only to find the water empty. He turned to face Dark, his arm burned at the sight of him and Wild felt fury building in his soul. 

“How’s the arm? I hope it’s doing well,” Dark said as he made his way over to the water and eyed the cracks in the ground. He seemed completely at ease and unconcerned and that only made Wild feel even angrier. 

“So you could see us through water, I’ll admit that is clever,” Wild spat as his fingers drifted towards his slate. His mind was filled with thoughts of water, puddles, rivers, oceans. All a portal for Dark to keep an eye on them and delight at their confusion and misery. He ached to summon a blade, to run this thing through again and again even if it left him stranded. Dark eyed him for a moment and took a step closer, the tips of his boots darkening with the water. 

“It is rather clever isn’t it? Though I must admit it is a bit limited as you might have noticed. Sound doesn’t really travel through water all that well,” Dark said coolly as he gestured to the rippling water at his feet. 

“Sky was such a useful tool, I could see and hear everything! So much drama, so much indecision and worry. It was positively amusing,” Dark said as a grin played across his face. 

“It’s almost a shame that I had to show my hand so quickly, but alas, that is the game we play,” He said, the same smile turning rueful as he kicked absently at a rock. 

At that Wild took an angry step forward, his fingers tapping at the slate on his hip and summoned a wicked looking symitar and pointed it at Dark. 

“This will be a game you lose, mark my words,” Wild hissed as his hand shook with barely contained rage. He scoffed and rolled his eyes and Wild vowed once again to make sure Dark suffered, suffered the way he had made them all suffer. 

“Come now, this is no time to fight. Surely you’ve noticed the changes?” Dark asked as he gestured to the decaying woods around them. The world gave another harsh rumble almost to illustrate his point and Wild dared look around at the shaking leaves and rippling water. A thrill of panic chorused through his heart and his grip tightened further on the pommel. 

“What is happening? Where is Sky?” Wild barked, the sword dropping slightly as he worked to keep himself steady. 

“The sky child is fine for now, though I find it amusing it took you this long to remember him. Maybe your memory is getting worse.” Dark said as he looked at the ground and took a step back from the widening crack in the earth. WIld almost felt woozy at the thought, he couldn’t believe that he hadn’t even considered Sky in all of this. Was he okay? Was Dark just lying? Guilt wrapped around him like a vice and he struggled to breathe. The sword dropped lower and Dark grinned again. 

“Don’t worry, your friend is safe. I fear for you though, things are about to get interesting around here,” Dark said as yet another earth rattling quake made Wild stumble. Dark didn’t even shift his position, made no move to even suggest the world was splitting itself apart at the seams. 

“Hylia is playing with portals again it would seem, how quaint,” Dark said, avoiding a tree as it fell onto the ground next to him. A slightly irritated look crossed his face and he plucked a rotting leaf off a branch and flicked it away. 

“What do you mean Hylia is playing with portals?” Wild asked the sword now hanging forgotten at his side. Dark tilted his head as he considered his response. 

“This world, this place in between, it’s not very stable as you might have guessed. As portals are created, the world around us will shift and change to match the new one that has been summoned.” Dark said throwing his arms wide as he gestured to the very forest itself. 

“Shouldn’t be long now,” He said idly as he eyed the still growing crack between them.  

Wild thought this over for a moment, the gravity of the situation making itself painfully clear. He didn’t know what world was going to manifest. More importantly, he didn’t know what ground would be safe, if any depending on the world. Would he find himself in the middle of an ocean? What if he fell into a volcano or was stuck in the middle of a dessert. No matter what way he looked at it, here wasn’t much he could do besides roll with the punches and hope for the best. He really hoped the Goddess didn’t choose Wind’s Hyrule, the idea of being stranded in the middle of an ocean with no help in sight was really not something he wanted. 

“I see the gears turning in your brain Wild, I could help you, you know. I could bring you to Sky and it would be a grand little reunion, ” Dark said kindly and Wild glared at him. Hatred made a home for itself in his heart and he couldn’t stop the fire from growing.  

“Though judging by the look on your face I would guess that your answer is no. Poor Sky, he could really use a friend right about now,” Dark pouted before tapping a finger against his chin to think. Wild felt his hands beginning to shake. 

“I could always grab someone else there are plenty of you heroes to choose from still,” Dark said as he looked down at the water at Wild’s feet and smiled. 

“Well would you look at that! Looks like I have a volunteer!” Dark laughed giddily as he rubbed his hands together in glee. Wild looked down and his heart stopped. Instead of his own reflection he saw Hyrule standing where he was now except facing the opposite direction. His hands were fists at his sides, eyes hard and angry and Wild wondered what he was seeing that made him so angry. Wild’s head snapped up to look at Dark. His eyes were glowing a bright red and he raised his hand. Wild looked back down and could see tendrils of water spooling up from the water just behind Hyrule. 

“What a fool that Vet is, leaving someone behind like that, and the healer no less! How delightful, Sky could really use the help after all,” Dark laughed and he snapped his hand closed. Wild watched in horror as the tendril shot out and wrapped themselves around Hyrule’s arms and legs. He watched as Hyrule let out a cry that he couldn’t hear and began to struggle in the water’s grip. Another tendril wrapped around Hyrule’s throat and snaked up to cover his mouth and his struggling became more panicked. 

“NO!” Wild roared and shot forward towards Dark sword raised as he ran. Dark’s glowing eyes widened in glee and let Wild run at him. Dark pulled his hand towards himself and Wild could see the water around him ripple and jump around him as tendrils shot out from the spring. He ducked and dodged them easily and when he was close enough he swung his blade at Dark’s chest. 

The sword passed through him like smoke and Dark disappeared. Wild felt a presence behind him and he snarled and ducked low avoiding Dark’s sword as it passed over his head. He switched weapons quickly and summoned one of his elemental rods. He turned on his heel and raised the weapon, swinging it in a tight figure eight, firing out a quick succession of icy orbs. Dark took a couple of hasty steps back trying to avoid them, and Wild took advantage darting forward as he changed weapons again as he did so. One of the orbs hit Dark’s hand and he hissed as a ball of ice froze solid around it. He clutched his frozen fist close to his chest and continued to back up and away from Wild’s crazed swings of his royal claymore. 

Wild had him off balance and he pressed his advantage changing weapons once again to a short sword and moved in close. Dark widened his stance and drew out his sword stopping Wild’s blade just inches away from his throat. The sound of screeching metal filled the air as they locked blades, one aiming to kill while the other worked to hold the other blade at bay. Wild slid his foot forward to gain more power behind his sword. Dark laughed and let him before he shifted his weight to the side causing Wild to stumble as their blades screeched and fell away from each other. Dark threw his frozen hand out to the side, the ice shattering off in sharp shards before he swung it in a scooping motion. Wild moved with the momentum of his stumble and rolled as pillars of water shot out from the water below in sharp spears. Before he realized it he was a few yards away from Dark and staring down the length of an arrow. Dark smiled and let the bolt fly. Wild made to move but found his foot caught in a watery grip. Time slowed as he watched the arrow fly his way, and he knew he couldn’t get away in time. Making a snap choice he twisted headless of the pain in his ankle and instead of getting an arrow to the gut it stuck firmly in his side instead. The grip on his leg vanished and he crashed into the water, clutching at his side for a moment before he got to his feet once again. 

“That was a cheap shot,” Wild growled as he took his sword and brought it down on the shaft of the arrow. It  cut away cleanly,  allowing him the freedom of motion once again without the arrow getting in the way. Dark shrugged and sent him a devilish grin his way. Wild could feel blood and water soaking his side but he ignored it and raised his sword once again ready to continue the fight when the earth made a shrieking sound as rock and soil cracked, split and began to lift away from the ground. 

“Looks like it’s time Champion! You better hold on to something,” Dark called out to him as he disappeared in a puff of smoke leaving Wild to stumble and crash back down to the water. He heard the split in continue to grow as the spring became its own island that started to rise into the sky. Water spilled over the edges and Wild felt a part of the ground fall away at his back forcing him to scramble closer to the center of the spring. Rocks sprouted out from the ground like flowers and water shot into the air as it was displaced. The stillness of the water that was once the spring was quickly turning into a rushing river and Wild had to fight against the pull lest he was washed over the edge of the floating island. He felt as well as heard the sound of rocks slam into the edges of the island even as other parts fell away, changing the entire layout of the earth around him with dizzying speed. Water rushed over his head and he felt his grip slip for a moment causing him to nearly fly off the edge of the island.  

In a moment of sheer panic he only just managed to hold on to the edge of the waterfall and with strength born of desperation he pulled himself up and over the edge, powering his way against the raging water and back onto solid ground. He coughed and hacked as he clung onto the rocks below for dear life. Turning his face to the side as more water rushed over his head and worked to pull himself along the solid rocks of the river bed. His side burned, and his arms shook as he struggled through the water towards the edge. It felt like it took hours to get to the side of the river but he never gave up his single minded determination to get out of the water. Once he got close enough he pulled himself on to the bank of the river and flopped himself over the rocks that lined the newly formed water way and just breathed, too spent to do more than that.

He didn’t know how long he laid there in a daze of exhaustion and relief, but he knew it was a fairly long time. He noted slowly that if he were to pass out right then there would be a good chance that he would bleed out thanks to the water. He could feel his boots drifting in the current behind him and he felt the sharp sting of the arrow lodged in his side. The sound of rocks and cracking earth began to slow, and Wild sincerely hoped that meant the worst of the shift was over and that it was safe to move. 

He groaned and dragged himself the rest of the way out the water. The air felt thin, and he wasn’t sure if it was due to the ordeal he just managed to survive or if the air was actually thin. Either way he had things to do, he had to move. The most pressing issue he had to focus on was the arrow lodged in his side so he decided to start with that. He gave a shaky sigh and hauled himself up to a seated position before slowly getting to his feet. He staggered when he felt his ankle throb, and his legs felt wobbly and sore already. He clutched at his side with weak hands and looked around for a moment before spotting a tree to sit against to work. 

When he finally shuffled his way over to it he practically collapsed into the trunk and slid down to the ground. His hands shook as he tenderly felt along the edges of the wound on his side, assessing the damage with a practiced eye. A small piece of the arrow stuck out from the wound marking where it had landed and he touched it tenderly, letting out a pained gasp when it sent a shock wave of pain through his side. He laid his head back against the tree and breathed heavily through his nose. When the pain ebbed down to a manageable level he gingerly pulled the hole in his warm doublet open further and took a closer look. Blood and water ran down his side and the skin was bruising nicely already. Blood leaked around the small piece of arrow sticking out and he wiped it away with shaky fingers. Every time he breathed in he could feel the head of the arrow shift slightly and he hoped it wasn’t causing too much more damage. He pulled out his slate and fumbled through the different screens selecting an old ratty shirt, a dagger and one of his bottles of clean water. A thought hit him suddenly and before he put the slate away he grabbed two baked apples as well. He could tell he would need them after he was done. 

He set the apples aside for now and began to cut the shirt into small strips, wincing as the motion caused pain to flair in his side. Once that was done he grabbed the bottle of water and took a drink before sloshing some of the water onto the wound to clear away some more blood. Deciding he put it off long enough he put the bottle down, grabbed a piece of shirt and in one swift motion and before he could talk himself out of it grabbed the remaining shaft of the arrow and ripped it out. 

His legs kicked out involuntarily and he bit back a cry of pain as the arrow finally came loose with a wet squelching sound. He tossed it to the side, head spinning and clumsily pressed the soft fabric to the wound left behind and applied pressure. His fingers felt wet with warm blood and he grabbed at another scrap of shirt and added it to the other piece. He sat there for a little bit and waited until he felt relatively sure that the bleeding had slowed. He lifted the edge of the makeshift bandage, eyeing the hole left behind and grimaced. It would need stitches that was sure but given that he didn’t have anything to do the job he would have to make do with what he had to hand. He removed the soiled pieces of shirt and grabbed a clean piece, and gently packed the wound before lifting the hem of his doublet and tied a strip of fabric around himself to keep pressure on the wound. 

He let the hem of the shirt drop and slumped against the tree again and panted heavily feeling his body shake and judder harshly from the task. Dark spots floated in his vision and he grabbed clumsily at one of the apples and began to eat slowly to avoid making himself sick. When he was done he turned to face the tree and laid down, lifting his legs and planting his feet on the trunk so his legs were elevated.  He hoped this would stop him from slipping into shock. The world was spinning around him, black spots continued to burst in his vision and he closed his eyes until the feeling passed. He grabbed for the bottle of water and carefully took slow sips. When the bottle of water was empty he set it down and picked up the other apple and ate. It was soft and sweet and the more he ate the better he felt. He laid still for a few minutes longer before he grabbed his slate and changed into his snowquill outfit. The warm clothing heated his cold skin and he hadn't realized how cold he had been until he felt his joints loosen up. Finally he let his legs drop and he sat himself back up carefully and looked around at his new surroundings. 

He could see odd black clouds drifting lazily by and the light of the black sun almost made the place glow. Still there was no wind, the only sound that of the river rushing over the edge of the island. In the distance he could see a large tent and what looked like a small village. He could see a smattering of small islands floating in the clouds, and bridges that seemed to connect the large piece of island to other smaller sections. It clicked then, he was in Sky’s Hyrule. They had been here before but they had all been on the ground below, they had never made it up to the islands in the clouds. He remembered Sky describing where he had grown up, but he wasn’t expecting… This. 

He felt an odd sense of disappointment, he always wanted to see this but not without Sky or the others. He felt a tear slide down his face at the thought, he hoped that Sky was safe and he prayed the others were as well. The vision of Hyrule being attacked in the spring bloomed in his mind like a hideous flower and worry mixed with fear at the thought. He desperately hoped he was okay, that Hyrule was able to break free or that his mad attack on Dark had saved him. His eyes slid across the ground to the small remains of Dark’s arrow, eyes landing on the black, barbed arrowhead with his blood drying on it. A sudden wave of anger had him standing and he scooped up the offending object and hurled it over the edge of the island. The action made his side hurt and he clutched at it until the pain subsided. 

“Bastard,” Wild spat as he fought the urge to throw other things off the edge. Oh he was angry. So terribly angry and frustrated and all he wanted to do was break things and rage at the gentle clouds that drifted by. 

He breathed heavily as he thought it through, how It would be a waste of his precious energy, but the thoughts stuck in his brain like a rot. He found himself continuing to stoke his rage, building the flagging flame into an inferno until he couldn’t stand still any longer. He stalked off toward the small buildings determined to use the destructive energy he had managed to build up to help himself survive, rather than to rage uselessly at the open air. All the while he plotted his next moves and day dreamed of all the ways he wanted to make Dark hurt.

[angst-fairygodmother]

So we can request Halloween stuff? Awesome. One for Diego Hargreeves, where he goes trick or treating with his girlfriend and their little girl and the rest of the family kind of tags along? I bet Diego wouldn’t want to dress up, but his little one but definitely be Robin and him Batman

A/N: Okay, I kind of love this request, and I did stick to the Batman theme. Just…a little tweak to what you suggested. (Also I love that it is just universally accepted that Diego would have a daughter and she would have him wrapped around her adorable little fingers.)  Word Count: 1416

Halloween was right around the corner, and you had to admit, you were a little nervous. It was Eva’s first time really wanting to go out trick-or-treating, and being back in the city meant that you didn’t know where might or might not be best. And the last thing you wanted was for your daughter to walk away disappointed by her candy haul (because you refused to consider the darker concerns that nudged the back of your mind about safety. If you did, you’d become just as paranoid as Diego.) That thought spurred an idea and early one Saturday, you decided to call him. 

The two of you weren’t together by any means, but you had slowly, hesitantly allowed him back into your lives, knowing that it wasn’t fair to keep him from your daughter, or her from her father. Especially since he seemed to want so badly to be involved. You couldn’t help but smile when he answered, voice husky with sleep, even if he tried to deny it. Explaining the situation, you invited him to come out to breakfast and to help you costume shop, and maybe show you around where you could take Eva on the night in question. He agreed readily, promising to pick you both up in an hour.

~

“I wanna be Batman!” you daughter declared, skipping down the street from the diner. “And you gotta be The Riddler Mommy. I can’t be Batman without a villain.”

“The Riddler? Not Joker?” you asked, knowing what her answer would be, as it was always her answer.

She shook her head, pig-tails bobbing. “No. Not the Joker. The Joker is boring, and he’s mean to Harley Quinn and you can’t dress up as somebody mean. Plus the Riddler is smarter and just cooler. Duh.”

“Oh, of course. How silly of me. But Eva, darling,” you said, an evil smile creeping across your face. “Aren’t you forgetting one more person every good Batman needs?”

“Who’s that Mama?” She asked, tilting her head curiously. 

“Why Robin of course! Where would Batman be without his trusty sidekick?”

Her face grew serious as she stopped short, pouting her lips and tapped her chin in thought. Diego couldn’t help but chuckle at the expression; clearly spending even a few evenings around Klaus had given the precocious little girl a flair for the dramatic. 

“Maybe…” she hesitated before turning to him with the widest begging eyes she could muster, “you could be Robin?”

He opened his mouth to refuse. He (ironically) wasn’t the sort to dress up on Halloween, and certainly not in a fake-muscled superhero costume. And he wasn’t even sure if you wanted him to tag along. He hoped you might, but you hadn’t actually invited him yet. 

“Please,” she asked, her voice soft and hesitant with just the tiniest familiar hint of a stutter. “…Dad?”

His heart clenched. That title was still so new, so raw. Even after reuniting with the two of you, he had gotten to know her as ‘Mister Diego,’ an old friend of yours, until you were ready to explain to her the complicated reality of the situation, a boundary he respected but still left him reeling. He wasn’t sure he was capable of being a good father to her, or a good partner to you again if you ever decided to let him. But he was sure that he would do anything for her, especially when she asked like that. And she knew it.

He sighed. “Fine. But can I at least be the Chris O’Donnell one?”

“I don’t know what that means,” Eva said. “But you have to be the regular Robin. Promise?”

“Regular Robin meaning…?”

You hid a giggle behind your hand. “Break out your hot pants, Boy Wonder.”

~

You buttoned your bright green jacket as you inspected your appearance in the mirror. The entire look was a much sexier and revealing costume than you had originally thought to wear, especially for taking your four year old to trick-or-treat on a chilly night. But, if you were being honest with yourself, you wanted to look good for Diego. Having him back in your life, even platonically, these past few months had only served to remind you how much you still loved him, and seeing him with Eva...well let’s just say you had a vision of the future and really hoped it was still an option. 

There was a knock on the door. 

“Dad!” you daughter shouted, running for the door as fast as her little legs could carry her.

“Eva! Don’t answer the--” you called, walking out of your bedroom, cutting off as she threw the door open and launched herself into Diego’s arms before you could finish your sentence. 

He laughed, catching her and hugging her tightly.

“You really shouldn’t open your door for strangers,” he told her seriously.

“But, Daddy, you’re not a stranger,” she countered. 

“I could have been though, and you didn’t know it was me. Always check before answering the door. Or better yet, let your Mom or grandparents do it.”

“Hi Diego,” you called, having turned back to your room to finish getting ready when you’d heard his voice. “I’m just putting on the finishing touches, and I’ll be out in a minute. Make yourself comfortable in the living room if you want.”

Hearing Eva happily chattering away, you smiled as you put on your bright purple lipstick and slipped your stockinged feet into a pair of black flats (maybe a less sexy shoe than you could have worn, but much more comfortable to walk around in). 

“Wow,” Diego breathed, as you walked through the door.

You could feel his eyes trace over you, lingering on your low-cut bustier under the suit jacket and again on your very tight mini-skirt before trailing down your fishnet stockings and all the way back up again. The action brought a heat to your cheeks and you suddenly felt self-conscious.

“Too much?” you asked awkwardly. “It would only take me a minute to switch…”

“You look so pretty Mommy!” Eva cried, hugging your legs, feeling incredibly strange in her foam muscles and spandex. 

“And you look like the best batman I’ve ever seen!” You resisted the urge to pick her up and spin her around as you might have otherwise done, for fear that you would spill out of your costume if you tried. 

“Can we go trick treating now?” her words catching slightly and her wide brown eyes staring up at you, reminding you so much of the man still sitting on the couch, and you smiled.

“Of course. As long as Robin’s ready?”

The question startled Diego out of his thoughts, and now it was his turn to blush. 

“You have to promise not to laugh…” he muttered. 

“Cross my heart, I will not laugh at you out loud.”

“Y/N…” he warned.

“I’m sorry, but that is the best I can do. But it’s Halloween. Half the point is to go over the top, even when it’s ridiculous.”

He sighed, standing up and walking over to join the two of you and your eyes widened. He really had gone full costume, straight out of the classics: red vest, yellow cape and belt, matched bright green undershirt and booty shorts, ankle boots. The only thing that looked even remotely normal was the black domino mask across his eyes which you suspected was the same one he wore while hunting criminals every night.

“Oh.” You found yourself at a loss for words, shocked and moved that he would actually go through that effort, and embarrassment, in order to make Eva happy. 

The two of you stared at each other, each lost in your own confusing thoughts. 

“Ahem!” you daughter said loudly, fists planted on her hips. 

“Got your pillowcase?” you asked her and she nodded. “Then let’s go!”

Eva squealed excitedly and dashed off. You and Diego followed at a slightly more relaxed pace down the porch steps and out into the city. Hesitantly, you slipped your hand into Diego’s gloved one. 

“Thank you,” you murmured, leaning against him slightly, “for doing this for her.”

He smiled back at you, squeezing your hand. “Of course. I’d do anything for her. But it wasn’t just for her.”

“I know,” you answered after a moment, voice barely audible even to him, standing so close.

The pair of you fell silent, eyes tracking your daughter as she practically danced down the street, following behind her, hand in hand.

[randomly-a-fan]

How Can “IT” Love a Human? Pt. 1

Pt. 2

Pt. 3

Finale.

Aquarius was sitting with her son, looking into his mom’s photo album while Kandy and Pennywise had a little skin to skin bond. Archie noticed a picture of his mom in the old family photo. “Is that you in the picture mommy?” Archie asked; assuming that the young-looking girl was his mom. “That’s right son, and these are your late twin uncle and aunt, Xavier and Babs; my older brother and sister.” Aquarius explained. 

Aquarius noticed that Archie was looking in confusion. “What are you thinking about son?” Aquarius asked. “What did you mean by late twins?” Archie asked. Aquarius didn’t answer; she got into a flashback from when she was four, her twin sibling sacrificed their lives for her before The Dream Demon: Freddy Krueger harms their little sister. Which stated how Aquarius knew about an exchange in order to save the ones you cared for. 

Archie snapped his mom out, since she didn’t respond to his question. “...It means... They were... gone too soon...” Aquarius answered while facing down.” Archie stared sadly. “What happened to them?” Archie asked as he was concerned. Aquarius didn’t answer, she just faced her son unamused. “Sweetie, mommy’s not in the mood anymore, I’m getting tired.” Aquarius explained. Archie realized that he asked an offensive question, so he decided to leave his mom be. However, he did give her a gentle kiss by the cheek, which was rare of him to do so. After Archie left the room, Aquarius silently cries on the couch as she was thinking about her deceased twin siblings. 

***

Later that night, Pennywise and Aquarius were lying in their beds. Since their children are in their beds sleeping, they have some time for themselves. “You know, Pretty Blue, Archie told me that you’ve been crying in the living room today... Do you wish to talk about it?” Pennywise asked. Aquarius sighed before she responded. “It’s nothing personal... but... Archie asked me about my twin siblings; do you remember back when I told you about how The Dream Demon killed my brother and sister, as they were sacrificing their souls for me?” Aquarius asked. Pennywise nodded and remembered. “Yeah... Look sweetheart, I know you’re upset, but you’ve got to let that dark past go; it took me 529 years for me to get over the trauma back when my home planet was destroyed... I don’t want you to go through what I’ve been through...” Then he placed both his hands on both side of her cheeks. “...Be grateful for your loss of your human soul; if you’ve never became a demon clown, I would never have met ‘my Star from the Sky’...” Pennywise finished with a kiss at the end. Aquarius teared to Pennywise’s words. “I love you, Penny...” Aquarius responded before she kissed him back. 

Pennywise was going to lift up her shirt until she stopped him. “Penny... I love you, but I’m too tired to pop your balloons tonight...” Aquarius honestly said before she tucked herself in. Of course, Pennywise didn’t give up too easily, so he slides his hand into her nightshirt and groped her... balloons. Aquarius knew that Pennywise will be up all night until she does accept his temptation. “Alright Penny, let’s make this quick...” However, it wasn’t quick. But Aquarius didn’t care anymore; she needed this.

After the love making ended, they fell asleep together. Well, except for Aquarius; what Pennywise said about the part how he could never have a love life if it weren’t for the accident she was in. So she woke up her husband. “Penny... Penny?” Pennywise woke up with a snore. “Ready for round six?” Pennywise asked with a sleepy chuckle. Aquarius didn’t answer. “Would you still love me if I was a human being... Like... fully human?” Aquarius asked. Pennywise smiled with a lazy-eye smirk. “Why asking a silly question that’s so hypothetic?” Pennywise asked. “Would you love me if I’m a human-being?” Aquarius asked again. “Aquarius...” “WOULD YOU?” Aquarius toned her voice to make him answer. “OF COURSE NOT.” Everything is all silent for a moment until Pennywise took a breath. “If you really want to know the truth... if you were a full human being, I could easily kill you with the smell of your fresh fears... Demon Clowns and Humans can’t ever love each other. I’m just glad that you’re a demon clown and nothing less.” Pennywise said before he rubbed her back. “Now can we get some sleep before Kandy wakes up?” Pennywise asked before he yawned. Aquarius nodded as she agreed, she is indeed tired and would love to get some shuteye. That is until they both heard Kandy crying. “I got it, Penny.” Aquarius said before she exhaustedly gets out of bed to check on her daughter. 

***

When Aquarius was finally getting some sleep, she was in the dream realm that she remembered very well from when she was younger; the boiler room. “Oh no... Anywhere but here...” Aquarius said to herself with worry. “What’s the matter Scarlet Jones, scared?” Said the voice. “Oh no, I ain’t having it; I’m waking up!” Aquarius yelled as she tries to wake herself up. 

However, there is no avail. Then she heard the sharp scraping on the metal poles. Freddy Krueger was approaching her; she tried to run, but she’s not going anywhere, she is stuck in her spot. “Miss me, bitch?” Freddy asked as he was a few inches close to her face. “What do you want, Deadpool Sr.? I’m not in the mood!” Aquarius said with a sass. Freddy only chuckled to her sass; it really fires him up in a good way... for him anyway. “I like the way you sass me, just like when you were four years old; Babs was a sassy one, and now her baby bitch is the sassy one... How cute...” Freddy replied. Aquarius punched Freddy in the face hard before she tries to escape the dream realm, but she still couldn’t move.

Freddy made an evil chuckle as he was watching Aquarius struggling to wake herself up. “Can’t you see, Clown Bitch? There is no escaping The Nightmare Legend! After what you did to me back in the past; back from when I was trying to kidnap your son, you shredded me to death...” Freddy opened his knives and laid one of his knives on her neck. “...But... I have a much better idea... Instead of me killing you...” He placed her hair behind her ear before he continued. “I’ll let Pennywise do it for me.” Freddy planned. Aquarius was shocked; why would her lover want to kill her, after all the sweet love bond and starting a family? “Penny would never kill me; he loves me to the stars and back!” Aquarius scolded. “That’s not what I’ve heard...” Freddy’s head transformed into Pennywise as he was going to repeat what Pennywise said a few hours ago. 

“If you really want to know the truth... if you were a full human being, I could easily kill you with the smell of your fresh fears... Demon Clowns and Humans can’t ever love each other.” 

After Freddy turns back into himself, Aquarius only stared in confusion. “But I’m not a human being anymore; I was summoned by the devil, and it’s my duty to hunt and kill the sinners in my path.” Aquarius explained. Freddy pounced onto Aquarius and held her by the scruff of her night top. “Are you forgetting who you were witnessing? I’m the satin here now...” Before Aquarius could respond, Freddy flicked his claws and magically turned Aquarius into a full human.

After Aquarius woke up, she went to the bathroom to make a pit stop. But as she entered the bathroom, she saw her reflection in the mirror, she’s no longer her clown-self anymore; she’s now her old human-self again. Even though back then she was upset that she was turned into a demon clown, she was even more upset, now that she has a love of her life and made two beautiful clown children. But Pennywise can’t love a human, he’ll kill her if he tries. Aquarius needed to leave the house, away from her kids and away from her husband.

***

A few hours later, Pennywise woke up and was going to wrap his arm around his wife, only to realize that Aquarius wasn’t in her side of the bed. Pennywise wasn’t too worried; she’s usually the first to wake up for when she needed to go to the bathroom or needed to give Kandy some attention, so he went into the kitchen to see if she’s there.

When Pennywise entered the kitchen, he saw his son having his vegan cereal. “Son?” Pennywise said in confusion. Archie freaked out when he saw his dad; he didn’t know how his dad will react to him eating only vegan food. “I swear dad, it’s not what it looks like...” “Never mind that, son; I’ve found that you’ve been eating vegan foods... Your mom doesn’t keep secrets from me... Which reminds me, have you seen your mother this morning? She wasn’t next to me when I woke up.” Pennywise asked. Archie shrugged, as he doesn’t know where she is. “I was just up to have breakfast, she could be in Kandy’s nursery.” Archie thought. Pennywise had to admit that it may be the case, until they both heard Kandy crying for attention; they both realize that if Aquarius was in the nursery, Kandy would not be crying just now.

Pennywise went over to Kandy’s nursery and picked up his daughter. “You don’t suppose you know where your mommy is, do you?” Kandy didn’t answer her dad’s question, due to the fact that she couldn’t talk yet, so she just makes random bubbles with her mouth. “Am I suppose to understand that, gumdrop?” Pennywise chuckled before he gave his daughter a lingering kiss.

While Pennywise feeds his daughter some milk, with a hint of soul spice, Pennywise started thinking to himself. Why would Aquarius leave him without hearing her consult? She could’ve at least leave a note that she’s going to be gone. Maybe something happened to her and that she didn’t have time to explain. What ever the reason is, he hoped that she’ll come back and explain things to him and the kids.

To Be Continued

[almostkoo]

Reset Character | Kim Taehyung

pairings: kim taehyung x oc

summary: oc gets dared by friends to spend the night in a supposedly “haunted” mansion that used to belong to a upcoming actor in the 70’s, kim taehyung, oc comes face to face with the spector himself and has questions about the broken veil

word count: 2.9k

warnings: unedited language, mentions of death, taehyung is a very angry ghost at first

author’s notes: last story of spooktober !! omg i can’t believe i did this and finished it !! i’ve gotten some nice feedback over the course of whipping up these stories and it’s makes me truly happy that people are enjoying them :) as always i hope you enjoy this one too !!

link to my main masterlist

The darkness of nighttime made the mansion look huge and intimidating in front of you, Jimin and Seokjin. Losing a drunken bet placed you in the circumstances you were currently in, standing in the walkway to the door of the long abandoned mansion.

“Okay fuck it. If I can’t get the dart on the target. I’ll spend a night in the Kim mansion” you had slurred, arm thrown over Jimin’s shoulder as he had looked at you laughing and struggling to hold his composure. “if you guys make it I’ll spend the night but if I don’t I’ll go. Yeah?”

“You’ll go? If you don’t make it?” Seokjin slurred, just as hammered as you were. Jimin, being the only one who’s head was clear and on his shoulders.

You nodded. Standing back and lining yourself up with the dartboard. You had three darts, three chances to hit the target on the nose. Staring hard at the board, one target turned into four that seemed to be moving around. You threw the first one, hitting the far end of the board. You threw the second one, hitting closer to the target. The last one didn’t even hit the board; it actually almost punctured the toe of Seokjin’s Nikes.

“Fuck it. I don’t care, it's just one night. How bad can it be?” you laughed.

Bad. Very bad. Very fucking bad. The liquid courage that those uncountable shots of vodka gave you had you out of your fucking mind to place a bet like that. Now here you were, superstitious as hell and very frightened to get close to the mansion.

The Kim mansion or known to some people as 0613 Morado Dr. had once belonged to a South Korean film star in the 70s named Kim Taehyung. A young handsome actor who started making his big break starring in a few indies and huge blockbusters before his untimely death in 1976. The medical examiner said it was an accidental overdose of pain medicine he had been prescribed a year prior for an injury on set. But a conspiracy theory quickly arose that it was one of his close friends that poisoned him due to jealousy. Rumor has it that his ghost treads the property scaring away anyone who dare enter.

“Are you ready Y/n?” Seokjin asked, wringing your shoulders.

“No and I wish I hadn’t said I was going to do this. I’m never drinking again. I swear to the heavens.” you said, shaking your head. You could feel the bile rise up your throat threatening to spill out all over the dead lawn.

“Well. Anywho, here’s your tote” Jimin handed you a canvas bag, stocked to the brim full of different things. “you have your sleeping bag, portable charger, charger cord, salt, holy water, lighter, sage. You know .. the necessities.”

“We’ll be out in the car camping out in case anything happens-“

“In case anything happens? What would happen? Why would anything happen? Why would you say that?” you rambled quickly, Jimin’s small hand clasped over your mouth stopping you from going any further.

“No rambling. None of that right now. The quicker you get in there and fall asleep the quicker this all will be over! Speaking of, there’s some melatonin in there if you need it. We gotta blast. This big ass house is giving me the heebiejeebies.” Seokjin patted your tote and him and Jimin ran back to Seokjin’s car parked across the street. You looked at the house in front of you. Patting your pockets to make sure your phone was there, taking a deep breath you started up the walkway to the front door.

You pushed the door open, the flashlight Jimin placed in your tote illuminating the way. You stepped around the mansion and it was big. Tall walls with brown wooden panels and slanted ceilings. Old plants in their pots that had since died long ago, old furniture, laid astray stained and in ruins. The shag carpet in the same state. You could see the beauty that this place had once ago. You continued moving forward through the house going up on the steps on the landing to set yourself up for where you’d be sleeping for the night.

The mansion was chilly, that was for sure. For it to be California in Autumn was one thing for you to be sitting in a “haunted” mansion of a deceased celebrity was another thing. Your nerves were on edge. You had called everyone you could think of starting with Seokjin and Jimin separately. There were only so many people you could call this late at night who would actually pick up the phone and answer. Out of the friends you called the only ones that answered besides Seokjin & Jimin, were Dahyun, Yeosang and Changkyun and that wasn’t even half of them. You dug through the tote looking for the melatonin, before finding it and taking it dry.

Even in the darkness your eyes kept moving around darting around, the feeling like you were being watched accompanied you like an unwanted friend. You leaned back against the wall closing your eyes and letting the melatonin do its job.

Slam! You jumped awake with a gasp, heart beating out of your chest. Reaching around for anything on the floor besides you, finding your phone the time read 3:36 a.m. You fumbled to turn the flashlight on. Your deep breaths were the only noise heard in the house. The old mansion looked the same as it did when you first entered. Scanning around when you saw something in the doorway to the kitchen. You whipped your flashlight around, the figure disappearing further into the kitchen almost as soon as your flashlight came it’s way. Your heart felt like it was deep in a cave beating so fast and sending echos up the walls of your chest. You were terrified.

Resisting your senses telling you not to get up you had to ignore them out of curiosity. Standing up and walking down the steps as slow as possible to not make any noise and alert whatever it was to your current location. You turned your flashlight off, stepping into the kitchen blind. The moonlight that slipped into the windows past the tattered curtain illuminated the kitchen, a soft blue glow almost made you confuse the green tiles of the floor to a different color. If anything was in here it would’ve seen you before your foot could completely make it past the threshold.

Chalking it up as a trick of the eye. Knowing that sometimes melatonin messes with people, you turned away to leave. Why would a film star wanna stay put and haunt people. I’d just go and pass on if I were them. You thought to yourself shaking your head that you were being silly about everything.

“Leave!” a voice whispered in your ear, causing you to scream and run away. Back up the steps instead of out of the house. Now everytime you yell at the characters in horror movies for doing that. It made sense now you couldn’t control your legs, it was like your brain put you in reverse taking you back to the last place you were, nonetheless you still felt stupid for not leaving. Everything you needed was grasped right in your hand, everything on the landing could be replaced.

Yet here you were panting like a dog after a run attempting to call Seokjin and Jimin only to be met with endless ringing. Pulling back to look at the screen to discover you had no signal, zero bars. The house got so cold you felt yourself shake. The shutters on the outside of windows slammed back and forth against the house. The sounds of groaning, like multiple voices overlapping over one another. Crawling back into the closest corner you felt your eyes start to water, a sob leaving your lips. You were frozen in place, glued to the wall.

All of a sudden everything stopped. The house became quiet. Lifting your head up you examined your surroundings. A figure stood at the end of the staircase. You locked eyes with the man at the end of the staircase, his strong glare meeting your frightened eyes. His down turned lips parted in a sigh.

“What the hell are you doing in my home?”

You’d straightened up wiping the tears away with a sniff. Staring back blankly at the man.

He yelled, making you jump. “You! I’m talking to you! What the hell are you doing here?”

“I- I’m just tryna honor my end of a bet. I lost a bet that’s it.” you whispered. The man shook his head. You took in his appearance, dressed in all black. Black robe almost dusting against the floor, striped button down and black slacks. Jet black hair styled in a slight middle part.

“My home isn’t your playground.” the man said, gripping the bannister on the staircase.

“You must be Kim Taehyung?” you asked.

“I’m the only ghost living here so I would hope so.” he stated.

“I can leave if you want.” you offered, wanting to facepalm yourself after asking such a stupid question of course he would want you to leave. Taehyung looked a little taken back.

“You’re not afraid of me?” he asked.

You stalled. “I mean yeah. You just did all that stuff just now. I’m actually terrified, but I don’t know if you’re gonna kill me so I figure it wouldn’t hurt to use my manners.”

Taehyung hummed. “Normally the type of people that come through want to vandalize my home or film ghost hunting videos they say, perform seances to try and talk to me. But if you are just here to truly honor a bet I’m sure another three hours wouldn’t hurt.” He walked up the steps sitting a couple of feet away from you on the landing. You kept looking at him out of the corner of your eye at him as he idly played around with his fingers.

“Are you just going to stare at me?” Taehyung asked, coldly.

“I’m sorry it’s just I’m really scared right now. No offense to you Mr. Kim.” you apologized.

Taehyung snorted at your formality. “You don’t have to call me Mr., just call me Taehyung. I’m sure we’re around the same age…” he paused, rolling his eyes “I’m sure we would’ve been or something.. you get what I’m trying to say.”

“I get it. How old were you? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“24.”

You nodded in response. You had maybe… 3 hours to finish in the house. You only had to make it until sunrise since that is technically staying the night. If Taehyung wasn’t going to do anything but sit there and be quiet it wouldn’t be too bad.

“So are you tampering with the signal or…” you trailed off. Taehyung made a face like a lightbulb that had gone off above his head.

“I’m sorry. It’s not intentional. It’s just something about me that does that. You’re not the first to complain about your smartphone? Is that what they’re called?” he asked. You held in a laugh, nodding your head.

“I just. I’m confined here. I only see the world when it comes to me. So I don’t really know too much about out there anymore.” Taehyung confided in you, speaking barely above a whisper.

“It’s fine. On the bright side you would’ve been older, maybe you would’ve been the type to dodge this stupid social media shit.” Taehyung looked at you confused.

“Don’t worry about it.” you looked around the house from where you were sitting and up the stairs leading into the bedroom. “Nice house you got here.” Taehyung scoffed.

“Thanks. Didn’t always look this run down.” he said and with a wave of his hand it was like a light came through the place, showing what used to be. The bright orange carpet and brown couch, huge sparkling chandelier hanging from the ceiling, plants live and green. You looked over at Taehyung, seeing the pained look on his face as dropped his hand, making everything return to normal.

“A little trick I picked up over the years.” he mumbled. You couldn’t imagine what he went through. Having everything pulled away from you so quickly at a young age.

“Bet you threw some cool parties here. I know if i had a place this big I would’ve.” you tried to uplift the mood. Taehyung nodded.

“Yeah I was gonna throw a big bash here when I finally got my Oscar nom. I knew it was gonna happen. I was gonna be the first of the first. Start breaking down all types of doors for people to come in and follow up.” Taehyung wiped away a tear.

“What happened? Was it really your friend? Or was it an accident?” you asked. Taehyung looked at you eyes narrowed angrily.

“Why would I tell you what happened? So you could run and tell my business to whoever will listen?” he asked.

“Who the hell is gonna believe my crazy ass? I spent the night in a celebrities haunted mansion and talked to said celebrity and now I have the answers to a decades old mystery? Get the fuck outta here.” you shook your head rolling your eyes.

“It was a mix of both” Taehyung ran his fingers through his hair “a friend of mine, Hyunwoo he knew my knee had been hurting that day he knew it was. He saw me take my medicine earlier. But little did I know that evening when we sat down for drinks he slipped more of my medicine in, letting it disintegrate in my liquor. I had now clue. When I choked on my own vomit, he didn’t yell for help. He didn’t call 911, like a good friend would. No, he laid me back. Stroking my head, saying his apologies and watching the light leave my eyes and that was it.” Taehyung looked at you, your mouth parted in shock.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” you said, holding your chest.

“All that just to steal my role alongside Al Pacino. The big role, guaranteed to get my Oscar. I don’t even know how the movie ended up working out for him.”

“You know to be honest. I don’t even think the movie might’ve went through production because I have quite literally never heard of it.” you confessed. Taehyung shook his head.

“Well this is news to me. I got murdered just for the film to get scrapped or stuck in development hell.” he laughed bitterly.

“That’s fucking tragic. I’m really sorry, Taehyung.”

“What are you sorry for? Don’t be sorry. You weren’t around, wasn’t even thought of when I died. All things happen for a reason. That’s something I had to learn. It’s hard not to be a bitter ghost. I don’t mean to scare people away to be a dickhead. But I’m stuck here. The last thing I want is people poking and prodding around my home. It’s the only place I can get peace of mind.”

“Hopefully one day you can move on. I know I don’t know you but hopefully ya know.” you sighed.

“Thank you.” he said.

You and Taehyung talked for a while. About a whole bunch of things. From you telling him all about the internet and what it can do and him telling you all about his start in acting. Weird shit and secrets nobody knew about other celebrities back then.

You looked down at your phone, not having checked it for a while. 6:47 it read.

“Fuck. I’ve gotta go. My friends are gonna be waiting for me. They’re not gonna believe I made it through the night.” you said, quickly standing up to get your belongings. Taehyung stood up too watching you walk down the staircase. You turned around to look at him.

“What? Are you not gonna be a gentleman and walk me out? I thought people your age were big on chivalry and shit.” you joked. Taehyung smiled, the first smile you saw all night, big and boxy as he made his way down the steps.

Taehyung paused.“May I ask you something?” You nodded waiting for him to continue.

“Do people.. do people still talk about me?” he asked.

“I mean besides the bad stuff yeah. My friend Seokjin, he’s a film major. They talked about you in his class last week. You’re up there with like James Dean.” you stated. Taehyung gasped.

“Really?”

“Really. Although your image isn’t exploited like his. Yeah people know you.” you smiled. Taehyung stuffed his hands into his pockets.

“It was nice meeting you. I hope everything goes well for you. Work and life and stuff.” Taehyung said.

“Same. I hope you finally make it up there because when I die I’m gonna need a tour guide.” you laughed. Taehyung chuckled.

“See ya around.” he said.

“See ya around.” you opened the door closing it behind you. Seokjin and Jimin were waiting for you, car running in front of the house. You slid in the backseat.

“You fucking made it out!” Seokjin yelled, as Jimin put the car in drive to pull off.

“Yeah, I did.”

“So, did you see him? Did you see Kim Taehyung?” Jimin asked.

“No. Thank God I didn’t. I probably would’ve peed on myself.” you lied.

“Wow. What a bummer. I guess it wasn’t that bad being in there.” Seokjin said.

“No it wasn’t too bad at all. I might have to go back home and check out some of his movies.” you said, leaning back against the back seat. Looking out the window, hopefully Taehyung makes it to the sky some day.

[ariana-amidala]

Imagine TFW 2.0 being all holly on Christmas

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Festive Ari writing stuff omg.

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Jack and Cas didn’t seem to understand why there was a tree in the bunker, hell they didn’t understand the gifts under them either, but I was trying my best to keep quiet just incase Sam or Dean woke up. That was until Jack and Cas interrupted that.

“Y/N what are you doing with those lights?” Jack asked cautiously. You shook your head and gave a quiet laugh.

“Oh Jack. It’s Christmas in a few hours,” you whispered back trying to keep quiet as you heard Sam sneeze down the hall and a quiet ‘omph’ coming from Dean’s room too. You turned around just to make sure that the Winchester brothers were still asleep. “I’m setting up for it. Want to help?”

“What is a Christmas?” Jack whispered back just loud enough for the three of you to hear.

“It’s a holiday, silly.” You said booping Jack’s nose. “Sam, Dean and I used to celebrate it back when we were kids with Bobby,” you said smiling at that memory. Sam had asked for a book that he always took out from the school library so you got him said book and Dean, well it wasn’t too hard to figure out, he wanted pie.

“Y/N, do you want us to finish up the tree?” Cas asked. An extra few hands to help does sound good considering I still had gifts to wrap.

“Yeah please if you both don’t mind. If you need help I’ll be right there,” I said pointing 3 feet to a table where the rest of the gifts laid. Cas gave a head tilt still confused as to why there were so many gifts this year than the last

“Y/N you do realize that there are only 5 of us in this bunker,” Cas said continuing to help Jack with the tree.

“Yes, I do. But it’s Jack’s first Christmas,” You whispered loud enough so Cas could only hear what you were saying. He nodded and continued to figure out how to place the lights.

“Y/N. Why do we celebrate Christmas?” Jack asked pulling out some of the ornaments from the box next to the lights.

“I don’t know buddy. It’s just a way for us to let loose and lay low for a day or two,” You answered. You didn’t really know why the boys insisted on celebrating every year, Sam said something a few years back on a hunt about not being able to access the library and Dean said something about the grocery store not being open either.

As the two angels continue to work on the tree and I on presents by the time the sun had risen I could feel the ill effect of the lack of sleep in the rear end of everything. Castiel had used his angel mojo to knock me out and the last thing I could remember was Jack whispering a ‘good night’ to me. Sleeping away on a table where I seem to end up more in my life than my own bed, smiling about some dream I had.

*-~ Time skip 4 Hours~-*

“Is she still asleep, Cas?” Somebody mumbled. I couldn’t make out who it was but it seemed to be like Jack.

“Yes, she’s been up far too long,” Somebody else mumbled. It was more monotoned so I assumed it was Castiel.

“Hey Merry-, oh. She’s out,” Another voice came through. Was it Sam? Was it Dean?

“She’s been out for the last few hours, wrapping and putting up the tree,” Cas said. I shifted and I could hear silent gasps.

“Can you boys be any louder?” I asked stretching and opening my eyes.

“You did all this?” Sam asked as his figure cleared in my line of vision. I gave him a slight nod.

“Cas and Jack helped too,” I said pointing to the two angels in the room.

“She said it’s called a Christmas,” Jack said. We all laughed silently until we heard a muffled scream come from down the hall.

“Guess we woke up Dean,” Sam said chuckling. I perked up at that.

“I’ll go get his pie ready,” I said getting up and walking to the kitchen. Sam stoped me immediately.

“Sit. Relax, I’ll do it,” he said getting up and walking towards the kitchen. He seemed to be hiding something from me.

“I take it Sam has a gift for you,” Cas said. He always had gifts but why the secrecy with this one.

“I smell gingerbread and pie,” Dean said down the hall. We still couldn’t see him though.

“They’re in the kitchen for you Dean,” I hollered and the silent ‘yes’ and loud footsteps leading to the kitchen made me laugh. “They will never grow up,”

“Y/N what’s gingerbread?” Jack asked.

“It’s very good. I don’t know how to explain it to you Jack. Some people like it and some don’t. You could try some later to see what you think about it,” I replied. He nodded and looked at Cas who now had a bow on top of his head

“Is this a suitable gift for Dean?” Cas asked pointing to himself with the bow on his head. Jack, Sam and I have been trying to get them to confess their feelings and Cas seemed to be doing it today.

“Well, it’s better than the gift I got him,” I said.

———————————————————————————————————

The sound of the two brothers in the kitchen was prominent. Sam was arguing that Dean wasn’t carrying the gift right and Dean shot back something along the lines of ‘Give me a break’. Sam had kept this a secret for the last 4 years of their hunting lives. He got Y/N a necklace and a bracelet and much more.

“Why so many gifts, Sammy?” Dean asked. He’s never seen his brother buy so much on Christmas.

“She’s been pulling her pocket money to get me nice things since I’ve met her,” San explained. “I’ve saved up enough over our years to get her some nice things now.”

“Dude you bought that bracelet about four years ago,” Dean said pointing to the smallest box.

“And your reasoning is,’’ Sam said back.

“I’m just saying Sammy. You could realistically slap a bow on your head and give yourself and she’d be happy,” Dean said. He laughed a little. “I wish Cas would do that for me,” the older Winchester had that look of sadness yet passion in his eyes for his friend.

“I bet he’s gonna do that this year,” Sam said.

———————————————————————————————————

Sam walked in with Dean trailing behind and they both had piles of gifts in their hands. All wrapped in purple glitter paper, the one’s they used to wrap in for me. Dean immediately saw Cas and the bow and they already had left right after Dean placed the gifts he had down.

“Well at least we won’t have to deal with the tension in the cars anymore,” Sam said. I laughed at that. “Merry Christmas Y/N,” He said pushing all the presents he wrapped into my reach. “Merry Christmas jack,” Sam said handing him a handful of Nugget bars and a few presents from Dean, Cas and him.

“Merry Christmas Sam,” Jack said hugging his other father figure before running off to his room to gorge down his snacks. Sam turned to me and saw that I was already crying.

“What happened,” he said quickly.

“Best gifts ever,” I sobbed. “Merry Christmas Sam,” the youngest Winchester smiled at that. “If Dean and Cas were still here I’d say it to them too,” I laughed lightly still crying over the gifts.

The next day was just filled with the boys and I talking about the greatest gift we got and watching Christmas movies. I think this is where I belong and where I stay if anything happened. As the night went on we all were huddled in the Dean-Cave the boys were on the brink of falling asleep.

“Merry Christmas boys,” I said lightly as I got up. Humming some Christmas tune as I walked towards the door and turning off the lights. “Sweet dreams,” I whispered as I closed the door.

[writtenonreceipts]

My runaways story continues.  Based on characters from the Throne of Glass series.  90% of this was written tonight.  100% of this is roughly edited.

TW: Depression, mentions of addiction, grief, angst…angst

 when rowan whitethorn meets a girl and memories are cruel twists of fate he slowly slowly slowly come to understand reality. Part One, Part Two, Part Three

the thing about hope

There is a farm where rows of lavender bloom.  All summer long for miles on end.  The purple and blue extend along in near perfect rows.  He’s never understood it.  Flowers.  Plants.  Life in general apparently.  How was anything supposed to grow when it was all such a raging storm of instability and pain?  How was anyone supposed to come out of life functional?  

Rowan didn’t know.

He didn’t know how his mother had managed to keep acres and acres of the lavender alive and blooming.  It was to the point where every summer hundreds of people would come to pick lavender themselves or buy potpourri, lavender jam, lavender honey.  

It was consuming.  Inspiring.

He didn’t know how she managed to keep such beauty alive but not herself.

And lately he didn’t want to.

“Check in on room 220,” someone says.  A clipboard is stuffed in his chest and Rowan grunts a response.

Grateful to be pulled out of the memories, he takes the clipboard and pushes off from the desk he leans against.  He doesn’t look at anything in the file.  As long as it doesn’t take him back to pediatrics he doesn’t care.  There are so many stickers on his scrubs he knows he’s going to have to throw them away.  Dammit.  These were his good ones too.  He was supposed to be on the trauma surgeon’s services but instead was schlepped off to do the grunt work of the hospital.

Sighing, he meanders to the designated room and looks through the open door.

The girl is laying perfectly still.  Her hair in a messy braid flung off to one side.  She’s so pale that Rowan can see her veins even at a distance.  Her eyes are rimmed red and blue.  It seems a miracle that she is even alive.

Rowan wants to roll his eyes.  It doesn’t help that another girl, nearly her same age, is stretched out partially over the foot of the bed.  This one hasn’t taken care to brush her hair out of the way.  A pair of too tall black heels lays on the floor and Rowan can make out a black lacy dress.  Of course, a couple of girls out partying to the point that they drank too much and got alcohol poisoning.  

They should have been kept in the ER and turned out this morning with the regular discharges.

Rowan’s about to walk into the room to start taking her vitals when her eyes pop open.  Hazed with sleep and pain, her eyes take a moment to focus on her friend.  The girl curses.  Several times.  And then she notices Rowan.

“What the hell’d’you want?” Her voice snaps and slurs together in a way he has never heard before.

“Glad to see you’re not dead,” he replies.  He finally glances at her file. “Aelin.”

“Yeah right,” she mutters.  She’s barely awake as she rolls her head from side to side and then kicks lightly at the girl lying at the foot of the bed.  “Wake-up, bitch.”

The brunette gives a muffled reply but doesn’t move.  It doesn’t matter though because Miss Aelin Galathynius is asleep within moments and Rowan is left in a peaceable quiet once more.

#

She is trying to be quiet—Aelin Galathynius.  But if there is one thing Rowan has learned about her in the past twenty-four hours it is that she is incapable of it.  Of being still too.  Once the drugs slowly worked their way out of her system and she’d managed to stand on her own two feet without looking like damn Bambi, she hadn’t stopped.  Stopped talking, stopped cursing, stop, ordering him around.

Until she threw up on his shoes.

His good shoes.

“Buzzard,” she mutters before slumping onto the floor next to her bed.  The hospital gown she wears does little to cover her.  Not that she cares.  She hardly tries to adjust the way it rides up her thighs or dips down from a shoulder.

Rowan wonders if she’s somehow managed to sneak another hit into the hospital.  But he soon realizes that one of the reasons she hasn’t managed to be still is because she is shaking too much.  She is sweating too much.  She’s in a withdrawal that is threatening to kill her.

So when she passes out, again, Rowan stays with the night nurse to get the vomit cleaned up, to get her hospital gown changed, to make sure she’ll make it through the night.

#

He was eight when his mother died.

And eight when the lavender was plowed over to make room for a new hotel.

And eight when his father started drinking.

#

It takes forty-eight hours for one Aelin Galathynius to be discharged from the hospital.

Rowan is once again covered in stickers from the cretin children in the pediatrics wing.  For some reason he doesn’t care though.  Not when one of the girls who needs a heart transplant hands him a sticker.  It’s a daisy with white petals and a happy, smiling face.  She tells him it’ll help him remember to smile more.

He decides he has a love hate relationship with the pediatrics wing.  

While he’s down on the ground floor working on paper work that supposedly will help him find his way into an OR he caught the flurry of blonde hair.  He looks up to see Aelin walking towards him in the clothes she was wearing when she was admitted.  It occurs to him that she was not dressed like the girl who had been visiting her.  No, Aelin Galathynius had not been dressed for a party that night.  Not with the leggings that had holes along the seams, the black tank-top with bleach stains.  Not with the hospital socks to protect her feet.

She’s walking though the hall with wide eyes, beautiful eyes.  Even though they are still rimmed with red, the gold and turquoise is captivating.  If filled with confusion.

And Rowan realizes he knows that look.  He knows that look all too well.

Maybe that’s why he’s taking that silly little sticker and writing on the back of it.  Maybe that’s why he gives it to her.

“Ninety days,” he tells her.

It’s a lie, but sometimes it’s better to have the start of a goal, the start of something too look to, to home for.

She tilts her head as she takes the sticker, her beautiful eyes piercing him.  And then she is gone.

#

He tried to find another lavender farm when he was ten.

Just to be something better than what he had.  Because at ten years old, his mother was dead and his father was absent.  So he would walk for hours around Wendlyn.  It was summer and her had no place better to be, so why not on that desperate hunt?

He never found lavender quite like his mother’s though.  He did find a group of boys playing with water guns.  They still had smiles on their faces.  They still had shoes on their feet.  Even if the shoes had holes and more tape than sole.  But they were smiling and laughing.  And Rowan wanted to remember how to laugh.

#

The girl should not be on his mind.

Aelin Galathynius. 

Beautiful, shameless, powerful.

She should not be on his mind, but how can she not be?  She’s made an extra trip to the hospital on another overdose.  But this time was different.  This time she left with shoes.  With grimace.  With determination burning in her eyes.

She handed him a small watch that day.  Pink, Dora the Explorer.  She winked and told him keep track of the days for her.

And in that moment Rowan knew he was gaining a look into who Aelin Galathynius really was.

Which was highly unfortunately because no he cannot stop thinking about her.

He cannot help but hope she is okay.  

And it is strange to him--to hope. It hasn’t come easily to him.  Not since his mother.  Hope is intangible.  It can’t be measured or felt.  At least he never thought.  Hope is obscure and obsolete.  Something that has barely graced his life.  

But when he thinks of Aelin Galathynius, he feels a bit desperate that one day he’ll turn around and see her out of the corner of his eye.  He doesn’t see her as the girl that vomited all over him or flipped him off while failing to stand up properly.  Rather, he sees her as what he saw in her eyes that last day.  That determination.  That strength.  And he hopes that she will always become that person.

He knows it isn’t his place to think of her like that.  He shouldn’t obsess over a woman he hardly knows.  And not just because it is sad and pathetic, but also because he shouldn’t even know she exists.  She was just a patient in the hospital where he works.  A name on a paper.  A body in a room.  And that should be it.

But hope, he comes to realize, is a bitch.

#

When his father died, Rowan thought that maybe that was how things were supposed to be.  Maybe things would get better.  He had Lyria, he had college coming up, he had his friends.  He could see his life playing out the way it was supposed to.  

It was late in the summer when they had the funeral.  The only thing Rowan could afford to put on the casket was a small bundle of lavender.  And Rowan believed he was betraying his mother for it.

Not long after, Rowan began his senior year of High School.  Lorcan of course had been suspended so much last year that he had to repeat senior year again.  Neither he or Rowan minded.  It made things easier.  Mostly because Fenrys and Connall insisted they could continue their yearly ritual of cleansing the school halls with silly string and glitter bombs.  For one more year at least.

For Rowan, it was all that mattered.  Chasing that high of life with his friends.  Forgetting the man that drank himself to oblivion.  Forgetting that he betrayed his mother by laying his father to rest with that small bloom of lavender.

Maybe that was why Lyria died.  The universe knew that all he was good for was betrayal.  So he betrayed the universe.

#

The first time Rowan realizes he loves Aelin is when it is raining.

Torrents of rain are coming down and he can hardly see in front of him.  As if that’s not the worst thing of the night, Aelin won’t unlock the car.  Probably because she’s mad at him.  Again.  For something he doesn’t even know about.  It shouldn’t matter.  They’re barely friends anymore.

Not after she kissed him.

Not after he left.

Not after he forgot to text.  To call.

She says she doesn’t blame him.  They’ve been busy.  He finally got time in a surgery to hold a scalpel and make a few stitches.  She finally got a pay raise and has a new skirt to prove it.  They’ve been busy and that has been perfectly alright.

Until tonight.  Until he was so close to breaking because damn the fools who can’t drive.  And damn the fools who don’t use their seatbelts.  Who think that one drink never hurt anyone.  Damn the fools who don’t answer their phones.  

“I can’t find the keys!” she yells over the rain.  She’s digging in her purse, her blonde hair utterly soaked.

“Are you serious?” he shouts back.  Unable to help it, he tosses his hands in the air. “Hell Aelin.”

“Screw you,” she says.

He almost doesn’t hear it because the rain is pattering against the car, the sidewalk.  It’s a rush of noise that assaults his ears in a constant whir.  Scowling, Rowan goes to Aelin’s side.  She must be missing something, not seeing properly.  

As soon as his shift ended, he’d come racing to her apartment, praying, hoping, she hadn’t gotten tied up in an accident.  Only to find that she was talking to some guy--a really attractive one with dark hair and golden eyes.  The kind of guy she should be with.  The kind of guy not tatted up with a drunken alcoholic history.  The kind of guy who isn’t him.

Rowan just barely grabs her arm when she yanks out the keys with a triumphant laugh only to have him jostle her enough for the keys to go flying over her head.

“Dammit, Rowan!”

“Dammit, Aelin!”

They are screaming at nothing.  At everything.  To the rain that slips down the planes of their faces and deep into their bones.

And then Aelin is laughing.  She’s tossing her head back and clutching her wet hair and is laughing.  It’s the kind of laugh that can carry over the rain.  It hits Rowan suddenly as he stars at her sopping wet form.  Nothing can affect her anymore.  She is her own.

And he loves her for it.  She got her all on her own, he realizes.  He might have been in the background, but he’s not the one who got her the apartment or the new job.  He’s not the one who drags her out of bed so she can get to work on time or even get in the shower.  No.  She’s done it all herself.  And he loves her for it.

So while she’s laughing like she’ll never stop he’s coming forward.  His hand are cupping her face before he even realizes what he’s doing and he kisses her.  

Mouths slick with rain and bodies chill with it too--they come together slowly at first.  And then all at once Aelin is moving against him, her hands around his neck.  She pulls him tighter against him as though he might disappear.  

Rowan wants to tell her he’s not going anywhere but that would require him taking his lips from hers and that is not going to happen.  Not now.  Not for a long time.

At least he thought so.

Until a clap of thunder echoes overhead.  Until he realizes how cold her fingers are on his skin.  Until the slip of lightning comes and lights up the shock in her eyes.

And he pulls away until he can rest his forehead against hers.  With a sigh, he runs his hands down her cheeks, her neck, until they settle on her waist where he lets his fingers dig into her sides.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he whispers.  He has to close his eyes from the sight of rain drops falling from his lips and the desire he has to capture them with his own.  Deliberately, he steps away from her and runs a hand over his face.  

She stares at him still, head cocking to one side. “That’s it?”

“That’s all it can ever be, can’t it?” he replies.  

Even though he’s finally begun to hope again.  Even though he’s finally started to see something else in his future.  Even though she is the reason he can roll out of bed in the mornings.  He knows she deserves better than him.

He should have remembered that hope is a bitch.

#

thanks for reading my dears! 

Tags: @tottenhamboys20 @morganofthewildfire  @aelinchocolatelover @cicadabones @esco--s

[stusbunker]

What Lingers Within: Eight

A Supernatural Fan-fiction Mini Series

Featuring: Dean Winchester x Female Reader

Written for: @thisismysecrethappyplace

Prompt: Amnesia

Word Count: 3925

Beta’d by the amazing @itmighthavebeenintentional

Aesthetic by @thoughtslikeaminefield

Divider by: @talesmaniac89

A/N: Set in season 11. Flashbacks are still in italics. Thanks for finishing this journey with me and all your patience! xoxo Stu

Series Masterlist

     Dean woke up to an empty bed, which shouldn’t have been surprising, yet the realization that she wasn’t there beside him kept hitting him harder each day. She was asleep in the room next door; it was both reassuring and torturous having her so close, never close enough.

    He stood outside her room and debated knocking. It was too early, he reminded himself. He let her sleep, like the day before and the whole week before that. Dean cursed Sam for giving her a room on his every path and headed to the kitchen for coffee. She shuffled in just after ten, looking blurry eyed and warm. Her hooded stare burned right through him as he handed her the mug that had already become hers.

    “Got anything stronger?” she mumbled, trying to play tough. He didn’t buy it.

    “You know, we’re not exactly on a strict schedule here. You could even go back to bed--- if you wanted.” Dean dipped his chin, gauging if he could keep prodding or step back.

    “Sleep is dumb, and besides, my room is boring,” she pouted, cupping the mug in both hands.

    “Thought Sammy had that laptop all set up for you?” Dean tried, brow knit in concern. She glanced up at him sheepishly, the heaviness inside reflected in her posture and the silent plea in her all-too-familiar eyes. Dean couldn’t help but soften as he continued, “Right, well, I was going to skip research today. If you’re up for it, we could do some target practice?”

    Just as Dean had returned her small smile, Sam came in with a breathy, “Hey.”

    Dean closed his eyes, unsuccessfully hiding from the disappointment before he turned to look at his brother. “Where’s the fire?”

    “Sandusky, it’s--- probably her,” Sam’s voice was calm, but his eyes told Dean whatever it was, it was bad.

    Dean nodded. “Okay, well, looks like I’m going to have to take a raincheck.” He faced her and saw all the unsaid things staring back at him. Tendrils frayed between them as he had to pull himself away again. “You gonna be okay by yourself? It’s gonna be a long drive, both ways.”

    She rolled her eyes. “Are you kidding? I’m gonna be ransacking the place when you’re gone. How much do you think the Men of Letters shit will go for on Ebay?”

    Dean shook his head, even though he felt Sam flinch behind him. “Yeah, well, don’t touch anything that isn’t labeled as safe, alright?”

    “Go on, fight the good fight.” Her eyes sparkled with the forced casualness her wit always brought with it, letting them both off the hook.

    Dean sat in the driver’s seat, squinting in the afternoon sunlight, watching the hospital entrance with growing trepidation. Cas walked out with Sam first, the blood along Sam’s collar the only remnant of his injury. They quietly slid into their respective seats. Dean mumbled a greeting, but continued to stare at the glass doors across the parking lot.

    He ignored Sam’s sad puppy dog eyes and Cas’s perpetual confusion and waited, the keys grew sweaty in his hand against his thigh. She was discharged alongside Sam, though they played it off as a fender bender. Cas explained it all to her, as an off duty officer who happened to witness the ordeal and got them to the hospital in time.

    Dean had little problem bludgeoning her car to back the story up. 

    Fourteen minutes after Sam and Cas made it to the impala, she wandered out of the revolving door and into the life Dean had left for her. His eyes trailed her up and down the rows until she found her crumpled sedan. She fought with the driver side door and he almost got out to help her, but she managed. He exhaled as she disappeared from sight.

    His heart rotted inside his chest, arteries and veins strangled his lungs with the spreading poison. He sniffed and put the key in the ignition. 

    “Dean,” Sam started.

    “Don’t. Don’t say her name.” Dean snapped. “You mention her ever again and I will break your fucking nose, I swear.”

    Sam cocked his head and absorbed the rage in Dean’s words. He side-eyed Cas as they both agreed to those terms.

    Her car creeped behind them as she navigated the overly complicated traffic pattern between the hospital buildings. He gave her three minutes before he eased out of their spot and back onto the road. The only proof of his life with her was shoved into his duffle and buried in the trunk. The proof that couldn’t be written on the back of his eyelids or settled in the bottom of his gut.

    You stopped in the library for your laptop before settling at the kitchen table with a fresh cup of coffee. Your curiosity was piqued and a quick search brought up the horrors that had been unleashed in Ohio.

    ‘Four Dead, Seven Injured in Nursing Home Altercation’

    You scrolled through the news story wondering how this spelled ancient dark being to Sam. In the weeks with the Winchesters, you had quickly learned what hunters looked for in order to sort out the regular awful and the freaky awful. It wasn’t until the last paragraph of the article that your blood ran cold.

    The CNA that had called the cops said a woman in a black dress had been bent over the patient when she came to take the elderly man to the common room for lunch. But when she asked her if she was the patient’s granddaughter, the woman had disappeared. That patient went on to assault the others at lunch with his spork and his fists.

    Naturally, the article questioned the eye witness’s credibility, but you knew better and so had Sam. You suddenly felt very scared for your hosts’ safety, despite their expertise.

     You closed the computer as Dean’s face ran through your thoughts.

    That night you did lunges down the web of hallways, muscles burning and face twisted in effort and bouts of laughter. It was ridiculous and if anyone had been home, you never would have dared, but it felt good to be silly and to use up the nervous energy that had been bubbling up inside since the guys had left.

    It wasn’t that you couldn’t sleep, but rather that you slept fitfully. Katelyn’s voice snarled through your dreams, the feel of her spit on your hand mimicked by the sweat leaching from your body. You gave up after the second nightmare, texting Dean for an update in the middle of the night before you could think your way out of it.

    Amara appeared to Dean fully grown, bathed in shadow. The hollows of her face were almost voids as she whispered in his nightmares. The nursing home was a tragedy they couldn’t stop, couldn’t fix. Amara was growing more powerful and there were plenty of souls in one place to feed from. Wherever she had been hiding, she didn’t wander out for long. It felt off.

    She was the itch he couldn’t scratch in the back of his mind.

    He didn’t want to keep chasing Amara, but the quicker she was off the board the better. It was a selfish desire, knowing he wasn’t fully himself since she had been released, but it aligned with the greater good, so he leaned into the hunt. The text he hadn’t replied to still stared back at him almost three days later. 

    There was no update to give and somehow he didn’t want to disappoint Y/N with a “no news” bullshit response.

     The trail had dried up two days before Sam and Dean headed home, the unwillingness to quit wearing them both down to the edge of constant bickering. They stopped chasing their tails and settled on a couple of days to recoup before easing back into the usual hunts. Dean needed a win, but he couldn’t force Amara out of hiding, and even if he could, they had no way to end her anyway.

     They got in close to eleven at night, creeping into the bunker so not to wake Y/N up. Sam showered first, and Dean sipped on a beer in the library before he decided to grab fresh pajamas and the shaving kit he kept in his attached half bath. But when he went into his room, he found a mound of blankets twisted in the middle of his bed, snoring lightly.

       He felt suddenly self-conscious about the state he had left his room and tried to count back to when he had last changed his sheets. But that worry didn’t stop him from blushing with the rush of excitement seeing her in his bed once more gave him. He gently pulled the door closed, turning on the bathroom room light to let him grab his things. 

      She murmured something in her sleep and rolled over, causing Dean to freeze in panic. He was trained in the art of silence, but since she moved in, it felt like he had gained two left feet. Her breathing returned to a steady rhythm, letting him watch her from the wedge of light he stood in. Once his eyes readjusted he saw that she had brought in pillows from her room, but was only  using his. He chuckled despite himself.

      With a final glance at her sleeping silhouette, Dean left for that shower. 

    You were running through your office, rows of cubicles surrounded you like an endless forest. The click of heels on concrete followed you, despite the banal beige carpeting you were treading. Suddenly everything went dark and then you were looking down on yourself, hands around your own throat as you both inflicted and felt the pressure cutting off your air supply.

    You woke up coughing uncontrollably, flailing in the dark against the non-existent double.

    Your elbow hit something firm and you backed yourself into the corner of the nightstand, trying to escape.

    “Hey, you okay?” Dean’s voice scratched through the dank confusion and you sat up, struggling to cover your chest and tummy with your bunched camisole. 

    “Dean? When’d you get home?” You coughed again, and swallowed thickly.

    “A couple of hours ago.” Dean whispered, propped up on his elbow, he watched you. You slowly made out his features in the dark, pale skin a beacon, hooded eyes and wet lips. He was so beautiful and he was right there.

    “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come in here without your permission, it was just so quiet and being here made me feel sa---,”

    “It’s fine, I mean, you’re still a blanket hog, but I know you haven’t been sleeping,” Dean reassured, before he shifted the pillows so he was propped against the headboard. “So, nightmares, huh?”

    His hands rested in his lap, pajama bottoms firmly above the comforter, practically chivalrous. Especially after you had helped yourself to his bed.

    “Yeah, mostly,” you admitted, swallowing once more, the phantom pain had started to ebb with the conversation. “I should go, let you sleep, you had a long drive.”

    “Hey, come here.” Dean cocked his head, beckoning you to him as he opened his arms. You hesitated. Then he tipped his chin, and you were a goner. Awkwardly you situated your body against his chest, his strong arms framed you just so. “That’s better, in’it?”

    You sank into his warmth, refusing to be self-conscious about being half naked in your tank top and sleep shorts, and just relished in the firmness of his body and how it supported yours.

    He breathed in your hair, his lips grazed your forehead, and you squeezed him tighter.

    “I never wanted to be the bad guy. I don’t know what to do now, don’t know how to deal with this guilt,” you explained, staring at the slats on the bottom of the door.

    Dean pulled back to look you in the eye. “You did what needed to be done. That bitch was going to kill you. There is nothing wrong with defending yourself.”

    “I know. It’s just--- this--- being a fugitive is not where I ever thought I’d be,” you admitted, eyes closed in pained shame.

    The moments ticked away, the weight of your words increasing as your breathing fell in sync with Dean’s. His thumb tapped a gentle rhythm against your side, as you rested your head on his shoulder. You were so close you weren’t sure if you were smelling or tasting him.

    “Life on the run ain’t easy.” Dean shifted so your head fell over his heart. “But I do know you can’t lose yourself to guilt. Trust me, there are things that I have done that still keep me up at night. It doesn’t bring them back, it doesn’t undo anything. Except for maybe your sanity.”

    He let out a sad three-beat-laugh. 

    “Just keep doing what’s right. Make the world better in your own little way and hope that someday you’ll find your own absolution,” Dean spoke as if he was a million miles away.

    A moment before you thought better of it, you asked, “Have you found yours?”

    Dean stiffened in your arms and then exhaled, his fingers threaded through your hair. Slowly he relaxed again, his chest and arms softening to the point of you forgetting which parts were him and which bits were you. 

    “Right now, it feels like I might,” Dean whispered in response to the question you almost forgot you had asked. You blushed beneath the implication, the warmth between you intensifying Dean’s natural magnetism. His honeyed voice and steadfast embrace was hypnotic amidst the exhausted chaos of your thoughts. 

    “Dean, I ---?”

    Dean hummed in response before he shushed you. “It’s fine, just try and go back to sleep.”

    You fell silent, the emotions rolling through you in waves of strung out anticipation and tempering doubt. In the end your mind stopped trying to stay afloat and let you sink into the depths of a ragged slumber.

    Then one night, you slept. It wasn’t exactly refreshing, and it wasn’t perfect, but it was something. The fact that you had been crawling into Dean’s bed each night, may have helped. 

      Deep down, you felt the shift in your psyche: a glacial slide, the gradual progress of accepting what you had done which sprouted the fissuring magmic ooze that was hardening you into something new. Forged yet still fragmented, you bent to each sweltering degree as you navigated the impossible almost Dean and you had stumbled into.

      Dean was in love with you. 

       You felt it first when he called you honey and invited you to breakfast all those weeks before. And you knew it the moment he shared your past in a handful of worn photographs. Unfortunately, you just didn’t know if he loved the you that you were becoming or the woman you had been. Your past self, which you didn’t even know. 

      Both possibilities were equally terrifying.

      Winter slid into Kansas like a muddied dog, invasive and messy. Your usual and completely unscheduled call from Michelle told you that you were expected back for Christmas. No excuse, safe for an actual arrest, would suffice. You could almost taste your aunt’s green bean casserole already. You smiled to yourself, imagining Dean in an ugly sweater as Sam, oblivious, would knock his forehead on Michelle’s dubiously placed mistletoe.

      Because, of course, they were invited too. Not that you would have gone without them at your side; they were as much your family now as Michelle and her parents had always been. 

     You hung up without promising your cousin anything except that you would stay safe. Though Dean and Sam were never in the bunker for long, you were fairly certain you could persuade them to take a few days off for a real, home-cooked, holiday meal. You just didn’t know if you would be bringing your roommates/ bodyguards or if you would be bringing whatever it was Dean had become and his brother.   

      That would require you to address the real problem. One far scarier than the temporal question of Dean’s affections.

      You hadn’t let yourself fall for Dean. Not completely. You had been holding your breath, so oxygen deprived that you had developed tunnel vision. And no matter how patient or generous Dean had been, he couldn’t get you to acknowledge the silent, unanswered question in his eyes.

      No amount of cuddles or lips brushed warmly over your forehead or strong arms that held you through the terror of your nightmares had emboldened you to fully reciprocate his affections. You remained simultaneously in his arms and proverbially a day’s drive east.

     The problem was if you let yourself love him, you would be giving him permission to hurt you. Again.

      You had time, you told yourself, before you would be introducing your aunt and uncle to the Winchesters. And you would drag your feet the entire two and a half weeks until then.

One week later   

      The half-truths had grown comfortable, expected, predictable. Dean and Sam would return from a case and Y/N would have food in a crock pot or beer and popcorn waiting for them to unwind before bed. She would duck out early, and then Sam. Dean would have another drink alone, telling himself he’d be brave enough to say something if she turned up at his door again.

    He had too many misgivings about what she’d say. It wasn’t fair to make it about him when she’d get so riled up after the nightmares. 

    It was better to wait for the morning.

     “Dean?” Her voice broke through his internal rationalizing, and he held his breath. She wasn’t upset, no tension nor tears. The look in her eyes felt like a punch to the gut.

    “What’s up?”

    She laughed dismissively, a short trill ending on disbelief. “You didn’t even hear me, did you?”

    “Uh, no, not really. Come on in.” Dean stepped back, letting her in once again with his heart in his throat.

    “We should talk,” she repeated.

    “About?” Dean rested his hands on his hips, straightening himself as he watched her crawl into his desk chair and perch, heels along the edge, as she hugged her knees.

    “Us?” She made it sound like he was slow. His eyebrows shot up; this was happening.

    “Okayyyyyy,” Dean trailed off. She gave him nothing back. “What specifically do you want to talk about?”

     “You’re in love with me.” She smiled that secret keeping half-smile.

      He huffed in exasperation, but couldn’t help but smile back. “Really? You’re sure about that?”

     “Mmm-hmm.” She nodded. 

     “So?”

     “Sooooooo, it’s your turn.” She looked up at him, chin jutted out, challenging.

      “My?” Dean stammered, hand curled at his own chest. “You’re saying--- that I need to---- I don’t know, diagnose your feelings?”

      “Yup.” 

       She was going to be the death of him, that shit-eating grin already creeping up on her lips as she watched him huff and puff and try to pull himself together. He looked at her like a deer trapped in headlights, and she looked back; he felt like he was going to melt under the pressure.

       “I mean---- I don’t---- What do you want me to say?!” Dean chuckled self-deprecatingly. He dropped to the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees as he started at the floor, but finished to her face. “Christ, I know what I want to say, but I can’t say it for you, Y/N. You have to mean it.”

      “And what if I do?” Her feet fell to the floor as she leaned on her palms. She seemed somewhere between coming fully back to him and flying away for good.

    Dean started to let the hope sneak in. “Well, I was kind of thinkin’ you would’ve shown me already.”

    Time stopped.

    She launched at him, and just as he caught her, a notch above the waist, her lips stole his breath. He gave it away willingly, until there was no more to spare.

    Triumph. Relief. Yearning answered.

    Dean’s arms curled around her body, clutching her to him as her momentum pushed their top halves onto the bed. It felt like a dream; Dean wouldn’t open his eyes ever again.

    They tasted and teased each other, lips and tongues, whispers and snickers. She looked down at him like he hung the goddamned moon, and he prayed he’d never do anything again that would change that. He swallowed, not sure what to say next, unwilling to break that impossible moment.

    It just got better.

    She left a trail of punctuated kisses up his jaw and whispered in his ear. “I love you, too, you idiot.”

    In a flash, Dean rolled you onto your back, sliding you fully onto the bed at last. He practically purred as he nuzzled your pulse point before leaving a sloppy kiss behind your ear. You shivered, bolts of electricity shot through your body, burning from the inside out.

    “I--- just let me tonight,” Dean insisted, hands in your hair as he pleaded over your lips. “Please?”

    “Be my guest.” You didn’t know where all that nerve had been buried, but it was reassuring to find your footing after so long.

    He kissed you dizzy, stubble scraping and lips soothing. Slowly you were able to lay down your worries, alongside your clothing. With each brush of his mouth over your body you became lighter, leaving behind the fear and the uncertainty for something you’d never thought you’d get: trust and understanding. 

     True acceptance. 

     You fell into the moment, head first and determined, enjoying the knowledge he had retained of your body as he planted a firm palm over the thick roll of flesh above your mound, holding you in place before he dove in.

    His tongue told you that you were wanted, his fingers showed you how you were cherished, revered. His lips were lingering reminders that he wasn’t leaving again, that you were just where you were meant to be, that he needed to show you all the things he couldn’t say out loud. 

    That you came first, always.

    Bursting and brilliant, Dean saw to it, gentle yet persistent.

    He never stopped touching you, aching to hold you as long as you’d let him. Maybe longer. He crawled his way back up your body, nuzzling your nose with his before you got your mouth back on him. You drank in his now tangy desperation.

     You locked him in the cradle of your legs, telling him you were just as invested, a puzzle completed. Together you found your rhythm, your promises matched and measured. It was everything, and it was easy: no confusion or second guessing, just bliss. Dean’s moan broke on your name, and you felt it as if it had been the thousandth time, not your first. 

     It was you and Dean, forever as it had always been. These feelings had always existed, and they would never leave because not even the host of heaven had been able to snuff them out. They had lingered within you, and now that they were fulfilled, you knew you were going to make it in this uncertain life. 

      Because as scared as you were, you were certain of Dean. And he’d never stopped betting on your ability to keep fighting, to pull through all on your own. 

      His faith in you had seen you through the mess with Katelyn and years of unknown memories. Now you had nothing but time to regain what you’d lost, because lost things always have a way of finding their way home.

Series tags: @tiggytaylor @vicmc624 @kalesrebellion​

General SPN tags: @flamencodiva @dolphincliffs @dontshootmespence @thoughtslikeaminefield  @fangirlxwritesx67 @dawnie1988 @mrswhozeewhatsis @cosicas-cuquis @foxyjwls007 @tumbler-tidbits @defenderrosetyler @ericaprice2008 @princessofthefandomrealm @wingedcatninja