#his blood spattered face with the most innocent looking face is what he was made for

[hwang-inhosb1tch]

"Do you have games on your phone?"

[alpydk]

Cabinet of Oddities (Part 17)

Gale’s voice was a welcome one and yet Nana couldn’t help shake the knowledge that of the two of them he was also the one that could hurt her the most. Astarion could torture her physically, make her wish she had never been born, and yet Gale could damage her mentally, detecting the thoughts she wanted to bury, illusions of her past conjured to torment her. But he wouldn’t, would he? 

Ao3 Link

1487 DR

I walk the streets of Iriaebor and observe the movements of those around me. Pitiful mortals living out their desires, so easy to manipulate, to use, to kill. The blood spatters on my face and I smile feeling the droplets on my lips. Such beauty to behold as I peel the skin back. The workings of their anatomy, everything in order as it should be. I pin open the eyes so they can watch me, see me as I am. I am power, I am Death.

The moronic changeling, so full of love for him. So easy to use and convince. She handed herself over so willingly for my needs. Yes, I’ll come back to you, my sweet little mask. Trust me. Just let me take control of you and everything will be fine. I hear her whispers, her devotions of love, her confusion as she wakes and wipes the blood from her hands. But all of this is for him, for me, and so she stays hidden. Her precious Thomas was already under my thumb, his body suitable for my needs. He was strong and good with a sword. The killings are much easier with the muscle memory intact, and with her abilities, it simply makes things much more enjoyable.

The young boy marks number eight of the bodies. His flesh is so untainted, so pure. I bring the scalpel down his abdomen and watch as the beads of blood crimson on the skin before it parts. Beautiful. This one had been a pleasure to lure, making him believe he was a hero helping me save an innocent damsel who was trapped. He hadn’t realised his mistake until it was too late, until the garrotte fell around his neck. 

I hear the yelling behind me as the knights bang at the door. I have been sloppy, relishing the kill rather than being efficient. I give one quick swipe with the scalpel, savouring the splash of blood that hits my clothing before fleeing the scene. There will always be the next to revel in, and the next, and the next…

Present Day

“Did you commit the murders?” Gale’s question is direct as he looks down at Nana. 

She’d been thrown to the ground, Astarion’s dagger pointed towards her, waiting for the moment she would attack. He wanted this and she saw the fury behind his eyes, her foolish tactic of becoming Cazador causing more problems than she expected.

Nana knew the truth but did not know how best to explain it. It had happened five years ago when she had lost herself to what she believed was Thomas. She lowered her head hoping to escape their gaze.

“Answer us!” Astarion shouted, bringing her back to attention.

“No!... Yes…It’s complicated!” She fought back the memories as they swelled, her tadpole waking from its slumber. “It was me, but it wasn’t me.”

Astarion thrust the knife closer. “We’re not playing games! Tell us the truth.”

“Astarion, calm yourself. We will get nowhere if she can not answer our questions.” Gale’s voice was a welcome one and yet Nana couldn’t help shake the knowledge that of the two of them he was also the one that could hurt her the most. Astarion could torture her physically, make her wish she had never been born, and yet Gale could damage her mentally, detecting the thoughts she wanted to bury, illusions of her past conjured to torment her. But he wouldn’t, would he? 

“It’s the truth, It was my body that killed those people, but it wasn’t me. Look, I can show you.” She willed the tadpole to show them everything, an agreement being made, a human male’s reflection speaking from a pocket mirror, feelings of hope and a deep hatred mixing and weaving. She showed the same reflection in a shop window as he prowled the streets of Iriaebor searching for his next victim, of the feelings of rage with the whispers of love buried deep beneath.

“This means nothing.” Astarion pulled the dagger up to her throat holding her close, the tip cutting the skin ever so slightly. “All we see is you, you monster.”

Nana closed her eyes fighting back the fearful tears. “But it wasn’t, you have to understand that. He controlled me, used my body as his own.”

Astarion tensed up slightly, the words hitting too close to home. 

Gale was quiet as he pondered over the images he had seen, combining them with the notes he had read in the journal. “That was Thomas, wasn’t it?”

Nana lifted her head slightly, the dagger keeping her pinned. “Yes…”

“But Thomas was dead, was he not? How could he have possibly committed such atrocities? From what we have just witnessed the only person capable of these grotesque attacks is you.” As Gale spoke, Nana’s heart dropped. She knew it would be time to explain everything, to accept the consequences of her actions.

“Thomas died months before the attacks in Iriaebor started. He was shot with a poisoned arrow and died at my home a few days after I found him.” Her voice grew detached as she separated herself from the emotions that clung to her chest. “Now, you have to understand, I’d spent my life completely alone up until that point. My feelings for him may have gotten…complicated.” She looked up to Astarion hoping that he would remove the dagger, showing that she wasn’t a threat.

“You loved him?” Gale said.

“In a way I did. I certainly grieved when he died. I begged the gods to bring him back but they never answered. And then one day, Thomas did.” 

Astarion pulled the dagger back a little upon hearing her words. “Let me get this straight, your most certainly dead lover, started talking to you?” He shook his head and looked at Gale with a stare trying to convey that she was lying.

“To cope with the grief I had started to use his form.” Nana’s voice quietened down as she spoke the words, ashamed of saying the truth out loud for the first time in her life. “And yes, one day he started talking back. A reflection in a mirror telling me that he missed me, that he loved me.”

Astarion couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “And you honestly believed it was him!?” 

“He told me he would come back to me, that for now, he would just live within me. He said that to come back physically he had to do some things first but he would protect me, that with him, everything would be okay. So I agreed to a pact, of sorts. I realised soon after that I was wrong to listen to him.”

Gale furrowed his brow. “That sounds like quite the understatement, to say the least. Nana, you must realise that in some way you are responsible for the deaths of these people.”

“Yes. But like with Thomas, I can’t just bring them back, can I?” She lowered her head and the guilt she had been carrying became obvious for both of them to see, the secrets mostly revealed. 

Astarion, seeing this, pushed her head back and withdrew the dagger. “And Thomas is gone now, you’re sure?” 

She wasn't sure. There had been times she had felt him near, as if she had spotted him out of the corner of her eye, but it had been some time since those days. Her voice was almost a whisper, not wanting to give away this one piece of the man she had loved. “I see him in my dreams, the one who talks about the tadpoles.”

Gale raised an eyebrow. “Well, that just gives us good justification not to trust our supposed guardian. If he has taken the form of someone who has tricked you before then it would be wise to stay cautious of these dream visitors ourselves.” 

The sounds of the Shadowlands grew around them and Astarion and Gale looked to one another knowing that it was time they returned to camp. “You’re not going to kill me?” Nana feared asking this question. After everything, the years of staying hidden, the hurt she had caused Astarion, she expected that tonight would have been her last. 

Gale shook his head. “Despite your actions, I feel you were just a victim used in some nefarious plot. It would be wrong for us to cast judgment on you.” 

Nana looked to Astarion who leaned in close, his voice full of bile. “My dagger-happy friend,” he forced through gritted teeth. “You may have survived the night, but your trick in the tent. It will not happen again. Do I make myself clear?”

She nodded apologetically.

Astarion left the two of them quickly, his temper quelled for now. 

Gale held out his hand to help Nana stand but as he looked at her he could see the walls that had gone back up, the hesitancy she had to touch him again, the trust gone. 

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

You have been gone for four years now. Your love for me, your form. I don’t hear your words anymore, your whispers of how I’d help you better the world. My prayers went unanswered after I accepted letting you go. They all told me you were a monster, some sort of monster trying to come back. I listened to them but I still think what I did was wrong. Now all I have is this journal, my one part of you kept hidden from the world. I read the articles and I see what you did, what you made me do as my mind lay sleeping. I should hate you for this but you were the first, the first to accept me, to love me for what I am. 

I touch the fabric you lay dying in, the small spots of blood no longer their crimson red. Your family took the body from my home after I left you, the people you had not shared a relationship with in years. Did they even know you as I did? My precious Thomas, my knight. You showed me a world away from my swamp and brought me comfort when the world seemed dark. 

The days get easier as time passes. I rarely visit the towns anymore, choosing to speak to myself, hoping you hear my voice from where you were banished to. I watch the adventurers as they pass by the swamp and as they speak of wizards and gods I consider following them, seeing the world again just like when we travelled together as one. I can’t though. I am nothing without you.

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

The Shadowlands had not been the improvement from the Underdark that Nana had hoped for. Her bones ached simply being in the area and she wondered if the oppressive atmosphere was worsening the heartache she felt every time she caught Gale’s gaze upon her.

“Mate, you need to talk to him.” Karlach leaned in, breaking Nana’s concentration on him as she watched him walk ahead of them.

“What? I’ve no idea what you are talking about.” She busied herself with her bow, checking the string for no specific reason.

“Yeah right. Look, Astarion told us everything, and I get why you’d want to sulk, but life’s too short to just spend it moping around, alright?” Nana looked to Gale as Karlach spoke. She was right, life was far too short, Karlach’s, Thomas’. There would be no long lives for any of the party with the way things had been going for them.

“After everything, he’s not interested, and with his situation it’s difficult. I’d rather not burden him anymore.” 

“Oh come on! Do you know what I would give to get a shot at being with someone?” Karlach’s voice became more subdued. “Even if it’s not forever, I’d like just one night in the arms of someone I cared about.”

Nana thought over this statement for hours to come. There was a vast difference between not being able to touch, and not wanting to touch. With Gale it had been so easy, there hadn’t been the overwhelming sensations, the fear, the confusion of purpose. She didn’t need to ask herself why he was touching her because it was like her body knew and accepted it without reason. There was no ulterior motive other than comfort. 

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

Gale flicked through the pages of the journal mindlessly as they camped. The questions of the articles were solved and the poetry brought little comfort to him, unlike previous readings. He grew frustrated at the state of the book and started to peel the mud-stained pages apart making sure not to tear them any more than they already were. The first entry caught his eye, written chaotically with notes around the page. Odd words that made little sense as if they were just reminders for a later date. Iriaebor. Collection of faithful. The handwriting was different to the main sections as if they had been added by someone else at different times. He turned his attention to the main entry, Nana’s regularly occurring cursive easier to read.

Gur came to the village today. They’re hunting a doppelganger they say. Guess it’s time to move again. This will be the fourth time I’ve had to move now. Somebody always assumes the worst when they see me transform. This time it must have been the kid. It was just a little trick to make him smile but I should have known better. I know how the stories go, the monster appearing and hurting someone, doomed to be hunted until the heroes come along. I guess it’s just a matter of time before the heroes find me and I gasp my last breath.

Gale flicked to the next page seeing similar entries.

The swamp has been kind to me. Very few people want to come out here and the ones that do are either dying or soon dead. I should feel for them, but it’s easier to handle the dead it seems. I don’t have to hide anything from them, I don't have to pretend to be something I’m not. 

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

I found one alive today. As I looted his pack he grabbed my hand. I can’t remember the last time someone touched me. I’ve dragged him back to my home. I must be insane from the solitude but there is something about him. He has beautiful eyes. I’m letting him sleep. His fever doesn’t seem to be dying down even with the antidote he had with him.

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

He woke briefly today and reached his hand to mine. He seemed to find comfort in my touch and slept a little easier with me close to him. He doesn’t seem to be afraid of me even after seeing what I am. Maybe if I can keep him alive, I won't be alone anymore.

Gale’s heart broke at the words he read. Was this the man she had fallen so deeply in love with, one who she knew nothing about? Was it simply because he had accepted her as he lay dying, that she felt she was finally worth loving? Gale turned the page learning more of his companion’s actions.

He’s gone. I checked his pack. His name was Thomas. I held him as he died left me. He wasn’t as warm as I expected him to be. My home is quiet now.

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

I took his form today. I know I shouldn’t have but this torment is keeping me awake. Having him close like this helps me sleep like he is still with me. I miss him.

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

I heard him talking to me. I thought I was going mad but it was him in my pocket mirror. He told me he loved me, that he was happy that I was with him. I asked him to come back to me, but he said he never left. That this is just a test of our relationship. That if I do as he says he will be able to come back and we can be together properly. He wants me to trust him and I do. I’m his sweet little mask.

This wasn’t love but an unhealthy obsession built up over years of isolation. No wonder Nana had been so easy to coerce into doing the things that came afterwards. Gale thought over their own relationship. Was what she felt towards him the same thing? Not love, but the mistaken longing for a connection. He turned the pages hoping to find some answer to what she really felt about him. 

I messed up his spell and he said it was okay but it seemed so important to him and I’m not sure why. He talked about embracing me. If only that were possible. My feelings are so confusing right now. Am I starting to fall in love or am I losing myself again? Is there a chance none of this is real? It doesn’t matter. He will fear me like everyone else if he learns what I am. 

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

I must list the things I know before I do something stupid again. I can’t be blind to this one. I can’t risk hurting anyone again. I won’t let anyone in until I’m sure.

He has a cat, or maybe not a cat. He corrected me on it, maybe he has two cats? 

Magic is everything to him. Almost to a scary point.

Mystra...

He likes poetry, books, and wine. Far too much wine. 

When he’s sad his eyes go all round and it makes me melt a little.

Happy eyes make him look like a cat. I like his happy eyes more.

When he gets angry his brow creases but his voice gets nicer. 

I like that one bit of uncontrollable hair over his brow. 

I like when he talks, and I’m glad he talks a lot. 

He told me about Waterdeep today.

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

I know that you believe

That inside you’re not enough

That you’re broken and you’re worthless

And you don’t deserve love

But to me you are everything

I wish you could see it too

All the light that you bring

And all the love I have for you

And so I’ll keep telling you

As you stumble through the dark

As you don’t believe the words I say

A deep ache within your heart

I’ll tell you that I love you

That you’re my moon and star

I’ll wait for you, no matter what

And love you as you are.

Only one thought went through Gale’s head as he read the entries. She’s not a monster.

[alloftheimagines]

bucky barnes | let it end here

masterlist | request

words: 2.5k

warnings: death, violence (w/ guns), trauma, depression, and slight hint towards suicide. angst. fluff. reader pulls gun on bucky.

Reader was made into a Hydra assassin like Bucky. When he stops her from killing a Hydra agent and cleans her up, she doesn't know if she can keep going after everything they've been through. Comfort ensues.

You’ve never felt a rage like it before. It licks through your blood like fire, leaves your ears ringing. You’re punching, kicking, the gun forgotten in its holster at your waist. This isn’t your job, and you know it, but you can’t remember what your job is. When you see his round, scornful face, killing is all you know. So you keep going, until he gurgles on his own blood and teeth, his eyes a swollen mess and his breathing laboured.

“You took everything from me!” you screech. “You heartless fucking bastard. You ruined me!”

He laughs. He isn’t afraid of you even now. Hydra agents never are. They aren’t afraid to die, aren’t remorseful of the torture they’ve put their soldiers through. They’re empty and wrong on the inside, and they made you that way, too. He made you that way.

“I’m glad they haven’t softened you, yet, soldat. You were always the one with the most fire. Always the one who enjoyed it the most.”

The words make you stop, though you keep his wrists pinned down as bile floods your throat. He’ll never get the chance to beat you again, and you need him to know that if nothing else.

“You’re lying,” you whisper, and you hate how your voice shakes. Because there are nights when the idea of that life feels like a comfort. You didn’t feel anything then. You didn’t have to hurt like you do now. You didn’t have to try every day to be a person, you just had to fight, kill. You just had to pull triggers and throw punches and watch the life leave people’s eyes the way it already had yours, and that was easier than the nightmares and the guilt and the grief for the person you was before Hydra broke you.

The agent shakes his head knowingly, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. “Look where you are. Look how you still fight. Nothing has changed. You’re still the soldier we made you.”

Your upper lip curls in disgust, a sob building in your chest. And somehow, you want to prove him right. You reach for your gun; press the barrel against his head. His grin is oily, teeth stained crimson. “That’s it. Remember who you really are.”

“I was an innocent. You made me into a monster.” You clench your jaw, your hand shaking. “I deserved better than that.”

“I set you free,” he rasped. “You were nobody before me. Now you’ll never be nobody again.”

Tears rolled down your cheeks, smearing the blood spatters. You wanted to be nobody. You wanted to be the naive, innocent girl who only dreamt of a nine-to-five job and a family. The woman you were before they snatched you off the street to fight their battle, experimenting on you and hollowing you out into an assassin.

Your finger tensed tighter on the trigger. There were so many things you wanted to spit at him, so many ways you wanted him to hurt, but there wasn’t time, and even if there were, the agent was fading fast.

“Go to hell.”

“It won’t be long before you join me.”

The words only make your rage burn brighter, and you slam the butt of the gun into his nose, watching the blood spurt out.

And then you’re pulled away, a familiar cold metal hand curling around your bicep. “You’re done now. It’s done. That’s enough.”

“No!” you scream, thrashing in his arms as Bucky tears you away from the man who tortured you, who ruined you. Your gun slips from your blood-slick hands to the floor. “No! I need to kill him. Let me go!”

“You’ve done enough!” Bucky slams you against the wall opposite. Sam and his agents watch. Taking in the massacre. The Hydra agent was supposed to be your last kill. Before that, you’d stormed in and shot four dead before they’d so much as blinked, another two who had put up a fight. Blood and brain matter smattered every surface, dead bodies littering the floor.

“You have no idea what he did to me.” You’re trembling, straining to try to get out of Bucky’s grip, but he’ll always be stronger than you. You aren’t the Winter Soldier. You’re just a ghost, an assassin who’s no longer required to kill. Perhaps you are nobody after all.

“I know exactly what he did to you,” Bucky hisses, all bared teeth as he leans in close, until his breath hits your skin. “And I know, okay? I know. But if you don’t stop now, you never will. It’ll never end, Y/N. Revenge never fuckin’ does. Show mercy. Not because he deserves it, but because you’re not the person he made you. Because you’re better than he’ll ever be.”

You shake you’re head. You don’t want to be better. You want them gone. “I’m not you,” you spit. “There is no ‘better’ for me.”

“I don’t believe that. You wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t some part of you worth fighting for.”

You can’t breathe, and as though sensing it, he loosens his grip. You suck in a breath, glancing between Bucky and the agent on the floor. He’s cuffed now, being taken in for information no doubt, if he survives his injuries long enough.

You look down at your hands. They’re bruised and ripped open at the knuckles. Covered in blood, yours and his. They shake. They never used to shake. Now they never stop.

“Look at me,” Bucky whispers. When you don’t, he tilts your chin up roughly, forcing you to meet his steel-blue gaze. “Walk away. He isn’t worth it.”

“It’s too late.” You gulp, feeling emptier than ever. “I already killed.”

“Let them be your last.” He tucks a matted strand of your hair behind your ear, so gentle when you’ve only ever known roughness from him before. “Let it end here.”

“It never fucking ends, Buck.” You close your eyes to try to trap your tears, but they come anyway, bringing with them a wave of exhaustion. You collapse against the wall, putting your face in your hands. “It never fucking ends.”

“It can. It will. We’ll find a way together.”

You don’t know if he believes his words. He’s as fucked up as you are, after all, and he’s told you about his nightmares, about how losing Steve made him question whether he’d ever been worth saving. But he’s been a rock against your crashing waves whenever you fall back into old habits, and you want so badly to believe him now.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go home.”

You don’t know where home is, but you let him pull you away, his hand supporting the small of your back as though you’re the one injured, not the agents you’ve attacked and slaughtered. You sneer at their bodies as you walk out of the base, each corpse burying a new cavity in your chest. You are full of holes, each one a life you’ve taken. You thought one day you’d stop noticing, but even now, even when seeking vengeance, you feel the new ones festering.

Because it never ends.

***

Bucky sits you on his couch like you’re a ragdoll, and you like it. Ragdolls don’t have to feel. They’re weightless and carried around, and it means you can exist somewhere nobody can get to you. You’re still staring at your hands, still feeling the holes drilling themselves in your chest. One day, you’re certain you’ll crack open and everyone will find out just how hollow you are.

Silently, he dampens a cloth in the kitchen and then strides over to you, kneeling at your feet. “C’mere.” He gently pulls your hands, wiping the blood off them. It doesn't matter. It still sticks beneath your fingernails.

“Am I gonna get another lecture from Sam?” you ask, your voice sounding empty even to your own ears.

The corner of Bucky’s mouth twitches with a smile. “I’ll tell him to go easy on you.” And then: “Who told you where they were?”

“Doesn’t matter. I forced it out of them. They don’t deserve to get in trouble.” Another needless lot of blood spilt, if only the one punch you had to throw for the information.

He nodded, always too understanding.

“He was the one who made me into a lab rat.”

Bucky pauses at that, glancing up at you carefully. “I didn’t know it was him.”

“I’ve been searching for him since we got out.” Your mouth is dry, grainy, and you lick your lips, wincing when he presses the cloth to your torn knuckles. “Wanted to be the one to kill him. I deserve that, don’t I?”

“Maybe.” He sighs, hovering over your forehead as though asking permission. You don’t even feel an injury there, but you tip your head all the same, shuffling forward on the couch. You both know, of course, that you don’t need him to clean you up. You both know that you want him too, though. “Believe me, I’ve thought about ripping off every one of their fucking heads a million times over. But it never gets me anywhere, Y/N. The killing never did. It only made me worse.”

“Maybe I don’t care about getting better.”

The cloth is cool against your forehead. A relief. Your eyes flutter shut.

“Maybe I do,” Bucky answers, voice low.

You pry your eyelids back open, breath hitching at the intensity you find there. You tell yourself it’s just the shared trauma, the understanding, but it doesn’t feel that way. When he looks at you, it doesn’t feel like he’s seeing a soldier, an assassin. It feels like he’s seeing something you no longer see in yourself.

“Don’t,” you beg, because as much as you want him, appreciate him, you can’t bear to have him expect more than you can give. You’re not good like he is. You’re not Steve Rogers’s best friend, and you’re not the White Wolf. You’re just a machine that no longer serves its use. “Don’t care, Bucky. It’s easier if you don’t fucking care.”

“I’m trying not to settle for easy these days.”

He smirks, but it isn’t funny. None of this is funny. And if he thinks his charm and his flirting and the hidden meanings behind everything he says to you can put you back together, he’s wrong. You could kiss him now, fuck him on the couch, pretend that a healthy relationship is possible, but it won’t change the darkness in you. It won’t soften your sharp edges.

He can’t fix you, and you won’t let him try. He deserves better than that.

So you lean in close and swipe the gun from his holster just to show him. Then you press it to his head just as you did the Hydra agent.

He doesn’t so much as blink. “Am I on your hitlist now, too?”

“Stop looking for good in me, Buck. You won’t find it.”

“I’m not looking for anything,” he says. “Nothing at all.”

“Then what do you want from me?”

“I don’t want anything from you.” You press the barrel harder into his temple. He squeezes the cloth in his hands, licking his lips warily. “I get it, Y/N. You know I get it. And when we got out, we did it together. It’s the only way I can deal with this, knowing someone understands. Knowing someone went through the same fucked up shit as me. We're a team. A tragic, fucked up team. Aren't we?”

You waver only slightly. You can’t believe even for a second that there is nothing he expects of you, nothing he wants. You have been torn apart and sewn back together. You’ve been disassembled right down to your skin cells. People take things from you. It’s what they do. They pull you apart and they look for your purpose, and when they find it, they make you serve it. That’s what you are. That’s what being a soldier has made you.

“You’d be doing me a favour.” Bucky’s voice is gravelly, and it cuts through you.

Those words make your stomach twist, no matter how badly you want to prove you feel nothing at all. Because he deserves better than that. And maybe if he does, you do, too.

You slam the gun down on the couch beside you, another spike of anger jolting through you. You can’t take it anymore. You can’t. You’re so fucking tired and angry and lost, and he’s looking at you like that’s okay. Like any of this is okay.

You stand up, your hands curling into fists until your knuckles break all over again, your nails digging into your palms. You want to scream. You want to end it. You want peace.

He just watches, still motionless where he kneels on the floor by the couch.

“Do you mean that?” you whisper finally.

He shrugs. “Don’t know. Do you want to do it? Will it make you feel better?”

“Nothing makes me feel better.” The admission shatters through the apartment, through you, and you clutch your stomach just to hold yourself in one piece. “Nothing.” Tears stream again, and you choke on a sob. “Nothing, Bucky. Nothing takes it away. I can’t…I can’t…”

He rises slowly and catches you just as you collapse. You fist his shirt between your fingers, tears dampening the fabric. He’s strong beneath you, his breaths even and his voice a low rumble against your ear.

“I know.” He strokes your hair, keeps you pressed tightly to him, and you lose yourself. You sob until your throat aches, and he lets you. “I know.”

“I’m sorry,” you cry without knowing what you’re apologising for. Killing the Hydra agents before Sam could get there. Putting a gun to Bucky’s head. Crying and bleeding all over his fucking apartment. Breaking apart while he works so hard to keep you both together. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know, sweetheart.” He rocks you gently, placing kisses into your hair. “I know. You’re not alone.”

You never want to let go of him. You’re only safe when you’re here, with him. He’s the only one who knows how bad it hurts. “I don’t want to feel anymore,” you confess. “I don’t want to keep doing this.”

“Feeling means you’re finding your way back,” he mumbles. “It means you’re still you. And it’s gonna fucking hurt, Y/N, but we’re gonna keep doing this. There is no other option.”

You want other options more than anything, but you nod. It’s the “we” that keeps you here, keeps your last slither of hope from leaving you. Because you’re not alone, and Bucky has endured decades of torture. Yours is nothing in comparison. If he can do it, if he can still get up and fight the right battles every morning, you can, too.

You will. With him, you will.

“There’s no other option,” you repeat. You say it until it rings true, until every time you want to go out and kill, or every time you want to give up, it’s the voice of reason pulling you back.

There’s no other option. So you choose his, and he keeps you going until you’re strong enough to make your own.

[fudes240]

A short story by Dylan Klebold.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Klebold wrote this story for school in late February or early March 1999, shortly before the attack at Columbine High School on 20 April 1999. For a facsimile of the original, along with his teacher’s comments and other related material, see the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office Columbine Documents, pages 10,463 to 10,468 (available at schoolshooters.info). Note: the killer in the story is described as left-handed, wearing a black trench coat, and 6’4”. Klebold was lefthanded, wore a black trench coat, and was approximately 6’4”.

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The town, even at 1:00 AM, was still bustling with activity as the man dressed in black walked down the empty streets.... What was most recognized about the man was the sound of his footsteps.

Behind the conversations & noises of the town, not a sound was to be heard from him, except the dark, monotonous footsteps, combined with the jingling of his belt chains striking not only the two visible guns in their holsters, but the large bowie knife, slung in anticipation of use. The wide-brimmed hat cast a pitch-black shadow of his already dimly lit face. He wore black gloves, with a type of metal spiked-band across the knuckles. A black overcoat covered most of his body, small lines of metal & half-inch spikes layering upper portions of the shoulders, arms, and back. His boots were newly polished, and didn’t look like they had been used much. He carried a black duffel bag in his right hand. He apparently had parked a car nearby & looked ready for a small war with whoever came across his way.

I have never seen anyone take this mad-max approach in the city, especially since the piggies had been called to this part of town for a series of crimes lately. Yet, in the midst of the nightlife in the center of the average-sized town, this man walked, fueled by some untold purpose, what Christians would call evil. The guns slung on his belt & belly appeared to be automatic hand guns, which were draped above rows of magazines & clips. He smoked a thin cigar, and a sweet clovesque scent eminated from his aura. He stood about six feet and four inches and was strongly built. His face was entirely in shadow, yet even though I was unable to see his expressions, I could feel his anger, cutting thru the air like a razor. He seemed to know where he was walking, and he noticed my presence, but paid no attention as he kept walking toward a popular bar.

The Watering Hole. He stopped about 30 feet from the door, and waited. “For whom?” I wondered, as I saw them step out. He must have known their habits well, as they appeared less than a minute after he stopped walking. A group of college-preps, about nine of them, stopped in their tracks. A couple of them were mildly drunk, the rest sober. They stopped and stared. The streetlights illuminating the bar & the sidewalk showed me a clear view of their stare, full of paralysis & fear. They knew who he was & why he was there.

The second largest spoke up “What’re you doin man ... why are you here ... ?” The man in black said nothing, but even at my distance, I could feel his anger growing. “You still wanted a fight huh? I meant not with weapons, I just meant a fist fight ... cmon put the guns away, fuckin pussy!! said the largest prep, his voice quavering as he spoke these words of attempted courage. Other preps could be heard muttering in the background; “Nice trench coat dude, that’s pretty cool there . . .” . . . . “Dude we were jus messin around the other day chill out man . . .” . . . “I didn’t do anything, it was all them!!” . . . “cmon man you wouldn’t shoot us, were in the middle of a public place ...” Yet the comment I the remember most was uttered from the smallest of the group, obviously a cocky, power hungry prick. “Go ahead man! Shoot me!!! I want you to shoot me!! Heheh you won’t!! Goddam pussy ...” It was faint at first, but grew in intensity and power as I heard the man laugh. This laugh would have made Satan cringe in Hell. For almost half a minute this laugh, spawned from the most powerful place conceivable, filled the air, and thru the entire town, the entire world. The town activity came to a stop, and all attention was now drawn to this man.

One of the preps began to slowly move back. Before I could see a reaction from the preps, the man had dropped his duffel bag, and pulled out one of the pistols with his left hand. Three shots were fired. Three shots hit the largest prep in the head. The shining of the streetlights caused a visible reflection off of the droplets of blood as they flew away from the skull. The blood spatters showered the preps buddies, as they were too paralyzed to run. The next four preps were not executed so systematically, but with more rage from the man’s hand cannon than a controlled duty for a soldier. The man unloaded one of the pistols across the fronts of these four innocents, their instantly lifeless bodies dropping with remarkable speed. The shots from that gun were felt just as much as they were heard.

He pulled out his other pistol, and without changing a glance, without moving his deathstare from the four other victims to go, aimed the weapon out to the side, and shot about 8 rounds. These bullets mowed down what, after he was dead, I made out to be an undercover cop with his gun slung. He then emptied the clip into two more of the preps. Then, instead of reloading & finishing the task, he set down the guns, and pulled out the knife. The blade loomed huge, even in his large grip. I now noticed that one of the two still alive was the smallest of the band, who had now wet his pants, and was hyperventilating in fear. The other one tried to lunge at the man, hoping that his football tackling skills would save his life. The man sidestepped, and made two lunging slashes at him. I saw a small trickle of blood cascade out of his belly and splashing onto the concrete. His head wound was almost as bad, as the shadow formed by the bar’s lighting showed blood dripping off his face.

The last one, the smallest one, tried to run. The man quickly reloaded, and shot him thru the lower leg. He instant fell, and cried in pain. The man then pulled out of the duffel bag what looked to be some type of electronic device. I saw him tweak the dials, and press a button. I heard a faint, yet powerful explosion. I would have to guess about 6 miles away. Then another one occurred closer. After recalling the night many times, I finally understood that these were diversions, to attract the cops. The last prep was bawling & trying to crawl away. The man walked up behind him. I remember the sound of the impact well. The man came down with his left hand, right on the prep’s head. The metal piece did its work, as I saw his hand get buried about 2 inches into the guy’s skull. The man pulled his arm out, and stood, unmoving, for about a minute.

The town was utterly still, except for the faint wail of police sirens. The man picked up the bag and his clips, and proceeded to walk back the way he came. I was still, as he came my way again. He stopped, and gave me a look I will never forget. If I could face an emotion of god, it would have looked like the man. I not only saw in his face, but also felt eminating from him power, complacence, closure, and godliness. The man smiled, and in that instant, thru no endeavor of my own, I understood his actions.

[writing-on-the-wahl]

Writing Snippet #16: Songbird

Part 2

So @im-a-wonderling had a fantastic plot idea... and I added wings.

(Collaborating with her on this one was so fun! I don’t normally write angst so it was new for me and she was an incredible help/inspiration!)

TW: blood, implied violence, general angst

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Villain leaned back against the stark white wall. In fact, aside from his own dark blue attire, everything in the hallway of cells was white: the floors, ceilings, doors, even the metal bars were painted white.

Supervillain had always preferred things nice and clean and white.

Not the best color choice for the dungeon of a brutal supervillain. Villain wondered how they cleaned away the bloodstains.

Supervillain’s minions had been courteous enough when they brought him in, not that he’d been able to put up much of a fight after a sniper shot him with a power suppressor mixed with a sedative. He’d been barely conscious when they dragged him into this cell and left him alone.

That had been hours ago, and he still couldn’t feel his powers. Not the most ideal scenario. Especially considering the reason he was here.

Supervillain’s missing device. Her masterpiece. Prize of her collection. Peak of her creative genius. First of its kind.

And only, Villain thought smugly. He and Hero had stolen the device last week. And Supervillain was notoriously paranoid about her technology being stolen and never wrote anything down. She might be able to recreate the device, but it would take a few years.

He didn’t know how Supervillain knew he’d been involved. She was sure to demand the return of her invention, which was, unfortunately, currently in a thousand pieces at the bottom of the ocean.

Villain had anticipated a double cross from Hero, had thought the Hero Agency would insist on saving and using a machine that could duplicate superpowers and create new heroes, but Hero had been just as determined as he was to see the machine destroyed.

Personally, he knew what would happen if Supervillain managed to duplicate his powers, knew the destruction she would leave in her wake.

He wasn’t exactly sure why Hero had been equally as passionate, but he hadn’t been able to resist grinning at her enthusiastic smashing. He could have destroyed the device with a flick of his fingers, but watching her take a sledgehammer to the metal had stirred something in his chest. Admiration turning towards something warmer.

The door at the far end of the hall banged open, and two guards burst into the room, dragging a limp form between them.

Villain’s heart skidded to a stop.

The figure in the middle was small and slim, with oversized wings that dragged on the ground as the guards carried her forward.

Villain would know those wings anywhere: a blue so light it was nearly white, with feathered tips that looked as though they’d been dipped in the midnight sky.

Hero.

Villain stiffened, hands curling into fists.

They drew closer, and his breath caught.

There was blood dripping from a wound on Hero’s temple; the fair skin of her face and arms was already beginning to bruise.

The guards hauled her past, and his nails bit into the flesh of his palms at the sight of her wings, one wing hanging at a horribly wrong angle as it dragged on the ground behind her, spatters of red dotting the light feathers.

Fury pounded in his chest as his eyes stayed fixed on her mangled wing. If his powers were working, the entire prison would have been obliterated.

Hero didn’t stir as the guards threw her into the cell next to his.

His heart stuttered as logic warred with panic.

They wouldn’t lock her up unless she was alive...

Right?

Villain gripped the edge of the hard metal cot, the sharp corners digging into his palms as the guards strode by.

He offered a sardonic raise of the eyebrow as they glanced his way. One of the henchmen paused.

“The boss will be by soon to release you. She was given new information that revealed the true thief of her device.” His eyes cut to Hero.

Villain hummed disapprovingly as he leaned back, though every muscle was tensed, ready to spring. “I told Supervillain I was innocent of her allegations.”

Henchman blanched at the threat of retribution in his tone. “Yes yes. Hero confessed to everything.”

Villain closed his eyes briefly. Even though he had been the one to approach her. His idea. His plan. His fault.

And now here was his beautiful songbird, bleeding on the cell floor.

Villain studied Hero, taking in every bruise and cut and drop of blood.

His face was an icy mask as he faced the guard. “Yes. I can see that.”

The guard had the audacity to smile. “Oh, no. She told us the moment we brought her in. Yelled about how it had been her and her alone who took the device.”

Had she done it to protect him?

The guard waved a hand carelessly at Hero’s crumpled form. “That’s what happened when she told the boss she’d destroyed it.”

He was laughing as he walked away.

The henchmen were beneath him. At least, that was what Villain told himself as they continued down the hall. It was the only thing that kept him from murdering the two lackeys through the bars of the cell.

He couldn’t afford to reveal his connection to Hero. Couldn’t reveal how much he cared. Not yet.

As soon as their backs were turned, he studied Hero. She was on the ground, injured wing partially beneath her. Her other wing had fallen across her body when they dumped her to the ground, and he couldn’t tell if she was breathing.

He reached for his powers to rip the prison walls apart— to get to her—but that part of him was still numb.

His own breaths came in fast as his mind spiraled. He watched the blood dripping from the cut on her head, dark red spilling on the bright white floor.

Please be alive.

Please.

When the door clicked shut and they were finally alone, Villain dared speak.

“Hero.” He hissed. “Hero!”

She didn’t stir.

Villain thought that he could see the movement of breath, but that could just be the A/C ruffling her soft feathers.

He found himself holding his breath, waiting for hers.

The next moments were agony.

Lightheaded, he closed his eyes and took a large gulp of air.

When he opened them again, Hero was watching him, eyes wide, pupils dilated.

“Hero!”

She dropped her gaze, arms trembling as she struggled to push up out of the tangle of her wings, whimpering as the movement jarred her broken wing.

Villain ached to plug his ears, to block out each tiny heart-wrenching sound of pain, but he had no right.

Every mark on her was his fault.

Had they captured her after they brought him in? If he had confessed…

“Hero, they said you told them...” he trailed off as she deliberately twisted away and flared her wings to block him from view. A cry of pain accompanied this action, and her shoulders curled inward as they began to shake.

Villain slid to his knees, fingers uselessly clutching the bars between them.

“Hero! Are you ok? Please, talk to—”

He cut off abruptly as the far door burst open once more, and he forced his voice to go cold as he rose to his feet, praying Hero would understand.

“...nothing more than you deserve you filthy—”

“Ah Villain!”

The cheerful voice fanned the rage burning in his chest, and he didn’t try to hide it as he stepped towards the front of the cell.

“Supervillain.”

“Now, now, Villain.” She laughed as she straightened the cuffs of her fresh white lab coat, but she still had blood under her fingernails.

White hot fury ripped through him. It took every ounce of self control he possessed to school his features as she continued.

“I know you’re a little upset at my bringing you here.”

He growled.

“But as you can see, I’ve caught the true perpetrator, and I’ve come to offer my sincerest apologies.” She cocked her head and offered a smile filled with false cheer.

“And compensation for the inconvenience, I assume.”

She frowned briefly, then nodded. “Of course, of course. What is it you want?”

He offered her a sharp smile. “Let’s just say I’ll collect what you owe me later.” In blood.

Villain was the one powerless and behind bars, but Supervillain was the one who stepped back.

A guard approached at her signal, a pair of shackles in hand.

“Just a precaution,” Supervillain explained, “until you are off my base.”

Villain kept his protests to himself as he extended his hands through the bars and allowed them to be cuffed together.

He reminded himself that even with his hands unbound, there was no way he would be able to free Hero without his powers, trapped as they were at the center of Supervillain’s base, surrounded by hundreds of her people.

He filled his voice with bored curiosity. “What will you do with the thief?”

Supervillain smiled. “I had a canary once. Made a marvelous little pet.”

The memory of Hero soaring through the clouds, winds extended, glorious and free, flashed through his mind, and his stomach churned at the thought of her in a swinging cage, wings folded in, trapped and alone.

The cell door swung open, and Villain cast one last look at Hero, who now met his gaze with glassy-eyed terror. It was a look that would haunt him all the way back to his lair, where he would immediately send for Sidekick and make plans for a rescue against the most secure base in the country.

“Naughty thing kept trying to escape though.” Supervillain slammed the empty cell door shut for emphasis.

As Villain followed a guard down the hall, Supervillain’s bright voice echoed behind him, words that froze his heart and shattered his careful mask of composure:

“Had to clip its wings.”

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*** full credit to @im-a-wonderling for the line, “And here was his beautiful songbird, bleeding on the cell floor.” The queen of beautiful tragedy, everyone.***

[starlessea]

Here Comes the Sun: XI. Time is Running Out (Daryl Dixon/Reader)

Series Masterlist: Here Comes the Sun

Summary: Daryl Dixon scares the hell out of you climbing out of that damn creek. It takes hauling his ass halfway across Georgia and taking a bullet for him to realise that you're not half bad. He slowly starts to come around, despite grumbling about how much he doesn't like your singing, or that you can't use a gun for shit - and don't get him started on that ugly yellow tent of yours. It takes him a while before he starts to see for himself that he's found a best friend for life, and that he doesn't actually mind the colour yellow that much, after all.

Words: 7954

Chapter Warnings: Language, Implied trauma, Violence and injury.

You were running. Every corridor connected into another one, each less familiar than the last. The muffled groans and sluggish footsteps got louder with every passing minute, as you felt yourself lose energy. You slammed another door open and ran down the next dark hallway, squinting as the lights flickered dimly to illuminate the dead.

Eventually, you reached a set of double doors and flew through them, not stopping to look back. Your lungs burned as you panted, and your legs felt unstable under you. Quickly, you turned the corner, only to see the dead end it concealed. Your knees buckled beneath you as you let out a sob, hands trembling uncontrollably. The undead closed in on you, swarming the doors and creeping through the crack one by one.

You pressed your back against the wall, scurrying to crawl away as you watched them approach. It was then that you spotted the first walker break through, trudging forward with its legs dragging behind. It was a man. It had been a man. It was tall and large, with a build nearly double your size. Despite the pale greyness of its eyes, you swore that its gaze leered over you in a way that made your skin crawl.

It gurgled as it got closer, blackish blood coming up from its mouth and splattering the floor by your feet. You noticed the wound on its chest, like a gunshot, that oozed each time it took a step. It got closer, reaching out a grubby hand and gripping onto the collar of your vest. You let out a scream as its snapping jaws hovered above your face, almost as if trying to say something. Yet, all that came out was watery groans as the blood spattered onto you. Despite it being dead, you almost felt its breath over your cheek before it lunged.

You bolted upright in your sleeping bag, bringing a hand to your face and neck to check the skin there. Heaving, your chest swelled as you gasped for breath, and your ribcage felt like it might burst open from the force. You whipped your head around, taking in the surroundings of your tent. The yellow canvas walls remained the same as they always were, and your polaroid string hung above you like a faulty dreamcatcher.

As you tried to regulate your breathing, you wiped your forehead and the back of your neck, trying to soak up some of the sweat that had formed there. It was the same nightmares as usual. You'd been having them for a few days following the incident at the bar - especially since Randall still remained in the Greenes' barn, not even a few minutes walk from where you slept.

The light stung your eyes and you rubbed the corners of them forcefully. Your sleep was usually disrupted, and you'd wake up periodically in the nights - so you often slept in now as a result. You hadn't told anyone about it, but you didn't have to. Daryl had noticed. The two of you had become closer after the incident, with him looking out for you a lot more than he usually did. He made sure that you didn't go anywhere near the barn, and had a lot to say when Rick decided on sparing the boy held prisoner within it.

In truth, Daryl had been your comfort these last couple of days. On the nights where you woke up in tears, drenched in your own sweat, he'd be conveniently sat near the firepit when you came outside to get some air. He'd say that he was keeping watch, but wouldn't go back to bed when you offered to take over - always waiting until you left, first. Even in the daytime, after you'd come around following a bitter cup of coffee, he wouldn't push you away if you wrapped yourself around his shoulders or grabbed his hand excitedly to show him something.

Sometimes, he'd even let you crawl into his tent when you wanted to ramble, listening for a while before his patience met its limit and he kicked you out. Still, you weren't sure what you'd have done without him. The sight of that shy smile of his, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes when he thought no one was looking - that was enough to keep you going when you had your doubts. Before you knew it, you realised that you would give anything to hear one of his shallow laughs, even if it meant making a fool out of yourself to pay for it.

Once you had settled down a bit, you pulled on a pair of jeans over your legs, to go with the button-up shirt you had slept in. Your curly hair was matted from the sweat, so you tied it up and away from your face rather than even attempting to comb out the knots. You were sure that you looked a bit of a state, but you didn't give it a second thought as you unzipped the yellow submarine and stood out into the morning air.

It had started getting a little colder, the dew collecting on the grass and forming little droplets that wet the toes or your boots. There was a slight chill in the air, where the breeze had picked up, but it wasn't quite cold yet. Still, you huddled the material of the shirt closer to your body and folded your arms, looking at the archer who sat a few feet over from you.

He glanced up for a second and gave you a curt nod, drawing his eyes away from what he was doing.

"You look like hell." He noted, not even looking at you as he said it.

Daryl sat on one of the tree stumps near the fire pit, head hanging down to focus on his hands. He had a rusted pocket knife in his palm, and was using it to sharpen one of the arrows he was making. You'd seen him do it before, watching mesmerised as he worked with the efficiency of a master craftsman. His hair seemed to be getting longer, compared to when you had first met him, and now draped a little in front of his eyes when he looked down. A few nights ago you'd teased him and asked if he was growing a mullet, but in reality you rather liked it.

You shot him a wide grin, dusting off your jeans as you took a seat beside him, ruffling his hair between your fingers in greeting.

"Then you must be heaven, angel." You winked, hoping that the teasing would distract from the grogginess of your voice. "Good morning." You added, seeing him shake his head at you.

He didn't grumble nearly as much at your jokes anymore. Sometimes, he'd even make some back. You enjoyed the playful banter, and the way it made your heart race when he let out the occasional deep laugh at you.

"You still wearin' that?" He asked, not even looking up.

You realised that he was referring to your button-up flannel shirt - the one he had given you. Most nights you slept in it, but you avoided wearing it in the daytime in case people noticed who it originally belonged to. In your half-awake state you must have forgotten to change out of it.

"Problem?" You quipped back too quickly, and you saw him roll his eyes at your defensiveness. "You said I could keep it." You reasoned.

Daryl hummed in response, blowing the wood shavings away from the stick he'd been carving.

"Looks like a dress on ya." He drawled, finally shooting you a sidewards glance and raising an eyebrow as he did so.

You beamed a smile at him, running your fingers over the material that draped down almost to your knees, and remembering how it had looked on him.

"And?" You questioned, crossing your arms over your chest. "It's comfy." You explained, before asking why he minded so much.

He ignored you, continuing to shave down the arrow in his hands carefully. You didn't relent, standing up so that you were directly in front of him, and giving a small twirl to show off the shirt.

"Are you missing it?" You teased, trying to prompt him to look up. "Do you want it back?" You poked, walking around the log he was sitting on so that you were behind him while he worked.

Daryl let out a small sigh at your antics, putting down the blade and resting the arrow beside him. You didn't give him time to turn around and scold you, slipping your arms over his shoulders and around him before he could. Your chin rested just above the crook of his neck, and you could feel the wisps of his hair tickling at your cheek.

"What would you do for it?"

You'd wanted to joke with him, but it came out like more of a shy whisper as you lost your nerve. Your cheeks were nearly pressed together and you could feel the heat radiate off his skin. His heartbeat was quick beneath your palms where they rested, clasped over his chest. It felt like you had handfuls of butterflies, fluttering nervously there. You suddenly felt your own pulse pick up, as your playfulness started to seem a lot less innocent than it had only a few moments ago.

Someone cleared their throat from behind you, and you instantly flung yourself back from the man in shock. It was clumsy, and you'd almost taken the archer with you as you slipped on the damp grass beneath your feet. Daryl shot you a glare after he had recovered, grumbling about how you'd almost choked him.

You heard a chuckle and turned to see Glenn watching the exchange, his baseball cap in his hands. Quickly, you fumbled out an apology which sounded more like an excuse, explaining how he'd startled you. He shook his head before giving your shoulder a squeeze.

"Sorry to interrupt." He started, looking between you and Daryl. The other man stayed silent, going back to his work like he'd never taken a break from it. "Could I borrow you for a minute?" Glenn continued, gesturing to you.

You raised an eyebrow at him before he explained. "I'm doing some work on the RV with Dale. We could use some help and everyone else is busy."

You looked over at Daryl, and then back at Glenn, before agreeing. You gave the man a small wave as you said goodbye, not really sure of how to act around him now. You didn't know whether it was what you had done that made you shy, or the fact that Glenn had caught you doing it. In truth, you hadn't really planned for anything to happen, but you got caught up in the moment without realising it. You tried not to think about what could have played out if Glenn hadn't showed up.

Daryl gave you a quick nod as you left, and you and Glenn started walking towards the RV. In the distance, you could see Dale lounging on the roof of the vehicle, under his parasol like usual. He had his binoculars in his hands and gave the pair of you a wave when he saw you together.

"So," Glenn dragged, catching your attention, "what was that?"

"What was what?" You bit back, feigning ignorance.

The man didn't buy it, knowing you better than your cheap lies by now.

"You know what." He said, with an air of certainty about him. "You and Daryl, just now."

You stayed silent, not wanting to give anything away. In all honesty, you weren't sure yourself about what had happened back there, and didn't really know how to answer. If you were being truthful, you definitely felt something for the man. You had done for a while. Daryl, on the other hand, you weren't sure about. How long had it taken him just to be accepting of your touch, and not shy away from your hugs? How many hours had the two of you spent together before he stopped looking at you with distrust, or flinching away if you moved too suddenly. At this point, you were content with what the two of you had. Or, you tried to convince yourself that you were.

"I saw that whole thing back there." Glenn carried on, catching you lost in your own thoughts.

"Yeah?" You questioned, giving him a side-eye glance as you smirked. "Well I see you and Maggie sneaking off to the stables at night, but you don't hear me saying anything about it."

Glenn inhaled sharply beside you, seeming to choke on whatever reply he had planned. You let out a snort at his expression, and clapped your hand over his back as the two of you reached the RV.

"Choose your battles carefully, Rhee." You warned him teasingly, watching as he squirmed under your touch.

"Yes, Ma'am."

The three of you worked together on the RV for a while before taking a short break. It was mostly Dale instructing you to pass him tools and run to ask Hershel if he had the things you were missing. You were pretty clueless when it came to any kind of vehicle, so you tried to absorb as much as you could, mentally matching the names with all of the parts that Dale showed you. Glenn seemed to know much more, having spent a lot of time with the older man during the day. Surprisingly, you all got along really well and even cracked some jokes as you scrambled to remember which screwdriver head was which.

Glenn eventually excused himself to go and help T-Dog out with something, and Dale left you 'in charge' of the toolbox, as he put it, as he left to go with him. You hadn't been there long, sitting on the steps of the trailer in a daze by yourself, before Maggie had come out of the farmhouse with a pitcher of lemonade for you all. She sat down next to you, offering you a glass. You took a gulp, feeling the coolness run down the back of your throat as the ice cubes hit your teeth. It was really refreshing.

"Glenn told me about you and Daryl this mornin'." She looked over at you with a grin.

You rolled your eyes at her, wondering when the man had even had time to say anything. He'd only gone into the farmhouse for all of five minutes to use the bathroom, before you all had started work on the RV. That boy never ceased to amaze you with his ability to run his mouth. You already felt exasperated by all of the questioning, and you hadn't even begun to start answering your own yet.

"There's nothing to tell." You corrected, but her smile didn't let up. "I already warned your boyfriend to worry about his own dirt, instead of trying to dig up other people's."

You shot her a look that you thought would tell her to drop it, but she didn't take the hint. Or, she didn't care to, more accurately.

"He thinks you're sleepin' together." She said matter of factly, taking a sip of her own lemonade nonchalantly and ignoring your expression.

Your eyes widened in disbelief, totally not expecting those words to come out of the mouth of a farmer's daughter. Then again, you knew what she and Glenn got up to when they thought nobody else was around.

"Maggie!" You gasped, slapping her shoulder.

The lemonade spilt out of the top of her glass slightly, and splashed onto her jeans.

"What? I didn't say it." She frowned at you, wiping the stain. "Can you blame him?" She asked, cocking an eyebrow in your direction.

You usually felt like you could talk to Maggie about anything, and rarely got embarrassed at any of the details she shared with you, either. Yet, you couldn't help but feel a bit dumbstruck at the allegation. The thought of you and Daryl - sweet and shy Daryl Dixon - sleeping together had just tipped you over the edge like lemonade in a glass.

Maggie went on, ignoring your stunned silence. "The two of you got ya tents away from the rest of your group, and hang around each other most of the goddamn day." She pointed out, nodding her head in the direction of your camp in the distance.

"That's not fair." You pouted. "He's my friend, and I spend the same amount of time with you and Beth as I do him." You defended, but she crossed her arms and gave you a once over - making an obvious point of looking you up and down.

"You're wearing his shirt." She said flatly, glancing at it like she'd been waiting to bring up the observation for a while now.

"And some days I wear yours!" You retorted, raising your voice in desperation.

You stood up from the step, and Maggie laughed at how flustered she'd made you.

Before she could add anymore, you spotted Glenn walking back to the RV with a dumb smile on his face, totally oblivious of the chaos he'd caused. You shot him a glare, causing Maggie to look over in his direction.

"Glenn Rhee, get your ass over here now!" You yelled at him, and watched as his face fell.

He looked over at Maggie, who just shrugged her shoulders and collected the empty glasses. She gave Glenn a quick peck on the cheek before whispering something about him being on his own, before leaving to return to the farmhouse.

"Ah shit." He muttered below his breath, looking over at you with a sheepish smile.

You stayed by the RV well into the evening, after chewing out Glenn and sending him on his way. You'd offered to put all of the tools back since Dale wanted to go out for a walk and check on the fences around the area. He gave you a warm smile as he left, offering you a 'thanks, kid' that reminded you of your own grandfather. You didn't even try to argue back with him that you were in your twenties, just sending a smile his way in return.

It was already dark outside, since the seasons were changing and making the world seem more shadowy at earlier and earlier hours each day. You had borrowed a jacket from Beth the last time she came out, handing you a sandwich in place of the dinner you'd skipped. The air was chilly and you were grateful for the extra layer protecting you against the cool night's kiss. The breeze rustled the leaves and made a few flutter down to the ground, next to your feet.

It was peaceful, and you could see the warm light flicker through the windows of the Greene farmhouse. The rest of the group were out doing perimeter checks and mending some of the fences, so it was just you standing as the sole guard of a rundown RV. Once you had finished organising the array of screwdrivers back into their meticulous places, just as Dale had instructed, you closed the toolbox and secured it shut by the latch.

You sat back onto the step, rolling your stiff shoulders and wishing that Daryl was here to give you one of his Spartan massages that hurt so bad but felt so good. You scarcely had time to relax before a scream had you bolting upright and alert. It was in the distance, you could tell, but it was definitely a scream.

Immediately, you rushed inside the RV to retrieve one of the pistols from the gun bag there, before setting off running in the direction of the yells. It didn't take you long to notice the group that had gathered near the end fence of one of the fields, close to the woods. You kept your pistol lowered in your hand as you jogged towards them, still not able to make out what they were all crowded over.

As you got closer, you saw how Lori was shielding Carl from the scene and prepared yourself for whatever you were about to witness. It didn't take long before it came into view, the sight of Dale on the ground and the dispatched walker beside him. It was horrifically graphic. The man you'd been joking with not even an hour before now laid there with his entire chest cavity exposed. It was so violent that you weren't able to tear your eyes away as he gurgled the familiar sound of death from his throat, like the one you heard in your nightmares.

It looked as though his ribs had been pried open and you could only watch as the older man suffered. His eyes met yours, pupils wide and dilated as he tried to speak. You stared back helplessly before someone stood in front of you, blocking your view. The printed angel wings told you who it was before you even looked up.

You watched the ground as you heard the familiar cocking of a pistol, and your eyes rested on the fishing hat that had fallen a few feet away. Images flashed through your mind of Dale wearing it, and him putting it on Carl's head occasionally to swap it out with his sheriff's one. You kept your gaze on it, lying abandoned in the grass, as Daryl spoke to the man.

"Sorry, brother." He said, and pulled the trigger.

That night you returned to your tent alone, trailing slowly behind the others, and thought about that hat and the man who wore it. Glenn had picked it up and taken it with Rick and Shane, as they went to dig a grave for Dale. You kept thinking back to a few days ago, and how you'd all sat around the fire of the main camp, spread out on the deckchairs one night. Even Daryl had joined you, as you had bribed everyone to endure your company with the promise of Jack Daniels.

You brought the bottle with you in your satchel, taking a seat by the fire pit next to Dale, who shook his head when you took it out. You offered him a small smile and shrugged, telling him that you'd come across it whilst scavenging with Glenn and Maggie. As the others arrived, you poured some shots to whoever wanted any, and made them swear not to tell Hershel.

The night had been a small dose of escapism washed down with whiskey. There wasn't enough for you all to get completely drunk, but the tipsiness definitely settled in and got you all loosened up and giggling. At some point, Glenn had devised a game that resembled 'never have I ever,' but even got the people who weren't drinking involved.

Much to Dale's dismay, the slightly buzzed man had pulled the hat from his head and stated that whoever wore it had to answer one question completely truthfully. The fishing cap then made its way around the circle, as you listened to Shane talk about stealing a car, T-Dog's videogame collection, and how Carol had once put laxatives in Ed's coffee.

"You're kidding!" Andrea yelled in disbelief, when it was finally your turn. "There's no way you have a tattoo."

"I do." You smiled, taking a sip of your drink and feeling it numb the back of your throat. "And no, I'm not showing it to you." You winked at her, causing the group to laugh.

"It's in a risky spot, ain't it?" Shane teased, looking over his glass at you with a cheeky grin.

"No!" You shouted at him, which gained even more laughter from the onlookers.

Shane shook his head at you with a smile. "Yeah, whatever you say."

Lori piped up from where she sat. She wasn't drinking, now that she was pregnant, but she seemed content enough from the atmosphere.

"I can't believe you have one." She spoke, looking you up and down slightly as if trying to guess where it was. "I never pictured you the type."

You snorted at her words. "What? Just because I was a teacher for a short while?" You teased, crossing your arms.

People usually made the same assumptions about you, even before the world had ended. You had an education from a prestigious university, bright eyes and that naive look. It was only natural that most people didn't consider you as the type to hang around at rock concerts with your father or work part-time shifts at the bars he played at when they were understaffed.

"I have fifteen piercings, too." You added, feeling generous with your information.

Rick shook his head at you with doubt, and you found it refreshing to see the sheriff look so relaxed.

"What? Where?" He questioned, squinting his eyes at you. "How come we haven't seen them?"

"Because I keep my hair down most of the time." You explained, before tucking the strands behind your ears to reveal them.

A few members of the group came over to get a closer look, and you grinned like an excited puppy, showing off the metal jewelry to them.

"And I have my belly button done." You added, pointing to your stomach but not lifting your vest to show them.

T-Dog watched you with suspicion across the campfire, as if he couldn't entirely figure you out. His eyes were narrowed and you shot him your best grin as he stared you down half-heartedly.

"None of this fits my image of you." He admitted, and a few people agreed.

You shrugged your shoulders, pouring yourself another shot and not caring whether or not you should slow down. You felt better than you had in a long time. Even though your head felt a little fuzzy and your throat burned each time you knocked your glass back, you couldn't put a price on the laughter you all shared and the memories each of you recalled.

"What do you want me to say?" You asked sarcastically. "Pretend that I spent most of my time at libraries and not gigs, listening to Led Zeppelin?"

You heard a low chuckle beside you, as Daryl took the bottle from your hand and poured some more into his own glass.

"Thought you said you were borin'." He drawled, his accent even thicker from the whiskey.

"I am now!" You said loudly, throwing your hands up in defeat.

The others laughed a bit at that, before you went on, prying at the other man who had refused the hat of truth when it came his way. You'd tried to force it on that stubborn head of his, but had only succeeded in spilling one of the glasses and getting a scolding from Lori.

"What about you, Dixon." You eyed him where he sat. "I can't even imagine you existing before all of this." You admitted.

He raised an eyebrow at you, but you continued. "It's like you were built to survive an apocalypse."

You saw the others nod in agreement, staying silent to listen for the man's response. A few of them had seemed surprised that Daryl was even participating, and now looked even more confused at how the two of you interacted with each other.

"What d'you mean?" He asked, taking a swig from his glass.

You smiled to yourself before answering. "I don't know." You confessed, before addressing the rest of the group. "Can the rest of you picture Daryl Dixon mundanely watching TV, and eating pizza instead of squirrel?"

That joke got a lot of approval from them, as you saw Carol let out a snort in the corner of your eye, holding onto her own small drink with both hands.

"Shut up." Daryl grumbled in response, but you saw the slight smile that lingered on his face.

After that, you had placed Dale's hat back on the older man's head and gave him a hug before turning in for the night. You felt giddy from alcohol and good company, and had squeezed him tightly before telling him that no one else suited that old, raggedy fishing cap as much as he did.

The next morning after Dale's death was hard, but you'd all had practice in dealing with death by now. The funeral was carried out quickly, and Rick made a speech about how the group needed to honour Dale by being more in sync with their decisions - referring especially to Randall. You all then gave a few words, and said your goodbyes. Glenn had made a small wooden cross as a marker for his grave, and hung the fishing cap on top of it at the end of the informal ceremony.

After that, the Greenes had tried to distract you all by telling you to pack your things up and prepare to move into their farmhouse for winter. Given that they'd become a lot closer to you all in the last few weeks, and that Lori was now pregnant, they said that it was only reasonable. It would be a bit of squeeze to fit you all in, they admitted, but it would be better than freezing outside in flimsy tents exposed to the elements.

So, there you were, collecting your belongings and putting them into your worn satchel with care. You didn't have much, save for your polaroids, some clothes and your knife. The only things you had left to pack down were your sleeping bag and your yellow submarine, so you decided to go and check how Daryl was doing before you continued.

The two of you hadn't had much time to talk about the events of last night, barely exchanging a few glances and letting your palms brush against each other during the funeral. He'd gone through a lot in the last couple days, being left with the dirty work of torturing Randall and having to shoot Dale. Even if he seemed alright, you thought that he probably held some guilt for what had happened. You knew that you certainly did. You spent the night wondering why you hadn't gone with the older man, wishing that you'd gotten there sooner.

You clambered out of your tent with your satchel strapped over your chest, before walking a few steps over to Daryl's. His tent was unzipped, and you poked your head around the entrance to see him crouched inside, collecting his arrows and the few possessions he had scattered around. You watched him in silence for a moment, as if trying to find any sign of distress before he noticed you.

"Don' worry yourself, Sunshine." The man grumbled, sensing you.

He didn't even look up from what he was doing, which made you jump in surprise at having been caught.

"Jus' go pack down yer own tent." He instructed, folding up a pile of his clothes and stuffing them into a backpack.

"Sunshine?" You questioned, wondering whether or not the nickname was sarcastic, as you continued to watch him with suspicion.

You crouched down in the entryway, debating whether or not to go in.

"Look, Daryl-" you started gently, but he cut you off midway.

"'M fine." He said sternly. "Don't need no therapy session every time one of us kills someone."

You let out a sigh, deciding to go inside. You crawled your way past him, making yourself comfortable on top of his sleeping bag while he worked around you.

"I don't know about you, but I'm not planning on making it a habit." You admitted gently, seeing him stop what he was doing and look over at you.

"Ain't about what ya want. It's about survivin'." He corrected gruffly, his eyes meeting yours.

You gave him a sad smile before responding. "I know. But I don't want to live like that." You said. "There's a difference."

He shook his head, sitting back so that he was opposite you.

"Ain't no difference when yer dead." He muttered, and you could make out the slight flicker of pain behind his eyes.

You looked down to your hands, gathering your thoughts. You weren't sure whether you wanted to make yourself vulnerable to man by telling him your true feelings on the matter, but you felt like you needed to. You owed him that much.

"When I was out there alone, before I found you that day-" you started, recalling the days that seemed like a lifetime ago to you now. "That was surviving."

The man listened to you silently, his stare heavy as he took you in.

"At first, I was just grateful to be alive." You admitted, feeling ashamed to say the words out loud. "My camp, they were the brave ones."

You saw as Daryl started to shake his head to disagree, but you didn't let him interrupt.

"I just ran away and hid." You confessed, voice small as you said it. "After that I realised how unfair it all was."

Daryl stayed silent for a few seconds, before responding.

"What was unfair?" He asked, his words gravelly.

You met his eyes, already feeling like you'd revealed too much to him.

"How us cowardly would always be the last ones standing." You said softly, looking back down at your hands and thinking of all the people they failed to protect.

This time, Daryl responded quickly, moving closer to you so that you heard his words clearly.

"Ya ain't no coward." He spoke, his face near yours as he tried to catch your gaze.

You met it, fighting the urge to look away as the intensity made you want to tremble.

"You're a force, Teach." He told you, like it was a fact.

He stared at you for a few seconds, as though waiting for you to accept it.

You nodded at him eventually, letting out a small sigh as you realised that you'd been holding your breath.

"I don't want to just survive anymore, Daryl." You told him. "I want to live. I want a life that I'm okay with fighting to protect." You continued, feeling your voice grow stronger with each passing second.

Daryl remained still where he sat, giving you his entire attention.

"I know you hear me at night." You confessed, thinking back on the times you'd woken up yelling at invisible figures, or panting to try and catch your breath.

You caught his eyes flicker, as he fidgeted a bit and stretched out his legs.

"You pretend like you don't, but I know you do." You went on. "When I wake up from a bad dream you've always got your lantern lit, or sometimes you'll get up just to toss a log on the fire, and make an excuse that you can't sleep."

You smiled to yourself as you watched him feign ignorance, as though he needed to keep up an act you both knew had broken. No matter the type of man Daryl Dixon pretended to be, you saw straight through him.

"I'm at a point where I don't regret it anymore." You continued, not really sure where you were going with your speech. "Killing those men." You clarified, seeing him tense as you did so.

"I know it makes me sound like a monster, but I'd rather let the nightmares haunt me if it means that my family won't."

You took a deep breath, wondering if you should carry on to the point where there was no turning back.

"If it means that I can sit here now, with you, and be thankful that I was the one who managed to pull the trigger first." You finished, afraid to look up and meet his eyes.

You felt entirely exposed to him, as you sat there on the scratchy material of his sleeping bag, running your hands over it for comfort.

"Is this it?" He asked after a few seconds.

"What?" You replied, watching as he shuffled about in front of you.

"Is this the life you want?" He muttered, his voice coming out strained.

You nodded your head. "It can be." You told him. "It is." You reiterated, more certain this time.

You felt like all of your thoughts and worries were spilling out before you, like tipped ink spreading over paper. You couldn't stop yourself from telling the man everything.

"We've lost people," you acknowledged, not missing the way he frowned as you said it, "Dale and Sofia." You continued. "We'll probably lose more."

"But, call me delusional, I still have hope." You said with a smile, wondering if you truly were fooling yourself.

Daryl seemed to think so too, furrowing his eyebrows at you.

"What're ya hopin' for?" He asked.

"I don't know." You answered.

"Some days it's for a cure to be found." You said, wistfully. "Others it's that we can all live peacefully on this farm until we grow old. Sometimes, I just want to find a matching pair of socks in my laundry." You finished with a slight chuckle.

"And recently, I've been hoping that it rains." You added, hoping that he wouldn't laugh at that one in particular.

He didn't, instead glancing out of the tent, towards the clouds gathered above it.

"Give it a couple days." He mumbled, and you didn't doubt him for a second.

"Yeah, I hope so." You responded, looking up at the sky, too.

You sat in his company for a bit longer as he resumed his packing like nothing had happened. He didn't seem to have much, either, but you still watched curiously as he went through it. After a short while you noticed him pick up a glossy magazine, and put it in one of the bags. You instantly recognised it as the one you'd given him before, from the gas station, about motorcycles. You were surprised that he'd kept it, since it had been a few weeks since then.

"Did you read it?" You questioned, before you even realised you had said it.

"Yeah." Daryl responded, matter of factly.

"And?" You pried, stretching out your legs to laze back further on his sleeping bag. "Got any tips for me?"

He scoffed at that, shooting you a glance as he zipped up the bag. "Don' fall off."

You rolled your eyes at him, before deciding to tease him back a little.

"Mark my words, Dixon." You pointed at him. "One day I'll be the one riding that thing and you'll be clinging onto me."

He didn't bite to it, sitting back down opposite you with a smug look on his face.

"You tryna give me nightmares now?"

When he finished, you reached for your satchel lying next to you, remembering one of the reasons you had come to see the man in the first place. You pulled out his flannel shirt from it, which you'd neatly folded earlier on, and offered it out to him.

"I was thinking that I should probably return this to you." You explained, as he gave you a confused look.

"Thought ya was gonna use it to bribe somethin' outta me." He quipped, snarkily.

You nodded at him, rubbing your thumb over the material.

"Yeah, I thought about it." You admitted. "But then I realised that we were all going to be staying in the Greenes' living room together from tonight. Practically on top of each other."

Daryl stared down at the shirt in your hands, but didn't take it from you. Instead, he leant back on his knuckles, as if moving even further away from it

"What's that have to do with 'nything?" He asked, and you wondered whether you were prepared to answer truthfully.

You thought back on the game you'd all played with Dale's fishing hat and wished that you were wearing it now, to be able to muster up some false courage.

"Well," you started, swallowing thickly, "then you'd realise that I sleep in it every night." You confessed, noticing how his expression changed a little. "And that would be embarrassing."

Suddenly, the silence started to seem stifling to you as you played with your hands in your lap, looking down at them. You felt your stomach flip as you awaited his response, but it never came. Instead of waiting any longer, you decided to get out of there before facing inevitable rejection. You cleared your throat and started packing up your satchel in a hurry.

"Anyway, I should go." You excused, trying not to appear flustered. "Got to haul anchor on the yellow submarine."

You picked up his shirt once again and held it out to him, looking over with pleading eyes and praying that he'd just take it so you could leave.

He didn't, shaking his head again at the gesture.

"Nah, it's yours." He said gruffly. "I don' care what ya do with it."

You spoke up, wondering if you were really willing to fight with this man over a shirt.

"You might not, but I'm sure the others would have something to say about it." You explained, thinking about how Maggie had picked up on it straight away when you'd worn it by accident the day before.

"Here." You said more sternly, placing it into his lap. "Back with its rightful owner."

Daryl took it from his lap and placed it beside him, as he fumbled around in his jean pocket and pulled out his zippo from it. He flicked it open with his thumb and you watched as the blue flame jumped up, before he closed it again.

"Got enough gifts from ya." He said, gesturing to the lighter before looking over to the backpack where he'd put the magazine earlier.

He then pointed to the shirt, laid out in the space between you like a bargaining chip. "What were ya wantin' for it?"

You realised that he was referring to what you had said earlier, before Glenn had interrupted, and recalled how dangerously close the two of you had been.

"Nothing." You choked out, but it sounded forced. "I was just teasing."

"Ya weren't." Daryl said with certainty, and you felt your resolve crumbling.

"You're right." You replied.

Your eyes flickered over the man sitting in front of you, at his skin that was glazed by the sun and how much time he spent outdoors recently, and at his pale, steely blue eyes that watched you, watching him. He seemed just as nervous as you were, as if waiting for something to happen - for either of you to make a move. Yet, Daryl Dixon was shy. He was a sweet man bundled up in layers of trust issues and insecurity, which sometimes reared their heads as anger and frustration.

You saw beneath that. You saw the way he looked out for the group, and how he was hurt more deeply than any of the others at the loss of one of them. You noticed how he'd be up earlier than anyone else, making sure it was safe, and then how he'd go to bed the latest, too. At the same time, you were almost certain that this wasn't the same man you hauled from the creek that day. He looked the same, give or take a few scars and want of a haircut, but he was different. You could tell how much he'd grown in just a short space of time. He was a good man before, even if people were often fooled by his abrasive exterior, but he was an even better one now.

You gave him a warm smile, and felt a lot calmer than you had done in a while. You knew it was now or never, and accepted that you were, in fact, willing to risk it all for Daryl Dixon.

"There's one more thing I've been hoping for, as of late." You admitted, moving from his sleeping bag to crawl over to where he sat.

He stayed still, watching with a shy look, glancing over you as you approached with caution. As you got closer to him, so close that you could almost feel the weight of his eyes lingering on you, you picked up the discarded shirt and showed it to him.

He looked down at it in your hands before meeting your eyes again. You let your gaze flicker over his face, taking in his shy expression, before settling on his lips. This is what you wanted in return for his shirt, and you needed him to realise that.

You noticed how nervous he looked, and how he seemed to hold his breath at the proximity you shared. You rested one of your hands over his, feeling how warm it was beneath your own, before asking him your question.

"Are you sure you still want it back?" You flicked your eyes to the shirt and back at him, making sure he understood what you meant.

His gaze rested on you for a few seconds, as you felt your breath catch in your throat waiting for his response. He nodded.

You smiled back, raising your other hand to cup his cheek gently, stroking over it with your thumb as you felt a wave of affection run through you for the man under your fingertips. They almost trembled against him, as you felt a mixture of nerves and pure, simple emotion swell to the surface. Though, you felt his hand squeeze your other one, where you held it, and relaxed into his touch that reassured you.

You closed your eyes and closed the remaining distance between you both, placing a chaste kiss on his lips that made you feel a lot more than you'd expected it to. He was warm, and sweet, and trembling slightly. It made you smile into the kiss, and press more firmly against his cheek to remind him you were there. Even though it was obvious that you were there, kissing him, you needed him to know that you felt the same as he did.

You pulled away slowly, trying not to push for more. Your hand left his face and rested back at your side, suddenly feeling empty. The silence was loud, but it was comfortable. Your ears weren't ringing as they usually did. Instead, you focused on the soft sounds of Daryl's breathing, and watched as his eyes flickered over you and down to your own lips with want, as you had done to his. Though, he didn't seem quite confident enough in himself to act on it, and remained still.

Your heart beat quickly in your chest from the adrenaline, and you decided not to tempt things any further with him, either. He didn't say a word for a few seconds, but you didn't feel any sign of rejection. You moved away from him a little, allowing him his space, before picking up his shirt for the final time and pressing it into his chest lightly.

"Now it's yours again." You offered him a warm smile, which you felt was perhaps too big for your face. He took it from you.

You found it hard to conceal what you were feeling, but the look in his eyes told you that he didn't mind all that much. You sat in wordless wonder for a few minutes, considering what to say or do next. The sky had darkened a little as the clouds blocked the sunlight, and you felt the breeze pick up as your exposed skin prickled at the chill.

Then, you heard footsteps as someone approached the tent in a run. You whipped your head over to see Rick appear, ducking his head through the entryway and looking at the both of you with wide eyes.

"I need you to come with me, now." He instructed. "Randall's escaped."

A/N ahhhhhhh. AHHHH. I was SO excited to write this chapter, I cannot even tell you. This is merely the BEGINNING - the first flicker of this SLOW BURN! Just you wait until that confession... I have big things planned ;)

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[wordsfromthesol]

Family Concerns

Author: @wordsfromthesol​ Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader Taglist: togasbetch @anousiemay​ @malfoys-demigod​ @pricetagofficial Summary: Too many calls from too many of Jason's concerned family member's is driving you insane. Word Count: 771 A/N: The poll had a clear winner…so here it is! Don’t worry, the others are coming too!

"Jason, what the hell?!" You burst into Penguin's office, ignoring the sights around you.

Jason glanced over at the fish tank before meeting your eyes, "Did I do something?" He tossed the umbrella around in his hands.

"Yeah, you pissed off your goody-two-shoes brother again. I warned you, I'm not getting in the middle of this shit."

"Hm…Dick called you then?"

"Tim, actually." Your eyes drifted towards the man struggling in the background. Jason took notice.

"He's still got another 30 seconds." You rolled your eyes and sauntered out of the room. Stopping briefly at the sound of water spattering against the floor.

**

A few hours later Jason walked into the apartment. "Well, I got it."

You didn't bother looking up from your laptop, "I had every faith, my dear. Did you talk to Tim?" The silence spoke volumes. "At least tell him not to bother me…" you mumbled.

"He can't help it. Thinks everyone deserves a second chance."

"I think most Gotham crime lords have well exhausted their second chances."

"Yeah, well, thank goodness they have me." Jason plopped down on the couch beside you, causing you to finally look up from your computer. You had forgotten how good he looked in that suit. Your eyes trailed up and down his form until they stopped on the bright red spot growing on his shoulder.

"Are you bleeding?" Pushing your computer aside, you pulled Jason forward to exam his shoulder. "I swear if you get any more blood on this couch, I'll kill you…" You got up, heading straight for the first aid kit.

"I feel like that's a bit counterproductive!" Jason called after you before examining his own shoulder. The silence was deafening as you mended his shoulder. "Alright, I can't take it anymore. I'll call Tim! But I can't promise that it will help."

**

Almost a week had passed before you received another call. This time it was Dick. "You realize I don't control what he does, right?" You didn't bother with pleasantries as you answer the phone.

"What?" Dick feigned confusion.

"Listen, even if I could, I'm not sure I would. Clearly, your way isn't working. He's dismantled half of Cobblepot's operation from his little stunt last week."

"He almost drowned him!"

"Yeah…almost." You hung up before Dick could argue with you further. "This is getting ridiculous!" You made sure Jason could hear you in the next room.

"Hey, I'm just glad he's not calling me!" Jason couldn't hide the smirk adorning his face, though he wasn't expecting the pillow flying in his direction.

"If Bruce calls me, I cannot be held responsible for my words or actions." You flatly stated as you leaned against the doorframe.

"I would pay to see that."

**

And it was as if you summoned the man himself. Not even a day later, Bruce's contact came up on your phone. "I'm so not dealing with this today…" you mumbled before ignoring the call. You should've known it wouldn't be that easy.

"Y/N?" You heard the voice calling out from your phone.

"Fuck…Bruce! What can I do for you?" Even you didn't recognize the voice coming out of your mouth.

"I want to talk about Jason."

"I am so shocked." The rancor quickly came back into your speech. "Listen, I'll tell you what I've told your minions. I can't control him."

"This isn't about control." The monotone voice grated your ears.

"It's ALWAYS about control with you. I trust Jason. I know he's doing what he has to. Hence why he didn't kill Penguin last week." Silence fell on the other side of the line. "And another thing, even if he had killed him. SO WHAT?! How many innocent people have died because of that psychopath? How many more because you refused to kill him? So either accept him as is or get out of the fucking way." Once again, you didn't wait for a reply. Though you were sure if Bruce could fathom one, he would've forced his way through. Your temper rose until you heard a burst of laughter coming from behind you. Whipping your head around, you saw Jason standing near the front door.

"Okay I only caught the end of that…but it absolutely made my life." His next burst of laughter placated your anger as you joined in the laughter. 

[a-flickering-soul]

EverymanHYBRID And Deer In Media: In Five Parts (click for individual comparisons)

Deer are both a symbol of fragile purity and the untamable wild–here, we examine deer in the context of man, where deer come to represent the urge within us to abandon the conscious ego for the subconscious id. The deer is a symbol, too, of rebirth, of transformation, of shedding and regrowing its weapons each year. To kill, to be reborn, to choose to be monstrous through our proximity to humanity. Is there not something pure in surrendering to animal instinct? If deer are the twin themes of innocence and wildness, then we in turn are the juxtaposition of humanity and monstrousness–our actions made monstrous by the attempt to temper them with humanity.

(transcript, analysis, and sources below cut)

1: The Secret History & EverymanHYBRID--Bodies

The Secret History, on the killing of a man in a hallucinatory bacchanal:

"'Henry,' I said at last. 'Good God.' "He raised an eyebrow. 'Really, it was more upsetting than you can realize,' he said. 'Once I hit a deer with my car. It was a beautiful creature and to see it struggling, blood everywhere, legs broken ... And this was even more distressing but at least I thought it was over. I never dreamed we'd hear anything else about it.'"

EverymanHYBRID, "Ryan and the SEVENTRIALSOFHABIT":

A shot of a deer's dead body at the side of the road at night, looking crumpled and not quite right. The captions read: "Jeff: It's a fucking deer, dude. (Evan: See it?) Yeah. Something cut its belly open. (Evan: It cut its belly open the wrong way.)"

Parallels drawn:

Consider this one an amuse-bouche. Henry draws comparisons between a man he killed to a deer he accidentally hit with a car, mildly naming the incident ‘distressing’. There is a lack of human empathy, of guilt over killing a fellow man. In comparison, Jeff, Evan, and Vinnie at this point in the EMH plotline have not yet become hunter or hunted–they have not yet been warped by their roles in this iteration and can acknowledge the upsetting nature of the events that befall them. Henry has tasted that amoral nature and is less human for it, more visibly willing to shed that veneer of attempting to care about other people. Jeff, Evan, and Vinnie have not yet reached that point.

2: “Whoso List to Hunt”, EverymanHYBRID, and The Secret History--The Chase

"Whoso List to Hunt", on hunting a fabled white hind:

"I am of them that farthest cometh behind./ Yet may I by no means my wearied mind/ Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore/ Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore,/ Sithens in a net I seek to hold the wind./ Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,/ As well as I may spend his time in vain. And graven with diamonds in letters plain/ There is written, her fair neck round about:/ Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am,/ and wild to hold, though I seem tame."

EverymanHYBRID, "Slushpops and Surprises”

A shot of white text on a black page, "[Enter the tragic hero and his unattainable companion.]"

The Secret History, on hallucinations experienced during the bacchanal (bold for emphasis):

“‘Camilla said that during part of it, she’d believed she was a deer; and that was odd, too, because the rest of us remember chasing a deer through the woods, for miles it seemed. Actually it was miles. I know that for a fact. Apparently we ran and ran and ran, because when we came to ourselves we had no idea where we were.’”

EverymanHYBRID, “December & early January”:

A shot of Vinnie, hand covering his face in shock, as he sits and listens to Jessa’s last voicemail before she went missing. Jeff can be seen in the background, listening in silence. The captions read “[Jessa’s voice, recorded]: Steph, that thing you were talking about, I saw it...he’s real, he’s right here. What the hell does he want? I think he’s following me.”

Parallels drawn:

The deer symbolizes wild nature, something that man cannot obtain, touch, or capture without abandoning something of his own humanity. Similarly, deer represent the unattainable prey. Noli me tangere, says Caesar’s unattainable deer– touch me not, no matter how hard you may attempt to catch me. Jessa of EMH is deemed the unattainable companion and Jeff’s driving force to discover the truth behind the situation they’ve been placed in–it is Jessa, dangled in front of him after she goes missing, that leads Jeff down the path that inevitably leads to his own death after uncovering too much. The deer is to be chased, to be hunted, and never captured. Camilla from The Secret History believed herself to be a deer during the same hallucinatory bacchanal that cost a man his life, and led her brother and friends on a chase spanning miles. Jessa was hunted by an unknowable force, then used as bait to draw her partner down the path to his own death. Unattainability, the shape of something fleeing in front of you, elicits a powerful reaction to follow, to hunt, to chase. Jessa fell victim to that reaction. Camilla, and the white hind, did not.

3: The Myth of Diana and Actaeon, EverymanHYBRID, and The Secret History--Madness

The Diana and Actaeon Fountain at the Caserta Royal Palace:

The detail of the fountain shown depicts the pivotal scene in the myth of Actaeon and Artemis, where Actaeon, mid-transformation into a stag, is killed for the slight of viewing the goddess Artemis nude.The sculpture shows the transformation in no mercy, plain in its depiction of Actaeon’s pain and terror, and the simple ferocity of the hounds that surround him.

EverymanHYBRID, “May & June”:

A shot of Jeff, blood spattered across him, speaking with a shocked and angry tone. The captions read, “Jeff: Why were we doing that? That was...that’s not what we were looking for. We knew damned well that wasn’t what we were trying to kill. (Vince: Close enough.) It was a deer! It was a fucking deer! I tried to pull you off, you tried to punch me in the fucking face!”

The Secret History, on the Greeks’ view of beauty and terror (bold for emphasis):

“Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it. And what could be more terrifying and beautiful to souls like the Greeks or to our own, than to lose control completely? To throw off the chains of being for an instant, to shatter the accident of our mortal selves? Euripedes speaks of the Maenads: head thrown back, throat to the stars, ‘more like deer than human being’.”

Parallels drawn:

Most depictions of Actaeon, sculpture or painting, usually show him with antlers or a deer lower body, leaving his head and face a recognizable human shape. However, the sculptor here decided to subvert expectations and leave his body human, giving Actaeon the animal head of a stag. The loss of control and the descent from human to animal is not glorified or made palatable by the mere addition of a crown of antlers--there is only the one constant, fear, that follows him all the way down. Madness may be defined as a loss of control, and there may be something beautiful and terrifying in feeling your sanity slip through your own fingers. Jeff, Evan, and Vinnie are overtaken by brief, inexplicable madness and tear apart a deer as they come dangerously close to uncovering exactly who and what is hunting them. They skate close to seeing soemthing they shouldn't see. It is only Jeff who looks up, shocked by the blood on his hands, and voices his fear. Vinnie, apathetic, lets it go. But Evan, houndlike and irrational, defends his kill.

4: EverymanHYBRID & Hannibal--Warnings and Temptation

EverymanHYBRID, “May & June”:

A shot of Evan, spattered heavily with blood, standing with shoulders caved in protectively. His left hand is raised to his mouth, with his hair covering his eyes, and he is licking the blood off of his fingers.

“Shot Through The Hart, and Hannibal’s To Blame” (bold for emphasis):

“In my post about ravens, I talked about how it’s not always easy to tell what the Ravenstag really means. Is it evidence of the Hannibalesque elements of Will’s soul? Or a warning of those parts growing within him? Does the Ravenstag urge Will forward on his journey, or warn him of what’s to come?”

Hannibal, Season 1, Episode 1 “Aperitif”:

A shot of the Ravenstag, staring directly into the camera with one hoof up, as if to approach. There are black feathers interwoven with its pelt and its eyes have an uncanny shine.

Parallels drawn:

On a naturalistic note, deer are skittish creatures. They have thin legs and a sleek body, made for running. A small head and big eyes, placed wide-set to see coming predators. Keen ears. They are ready at any moment to sense danger, warn others, and flee. When a deer does not move, it is either safe or sizing up its options, either accepting where it is or preparing to run. Deer, staring directly at the viewer, come as a sympathetic warning to flee or, in its dark eyes and firm stance, a temptation. Me tangere, they say. Come closer. We are one and the same. In Bryan Fuller’s Hannibal, the commanding presence of the Ravenstag serves as both a warning and a beckoning temptation to turn his feet down the darker path. It is otherworldly, black-furred and feathered, and yet a warning of events rooted in the real world--does Will understand what danger he is in upon meeting Hannibal and take the warning, or will he ignore it, sensing that same darkness in himself, that same potential for corruption? In EverymanHYBRID, it is that same killing of a deer that hints at that same potential for darkness growing inside Evan. He licks at his fingers, animalistic, fully ignoring his own Ravenstag warning signs for the delight of the hunt. Is he Evan anymore? Or is something else growing inside him?

5: EverymanHYBRID & Hannibal--Predator and Prey, or the Final Act

EverymanHybrid, “:D”:

A shot of HABIT, looking up a set of stairs with one foot on the bottom step. In one hand down by his side, he is holding a knife. His posture is tilted forward, poised, ready to spring into action, like that of a hunter.

“Shot Through The Hart, and Hannibal’s To Blame” (bold for emphasis):

“The idea of deer as symbols of rebirth also stands out to me. Hannibal is a series obsessed with becoming and transformation. People start one way, and are reborn as something completely other by the end of the show. There’s even a character sewn up into a deceased pregnant horse in the hopes that when she’s released, she will be literally reborn as something different. It’s thus a neat fit, this significance of deer with the themes of the show.”

EverymanHYBRID, “:D”:

A shot of Jeff, looking up and to the side with an expression of caution and fear. His eyes are unnerved, squinting as, from offscreen, HABIT’s hand plays idly with his hat.

Parallels drawn:

The first and final incarnation of the deer is, of course, prey. Beyond and before any symbolism of innocence and wildness and warnings, deer are prey animals, to be hunted and devoured. And yet, in keeping with the concept of contrasting symbolism, deer are not helpless. Yearly, they shed and regrow their antlers in a transformation of horn and blood. At the climax of EverymanHYBRID, the final reveal, the final transformation, comes to fruition. HABIT, formerly Evan, takes its place as the Hunter, the archetypal predator, with Jeff shown most prominently as the Prey. Jeff’s luck has run its course, with him in the chair as the sacrificial prey-victim to fall to HABIT’s knife. HABIT, reborn, reiterated, made incarnate through Evan’s unwilling transformation, is poised to start the hunt. This is the big reveal, the crux of the transformation, Actaeon caught mid-transfiguration and the bloody sloughing-off of velvet humanity to reveal perfect and gleaming antlers. This is what it comes down to, time and time again. The hunter and the hunted. The wilderness embraced and the wilderness captured, and the monstrosity in that act.

Works Cited

Callimachus. Actaeon and Artemis. C. 220 BC

Fuller, Bryan. “Apetirif.” Hannibal, season 1, episode 1, NBC, 4 Apr. 2013.

Koval, J., Caffarello, V., &; Jennings, E. (Directors). (2011, July 12). May & June [Video file].

Koval, J., Caffarello, V., &; Jennings, E. (Directors). (2012, October 9). :D [Video file].

Tartt, Donna. The Secret History. Penguin, 2006.

Uhminuh. “Shot Through the Hart, and Hannibal's to Blame.” Read the Rude, Wordpress, 19 July 2020.

Wyatt, Thomas. “Whoso List to Hunt, I Know where is an Hind.” c. 1530.

Honorary mention to this fanart by @/rrhaes that started this whole spiral

[carelesscreativity]

Kross Fatal Sparring: Gift for ShironuK

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

[Based on this Thread: https://twitter.com/shironusins/status/1385432090225909763?s=21]

(SFW, Blood, Angst, Dismemberment)

Killer felt so... itchy. He felt one of his sockets twitch as he stared straight ahead, his empty eyes fixed on the wall across from the bed. He was laying back against the backboard, having been sharpening his knife. His arms had suddenly fallen limp in his lap, his soul having given a sudden, violent spark that had rattled him and left a tingling along his bones. It wasn't a comfortable one. He felt a pressure and quickly realized that he had been holding his breath the whole time.

He shakily exhaled, watching as a billowing cloud of glowing red mist escaped his jaws. He supposed that was his LV flare for the day. It was the shortest one he'd had in a while and even the most painless. He furrowed his brow and after another moment of recovering, slowly began to sharpen his knife on the whetstone once more. He was so focused on that, he nearly had a soul attack at a knock on his door. He stared at it for a moment, his mind not quite clicking before it caught up to him. "Hold on!" He called.

He slipped out of the bed and stretched, figuring he already knew who it was. He always showed up around this time. Killer picked up his knife, slipping it up his sleeve and moving over to the door, unlocking and opening. "Hey there. Come to see me?" He asked teasingly. Cross scoffed and rolled his eyes. He opened his jaws and Killer was already out the door, shutting it behind him. "Hell yeah, I would love kick your ass."

"We're sparring." Cross said flatly, scoffing warmly as Killer turned to look back at him with an innocent smile and a shrug. Cross' eyes flicked to his soul for just a moment, the target glowing much brighter than usual. Killer got his attention with his snarky, teasing voice.

"That's what I said, isn't it?" Killer led the way down to the training room, his smile only faltering once he was turned away from Cross. He furrowed his brow just for a moment, wondering why he still felt so itchy. It wasn't the kind of itch that he could scratch. It was one that was deepset in his bones and marrow. It was inside and Killer wasn't sure he'd felt something like that before.

They reached the large, open room and Killer gave an abrupt spin to face Cross, turning on his heel and giving a lazy smile. The soldier almost ran right into him, nearly jumping out of his bones. "You need to stop doing that." He said gruffly, a soft purple dusting along his cheeks. Killer reached up and Cross raised a brow in response before sighing as Killer traced his fingers over his cheek with a grin.

"Why would I stop? You always look so pretty when I do it." Killer's feverishly bright soul allowed itself to bend just a little and the faintest eyelights were seen in Killer's usually empty sockets as he grinned. "Alright!" He turned away and walked a few feet ahead, slipping his knife out of his sleeve and into his hand. He spun back to face him with that teasing grin, ignoring the prickling. It was spreading from his soul, he realized, having been unable to pinpoint the origin earlier. He got into a starting position, watching Cross summon his large knife and do the same.

Killer's head was swimming and his thoughts kept slipping out of his grasp. The match began, both of them fast and precise. The blows exchanged between them would be superficial if they ever landed. He knew the others liked watching the two of them spar and would probably already be coming to see them. The clanging and clinking of metal on metal echoed through the training room, the prickling becoming more and more powerful. The sounds were blurring, but Killer kept his body moving.

He didn't even feel like he was the one moving it though. His body was on autopilot, acting without his mind being fully attached. He wasn't focused on the fight. Killer was SO itchy. Mid-strike, his soul gave a powerful crackle and it made him stumble just long enough to miss a dodge. There was a faint searing pain across his cheek and Killer felt something spilling down his face. It wasn't more than a cut, he could tell that much. But the way his soul suddenly flared up made his bones feel electrocuted. He was in danger. He was in danger and that had to be remedied.

He was on his opponent in an instant, pinning them hard enough for their head to crack against the ground. Killer's body was still on autopilot and he couldn't even really see. All he saw was red and black and brightness. It was so fucking bright. He couldn't speak and even if he was, he couldn't hear himself. HE WAS SO FUCKING ITCHY. His arms were moving. His arms were moving and he could hear noises that were comforting and familiar though the itchiness, which was quickly becoming painful. His eyesockets were no longer empty, but they were pitch black and melting down his face. A true visage of terror and a picture perfect reminder of what he was. He felt like he was melting on DETERMINATION.

Screaming. He could hear screaming but he couldn't tell who's it was. He had sheared straight through his opponent's armor, aiming at the same spot over and over, liquid spilling through his fingers and the familiarity of it all was sending him on a high like he'd never experienced. He dug the knife in and yanked it downwards, breaking through everything in his path before resorting to frantic stabbing wherever he could hit. His entire body felt like it was on fire and he was pretty sure he was smiling as he felt marrow spatter his face and felt the crunching of bone beneath him. It was all so much. It was all so much and he was living for it. He needed more to satiate that burning itch all over his body. INSIDE his body. He needed MORE. He needed-

"KILLER!" The itch went cold. The prickling felt like it was retreating into his soul and all of a sudden, he was aware. He was shaking. He was shaking from the exhilaration and everything was still too much. His hands were wet. He could feel the liquid hate running down his face, but there was something else he couldn't identify. He was breathing so hard. It felt like he'd just run 300,000 miles and he was gasping down air. He was shaking so hard. He wasn't itchy anymore.

He became... aware. His opponent. His entire body went cold and he didn't want to tilt his head down. He forced himself to anyway and met Cross' empty eyelights. Cross' face was intact, give a couple of purple spatters and the tears streaming down his face. It was everything below it that was now the problem. His uniform had been torn straight open, the edges frayed and it now being more purple than it was white (He had sheared straight through his opponent's armor). His right arm had been completely shattered off, the ground below cracked from the force of his attack (aiming at the same spot over and over). His ribcage had the worst of it, the ribs broken in a straight line from his collarbone to the edge, just BARELY missing his sternum (He dug the knife in and yanked it downwards, breaking everything in his path).

Cross looked dead. He looked dead and Killer stared at him. He couldn't. He couldn't be... He couldn't. A glow caught his eye and he looked over, blinking the liquid hate from his eyesockets to see that Cross was holding his own soul loosely in his hand, having gotten it out of his ribcage before Killer had attacked. His ribcage was covered in stab wounds. His large red knife was completely gone. Killer could feel his arms drenched halfway up to his elbows in purple blood and his knife wasn't even shining anymore. Hadn't he just sharpened it? He loosened his grip on the handle and watched the purple blade fall to the ground and clatter a bit away, the sound echoing through the room. He heard footsteps.

Then, it struck Killer just who's voice had yelled his name and by the time he realized, he was already being yanked off of Cross by several tentacles around his limbs. He was tossed backwards and caught, being laid on his back. Though he'd heard and thought and seen so clearly for a few moments, he was back in a blurred world, the sounds faint and muffled. He was itchy again. Someone else had him and he managed to process a faint glow again, this one a wide eyelight ringed in red, blue and purple. Killer was focused on the dark shape of Nightmare hunched over Cross' broken body.

His voice sounded far away and panicked as someone else grabbed Killer from the other side. He could see the red glow of another eyelight fixed on him. He had the vague idea that he was being restrained and he gave a quiet nod. He was so itchy. He was so, so itchy. He dropped back as his soul gave another violent flare, his vision being swamped in that bright, bright red again as he opened his jaws. He was probably screaming, but he couldn't hear it at all. Black was creeping into the edges of his vision and he collapsed against the ground as it came rushing in, effectively silencing him and shutting him off to the blurred world around him.

————————————

The knock on Killer’s bedroom door was slow. He didn’t move. If it was Nightmare like usual, he would just teleport in when Killer didn’t open the door. He kept himself buried in his blankets in the dark. The curtains had been shut for a long time. It had been nearly two months and Nightmare still couldn’t even send Killer on a mission. Killer couldn’t stand being in the light because it would show. He would see it. The reminder of what he did.

They’d cleaned him up best they could, but Cross’ blood seemed to have permanently stained his bones a faint purple. Killer couldn’t look at his arms or hands without feeling that itchiness and a devastating chill through his entire body. The bedroom was illuminated only faintly by a thin strip of sunlight through the curtains. He was thinking about him again. He was thinking about Cross. He was thinking about when he’d visited him in his bedroom about three weeks after the incident.

Nightmare had been there to monitor both of them, holding Killer’s soul in his hands since he knew the negativity Killer would have from just seeing Cross would break him if not drained immediately. The soldier seemed to be stained with his own blood as well. Killer had managed to apologize to him in a tearful mess. Cross had accepted it, but when Killer had clasped his hands in front of himself, Cross had flinched so hard that there had been a soft crack and new blood had appeared, soaking through his bandages.

Killer had stared at it and Cross had begun to say something, but Killer was already long gone. They hadn’t seen each other since. No one had seen Killer, in fact, except for Nightmare, who stopped by constantly to check on him and drain the negativity that would build up and fester in his target soul. There was another knock before Nightmare’s familiar presence was felt in his room. Killer didn’t move until a voice he wasn’t expecting shocked him straight up out of his covers.

“Killer?” Cross’ voice was quiet and Killer turned to look with wide eyes. Before he even processed it, his body had moved to the farthest edge of his bed. Cross stared at him from next to Nightmare’s side. He looked exactly the same as before the incident in the dim light of the bedroom. Nightmare moved around to where Killer was, holding out his hand. Killer released his soul to him without a second thought, his eyes still fixed on Cross. His arms burned.

“Yeah.” Killer’s voice sounded broken.

Nightmare had already started pulling shame and guilt from him, moving away to stand across the room from both of them. Cross seemed hesitant before he came over, sitting on the edge of the bed farthest from Killer to give him space. He sighed. “I don’t blame you.” He said quietly. Killer stared at him for a moment. He didn’t understand. “I know that probably doesn’t make much sense, but please just know that I don’t blame you.” Cross said, giving a very weak smile.

It sent a pang straight to Killer’s soul. He missed seeing that smile. But Cross was so stupid. He was so stupid to forgive him so easily, especially for what Killer had done to him. He was far too forgiving. Far too merciful. Killer didn’t deserve any of that. Before he knew it, something else was spilling over his eyesockets along with the liquid hate. He prayed his tears weren’t that visible, but the way Cross’ shoulders sank and his smile faltered didn’t give Killer much hope. “I’m sorry.” Killer said shakily. Cross blinked and nodded, saying that he knew. “Cross...”

Nightmare was pulling a lot of negativity from him now. Cross blinked and sighed. “Killer, it’s okay.” Killer shook his head, burying it in his hands. “You didn’t hit my soul.”

“What if I had, Cross?? What if I had killed you on that dirty fucking floor???” Killer was shaking as he spoke. Cross blinked before saying that he hadn’t. He stared at Killer for a moment before moving a little closer to him. He sat in the middle of the bed now and Killer was staring at him with wide eyes. He placed his hands at his sides and Cross felt his entire body lock up for a moment at the sudden movement. He quickly relaxed, but Killer had already noticed.

The sadness and shame that Nightmare had to pull would feed him for millenniums, but he didn’t want that. Cross blinked before trying something else. “H-Hey, how about I bring up some snacks and hot chocolate? We usually would have some after we spar anyway, right?” Killer blinked tearfully at him and Cross tried for a smile. “I’ll go make it and bring it up, okay? We can talk about this... okay?”

Killer stared at him for another few moments. Cross may have already forgiven him, but he clearly wasn’t unaffected. And just because Cross had forgiven him didn’t mean that Killer forgave himself. This could be a step, at least, back to whatever they’d had before. He finally managed a quiet nod and Cross visibly perked up. Killer managed to meet his gaze as he whispered a quiet ‘okay.’

[falcor-thee-luck-dragon]

Hi hi! I saw your post asking for request/inspiration! Maybe Geralt x fem reader, and geralt has to hunt down a monster but the reader as well, so first they try to outsmart the other but eventually they realize they have to work together and they end up falling for each other? ❤️❤️

Bound By Blood - Geralt of Rivia x (f)reader - Part 1

side note- I have no self control and just kept writing so we’re gonna have a pt. 2 soon

Summary: Geralt has learned of a mysterious witch and her supposed vicious familiar, now he must hunt to bring them down for their crimes.

Warning: blood & gore, angst, bit o fluff, some smut sprinkled in the mix

It had been a good couple of weeks since his last kill, or since he had a solid amount of coin that could pay for food and board. So like any Witcher with a freshly sharpened sword and a thirst for coin with a little adventure included, Geralt was on the move, in search of his next monster to slay.

Though by the looks of it, the continent is starting to feel like a much larger place then he remembered, or perhaps he’s out in the wilds a bit further then once previously thought. Either way, the day is bright and the woods are green, although the occasional snowflake floating into his hair and Roach’s for that matter may become an annoyance later on. Guess he’ll just have to see where the road takes him this time.

No sooner would his swimming thoughts of wondrous curiosity be answered after a couple hours of traveling through the now very snow covered forest, where he would happen upon a small gathering of road worn travelers. All of whom appeared to be speaking over a small fire, their horses tied off close by. And most likely, weapons hidden at the ready for odd folk like himself.

Roach’s hooves are almost silent against the powdery white fluff as Geralt makes his way into view of this pack of loyal companions trying to have a meal in the midst of their camp before nightfall. Soon their eyes find Roach and himself, these strangers look on in cautious apprehension, wary and uncertain of what this Witcher’s true intentions are.

Suddenly a young foxy looking boy stands, his thick auburn hair falling in his face as he points a shaky steel knife in the air, “What business you have? We don’t want a fight.” Speaks the boy as confidently as he can muster, though there is a small waver in his voice. The others wait for an answer.

Geralt blinks, face unassuming and as relatively non-threatening as possible, “I’m just passing through, I’m trying to see what beast needs killed over the next hill.”

The boy lowers his knife, “Oh...well, good luck to you then. There’s been a great bear said to be hunting for Nilfgaard soldiers over that way, that’s why we’re headed west instead.”

Before Geralt is able to respond an older woman with a wolf rug over her back steps next to the boy protectively, “Best keep a move on Witcher,” She warns, eyeing him up suspiciously with her pale grey eyes, “said a woman with...unnatural powers commands the beast to kill for her. A witch of the wood it’s said, but that old bastard she has, been killing villagers and travelers alike who venture too far from town.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Mutters Geralt before directing Roach to continue onward with a click of his tongue.

——

They had never seen you coming, and now they’re paying for their lack of scouting with their pathetic little lives. The soldiers of Nilfgaard were said to be the most deadly and dangerous, men who came with fire in their hearts and steel in their hands. They feared nothing and no one, dressed in black armor and growing in numbers from the south everyday was enough to make you feel sick.

They had no right nor proper business claiming and desecrating what wasn’t there’s, how dare they hurt innocent people, they acted like true barbarians. And you would not put up with it any longer, they had burned your home, murdered your mother, and destroyed the rest of your village.

So for their crimes, you decided it was time to do what was necessary for the continents future survival, it was time to hunt. For months have you and your furry companion been here and there eradicating soldier camp after soldier camp with great satisfaction, now finally at long last have you tracked down a group of Nilfgaardians who’ve strayed too far from the main hoard. How unfortunate.

You had waited patiently to ambush them on the main road where they’d been trekking down for the past day and a half, it was too damn easy, all you did was pretend to be a hurt scared maiden in the woods. Then when they attempted to comfort you, your bear burst forth from the underbrush and slaughtered a handful before they even knew what hit them.

Now here you stand, boots in the spattered snow as you look around the blood stained white blanket of earth where a multitude of soldiers lay dead and mutilated. Though one remains with air still in his lungs, you smirk a wicked grin, eyeing up the fallen soldier as he stares wide eyed up at you from his broken body against a tree stump.

Your furry accomplice breaths heavy mountainous breaths close by, though he’s aware enough to know you’ll take care of the last one. And the terrified soldier knows it too as you take more steps closer. He flinches as you crouch down to meet his blood spattered face, “Nu-no, no...do-don’t...”

“Shhh.” You smile, raising a finger to his lips, silencing him instantly.

 He’s shaking now, eyes like a young fearful child’s as he studies your beautiful yet frightening appearance. “I thought all Nilfgaardian soldiers feared nothing, not even death. What a disappointment you all are.”

“We will...ta-take it....a-all...” He whimpers out as you throw him a harsh glare that shuts his bloody mouth.

“Just like I have taken your brothers lives,” You whisper with a sly grin before casually shrugging, “an eye for an eye they say....so don’t be afraid, I have felt the same as you do right now. Helpless, terrified, in pain....but listen...” You look sincerely into his broken gaze, a small smile upon your lips as you rest a comforting hand over his arm, though he knows its anything but comfort. “Nilfgaard and all her subjects can burn in the fiery pits of the underworld for what they’ve chosen to do in these lands. I was on the wrong side of the sword once, now you are, and no magical bear is going to come save you.” Your words are as deadly as poison, like a cobra spitting venom to their prey before the final strike.

His eyes go wide, blood seeping down his cracked lips, “No. No..n-no no! No!” Suddenly you thrust your dagger right through his jugular and right back out again causing a spurt of blood to mark your cheek, standing back you watch as he gasps and sputters, choking on his own blood as it gushes out of him like a waterfall.

“He even dies like a bitch.” You mutter in disgust, cleaning off your sword with your arm before sheathing it once again, now looking over to the beast standing in the snow. Heavy white clouds of hot breath pierce the crisp air as he watches your every move in interest, “Come. Let’s get away from here before someone sees us, we don’t need anymore bloodshed today. Now these fuckers are food for crows.”

The bear growls in agreeance, trailing after you as some hungry black ravens caw from the trees in excitement for their new free meal. No village will burn today.

——

“Oh yes, I saw her command the bear to kill those soldiers just three days ago!”

“That beast took my son last week, kill them Witcher!”

“I’m afraid to visit my cousins in the next town over! You must kill them!”

That had been the comments and ramblings of the townsfolk of the local tavern when he asked who and where this witch and her bear was. Though he didn’t get much of a solid answer by any means, not until an old hunter had eventually directed him to where the most recent cluster of Nilfgaard soldiers had headed.

Stating that if Geralt follows their route, then he would most likely come upon the men’s remains somewhere along the road, and if he was lucky, he’d run into the two killers as well.

Indeed it had taken him about a day or so, but eventually the farther down the trail he got, the fresher the tracks became. Suddenly during his journey did he pass a rider-less horse on its way back towards town, a dark brown smear of some kind splattered across its grey leg. Now this looked quite promising.

Only a small trot up the road did he finally find the brutal remains of the soldiers that had most definitely not made it to wherever they had planned on heading. The snow in particular was disturbed and littered with chunks of men, swords thrown about and shields bent and broken. He could smell blood and piss from the men, most of all he could smell bear and what it had done here, though it was strange too. For a sweeter scent could be recognized on the cool wintery breeze, such a viable contrast to the current state of the environment. 

She still lingers close, thinks the Witcher. Quickly moving to pull out his silver sword from within its sheath. Sensing a new presence among the fallen, he whips around in a dark blur only to be greeted face to face with a beautiful woman.

He stood his ground eyeing your form suspiciously like a lion wondering if his prey will be easy enough to kill, though he wasn’t certain if he truly wanted to kill you at all. You looked rather unassuming and calm, less monsterly and more a simple traveling woman then anything else, such unlike the grisly tall tales that those travelers and townsfolk had gossiped to him about.

Honestly Geralt was beginning to doubt what he had been given coin for, but he would not submit to that thought just yet, he has faced creatures just as alluring as you and found them quite deadly enough.

Keeping his silver placed firmly at his side, though still tightly grasped in his strong hand, his golden eyes trail over you cautiously, “You do this?” He wonders, coming out more of an accusatory statement as he glances at the bloody array of dead Nilfgaardian soldiers gutted about on the soft white snow.

Your breaths are steady though you feel more annoyed by his random intrusion then anything else, you only came back here to take their weapons to give to the villagers, “I have no quarrel with you, Witcher.” Your voice is truthful and fierce, not an ounce of nervousness radiating off of your tongue. As far as you’re concerned this man is nothing but an inconvenience.

He keeps a stoic face, not revealing much but a tinge of amusement in his shimmering eyes, “Strange then. I’ve been given coin to kill a dangerous sorceress and her enchanted bear. Fitting your description exactly, and here we are. Among the dead soldiers you’ve been claimed to murder.”

Scoffing you curtly fold your arms over your chest, “I hardly see a problem here when these fuckers have slaughtered countless innocents! They’re marching for the north and I do not doubt they’ll get it if people like me don’t try and lessen their numbers.”

He looks to the ground then back up to you, letting out a low frustrated sigh, “Your beast has killed villagers. Innocents.” His words are almost a slap in the face, but you know those people only got in the way of taking down these soldiers.

“Yes.” You nod, watching as he studies your face, “And it is a tragedy that I am greatly sorry for...but my companion is still an animal with his own will even when I give him a task. A bear is a bear, Witcher.”

He hums, “I understand that. But I cannot let you kill anyone else.”

Taking a single step back you quickly unfold your arms, alerting the Witcher to raise his sword though you show no intention of fighting him. His grey brows furrow as you shake your head, “You’re better off leaving us be. Those soldiers deserved what they got coming to them, and the people of this continent will thank us in due time. For they do not know the wrath and ruin that Nilfgaard is capable of.”

He watches as you take a couple more steps backwards towards the pine trees, your face serious and unflinching even when he takes a few steps towards you. “I kill monsters, witch. You’re no different.”

Now this does anger you, for that your eyes almost appear to darken with rage, your posture taller as you stare him down, “You are nothing but a blind fool who cannot see the bigger picture! So I won’t feel very bad about this..”

“About what?”

He watches as you take a step to the side, ignoring him when suddenly without warning does a ginormous brown bear charge from out of the evergreens, teeth and claws at the ready as they swing for his throat.

Geralt just barely dodges the huge furry bastard when a blundering paw races down for his arm, he twists away and out of the bears reach though his sword does catch the thick black pad of the bears left paw. It roars in pain, face a mask of rage as it turns towards Geralt with lighting reflexes.

Suddenly the bear swings a heavy paw directly into Geralt’s leather armored chest, knocking the wind out of him while also managing to thrust him blindly into a thick oak tree. All that the Witcher can glimpse before slipping into blissful unconsciousness is the wounded beast retreating into the woods while your silhouetted form begins walking towards him.

Then darkness.

——

When Geralt comes to he’s distressed to find his armor gone and his torso bare except for a thick white bandage wrapped around his shoulder and chest where the bear swatted at him with its large paw. The fabric is oddly soft, though a slight pink uneven line has seeped out now visible across his breasts, no doubt the area where that bear had gotten him. 

His big golden irises blink hard, focusing better now to unexpectedly find your smirking face as you walk into view, “Have a pleasant rest?” You muse, sitting down in a soft cushioned chair at his bedside, “My old friend gave you a run for your coin huh?”

Well this is odd, he thinks.

His brows furrow even deeper, though his chest hurts too much to attempt an escape, “I would have imagined you were going to kill me. I don’t understand...”

Chuckling lightly you smile, “Remember Witcher, I have no quarrel with you. Just those fucking soldiers....and don’t worry, my companion will not bring you any more harm unless I see to it.”

“Well...uh...I guess that’s good then.” Mutters the Witcher, begrudgingly scooting himself up so that he may rest against the wooden headboard and have a better view of the small room, “Where exactly are we?”

Looking around the cozy cabin you’ve decided to inhabit for the time being, your eyes finally rest back on the curious silver haired man, “Somewhere that was once vacant and now is livable. That is all I will say, and all that matters to you now....so, my pursuer who’d see me dead if not for my cleverness. If you are going to be in my care for however long it takes you to heal, what is your name?” You watch as the Witcher purses his lips together, pausing for a moment to think if he should tell you, “Geralt. Geralt of Rivia.” He reveals in that titular gruff voice of his that’s honestly starting to grow on you even in the brief time you’ve known him.

Handing him a small smile of acknowledgement, you nod, “And I am Y/N of Stygga in the land of Ebbing which is north of Nilfgaard...so, Geralt of Rivia....what brings you to Thurn of all places and into my care? Besides the fact that my companion almost ended your pretty life.” You end with a wiggle of your brow.

“Coin.” He mutters humorously, so he is not just a man of silent beautifully chiseled stone after all.

You hum, “Simple and straight to the point, are all Witcher’s as intriguing as you are?”

Geralt blinks slowly, deciding to rest his head against the wood as he looks forward, “Perhaps only the ones who want to survive.”

Laughing you lean back in your seat, “Flattery and humor may yet keep you alive then. But you are mistaken with me, I do not intend to keep you as a prisoner in any way if that’s what you are meaning. You are free to go back to wherever you came from or to wherever you’re going....as I said, I have no quarrel with you. Witcher.” You speak his name with a bit of attitude considering he did originally come to kill you, nonetheless you quite enjoy his presence.

The look he gives you is enough to make you chuckle once more, then his eyes glance back to you, causing your laughter to die down, though he’s surprised that your smile has prevailed. “Then why have you kept me alive when you could have ended me just as quickly?” He wonders.

You shrug, “The world is scarce of such creatures like yourself, Witcher’s hmm...monster hunters. Others will need you, and this world is big after all and full of terrible things.” You add, hugging your cloak tighter as you tilt your head at him, “so I’d assume after you heal up you’ll leave me and my companion be as long as I agree to keep away from towns. Yes.”

“Hmm.” He utters, brows furrowed as he thinks over your offer. 

The Witcher keeps silent as his face shifts into deep thought, huffing you roll your eyes, “Geralt are free to leave if you so choose. I give you my word if you give me yours.”

“Which is?”

“You let me and my familiar leave in peace and we let you live.”

He studies your face for a moment, trying to find any signs of falseness though he fails to spot it, “Fine.” Grumbles the handsome silver haired man.

You smile in accomplishment before a slightly awkward silence fills the room, deciding to break the tension you tap the arm of your chair, “Are you going to leave then? Right now?”

He keeps silent for some time as you patiently await his answer until finally he looks into your eyes, “No.”

“Huh.” You slowly nod, not quite expecting that answer, “...are you thirsty then? You were out for some time.”

“Yes.” Answers Geralt, simple and straight to the point.

Smiling you nod, standing now to fetch your new friend some water from outside, once you return with a metal cup do you hand him the cold liquid, his warm hand just barley touching yours. Sending shivers down your spine that you didn’t know was possible as you go back to sit next to him. “Those wounds should heal soon enough, I’ve heard Witcher’s heal fast. Is there any truth to that?”

His golden eyes trail over to you, not a hint of annoyance in the way that he looks to you now, “It would seem so. Hopefully I never have another run in with your friend anytime soon. Though I wouldn’t mind running into you again, hopefully under less bloody circumstances.” Admits Geralt with the ghost of a smile.

You chuckle, “As would I.”

——

In the following days would you and Geralt find comfort in one another’s presence as you helped him heal from his wounds. This Witcher had told you numerous stories about his adventures all over the continent and what beasts have been slain by his hand and sharp silver.

They were undoubtedly fascinating though surprisingly full of such vigor and even respect for the ones he’s been given coin to kill. It was pleasant when he spoke of all those who he had prevented from meeting an untimely and violent end from said monsters.

Even more so bewildering to you was how invested and intrigued you had become with each passing day, you actually woke up excited to see someone, to hear their voice and have them ask how your morning was.

Unbeknownst to you, Geralt had healed two days ago but had come to the fascinating conclusion that he was in-fact enjoying your company more then first realized. He loves listening to you boast about all the clever tricks you’ve pulled on the Nilfgaardians and how you’ve kept them away from the villagers who would most like want nothing to do with them.

Maybe it is the palpable truth that he has been indeed a bit lonely, or maybe it’s just that you tell the best stories and are unlike anyone he’s ever met before. But Geralt has begun to grow a deep fondness for you that cannot be fully explained by himself no matter how hard he may try.

Though at first he found you beautiful enough, that wasn’t a large concern considering he was there to kill you. Then once all was revealed he decided you really aren’t as evil and malevolent as what was spoken to him by the townsfolk.

Now, he has seen you, heard your voice and been given a kindness that he knows is something he shouldn’t deserve. But he cannot fully know if you share the same growing feelings, why would you? He came to kill, he came to end your beautiful life and for what, gold? No, you mean something now, you are someone to him now, a person that he can’t help but care for. And maybe even love, that is if he knew what that truly felt like, is this it?

But what of you?

You’d be a filthy liar if you said this Witcher didn’t tug at your heart strings like he does so freely without even knowing it. He has wonderfully taken you off guard with his hidden tenderness and rough voice that you’ve decided is one of the most alluring sounds you’ve ever heard.

His eyes catch in the light like two shimmering golden coins, the way he asks you for a drink or a piece of bread sends electricity through you. How pathetic, you think, however it is rather nice. And most of all, his body is truly something else, you’ve never seen a man so toned and full of scars. How lucky you were to take his shirt off and keep his wounds from bleeding out, and in those hours after, he looked rather peaceful as he slept.

If only you could have joined him, felt his touch, been the one who he wanted more then the bread you’ve given him. But he is just a Witcher, he will leave and life will presume as it had been before either of you had met. He’ll become just another lost tragedy of your past, another loved one gone, never to be seen again.

He is just a Witcher you fool.

You frown now, your gaze focused on the small hearth as you sit by the fire, poking it with a metal stick as your thoughts drift to better days long gone, taken so suddenly and without so much as a sorry from who did it.

“Y/N.”

Your eyes stare vacantly into the beautifully glowing embers, you hear nothing but the sparks of flame crackling on wood.

“Y/N.”

A whisper perhaps, you can’t tell, you’re so lost into your own head at this point nothing but the fire matters to you.

Without warning a gentle hand is placed on your shoulder causing you to jump and drop the metal stick onto the stone fireplace with a loud clatter. Your eyes dart for the one who touches you as your heart beats heavily inside your chest.

Instead of a petty thief come to slay you, is the soft comforting eyes of Geralt, “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Apologizes the Witcher as he sits down next to you, offering half of his huge warm blanket.

You oblige without a second thought and let him drape it over your back while he then scoots closer so that your crossed knee is touching his. You give him the flash of a sad smile before drifting your dreary gaze back to the glowing hearth.

“Thank you for sharing, winter is cold after all and this cabin isn’t the most insulated of places.” You add, a low drone in your voice much unlike your usual lively self that he’s grown to love.

Furrowing his grey brows, Geralt studies your half illuminated face in the firelight, the only real source of light since the sun has gone down hours ago. “I figured you needed the company, and a blanket. I can almost of see my breath.” He says with a small chuckle though you barley acknowledge his very presence.

“Y/N?” He whispers, nudging your leg with his, “I haven’t spoken of it before but if I may ask, what happened to your hand?”

You look down to your left hand opposite of where Geralt is sitting, you hide it from the light though it is covered with a white cloth and your long sleeves. He is very observant isn’t he?

“Nothing important. I got it when fighting those damn soldiers before I saw you. It’s almost all healed up.” You whisper, “No need to think about it anymore.”

The room stays silent for another couple minutes before he finally speaks once again in that low gruff voice of his, “What troubles you?” He asks much to your surprise, maybe he is too observant for his own good.

“Many things.” You mutter quietly, turning your face to find his concerned gaze, a small smile on your lips to lessen his doubts, “Don’t worry my dear Witcher, you’re not one of them. And I’d rather not give you my burdens, they are not a fun little adventure like the ones you’ve told me about.”

“Neither are all of mine.” He speaks truthfully, staring deep into your saddened eyes, “I would be honored to comfort you of such miseries if you still want me near after.”

You look to the floor, biting your lip at this almost intimate news even if he only means to speak words of ease to you. Why not? What is there to lose if you tell him why you feel so full of melancholy.

Raising your eyes back up to his, you take a deep heavy sigh before looking back into the fire, “I had a good life. I really did, I had a mother and a brother. But that was all taken from me when those bastards plundered and beat their way into my peoples lands. Looting and killing as they went, what could I do huh...my family was in their way.” You admit with a hidden rage that just about causes the flames to glow brighter.

“They came into our village and began to burn everything they could, they ran into houses and stole away valuables untouched by the desolation yet. They took and killed my neighbors and friends, women and children, screaming infants.”

You pause for a moment, eyes welled up with unshed tears as you find your voice, “They burst through our door and pulled us three from our house before we could even react. Then those fuckers killed the only person who ever showed me true kindness and love, she didn’t deserve to die that way Geralt, she didn’t. Then again none of them did.”

“I can’t imagine.” Whispers Geralt sincerely, understanding how much it pains you to speak of your mother like this.

“For that,” You seethe out darkly, “I killed my first soldier that day, but of course they didn’t like that, not at all. Soon they held me down and beat me bloody like I was a fucking dog, if it wasn’t for my brother who stopped them. I’d be dead, he saved my life that day, helped me escape and I never looked back.” You swallow thickly as a lone tear slides down your cheek, “I haven’t seen him since, and I dare not think of how he met his end. It just fills me with rage and then...as you can see, I get like this.”

“Best not to linger in the darkness for too long.” Admits Geralt, his eyes truthful and honest as he takes you all in, “I wouldn’t want to lose you.”

Breaking out into a crooked smile you blink more tears away as he moves an inch closer, “I already feel gone some days. I’m not a good person Geralt, I’m dangerous.” Your voice his raspy and soft now as the feel of the room appears to take a shift somewhere you’re not so sure of. Dangerous? Y/N he has no idea.

The Witcher’s lips curl into a pleasant smile as his face keeps mere inches from your own, “I like dangerous.” Whispers Geralt before his plush lips pull you into a new world of warmth and fire. He moves against your mouth, taking his time as the two of you find a comfortable rhythm. Well, this is nice.

He tastes as sweet as the apples you gave him for dinner and all the better to draw you away from your darkness as he showers you in his intoxicating light. You can’t believe how gentle and passionate he feels against you now and it’s only his lips!

You could stay like this forever but soon enough he pulls away, resting a calloused hand against your knee, “Forgive me I should have asked.”

“Don’t be a fool, I was thinking it too. And anyways you kept your word.”

“Did I?” Wonders Geralt, brows furrowed in confusion.

You smirk, “Remember? You said you’d comfort me of my miseries? Are you still planning on doing that...just a simple question really you don’t have to look so lost.”

Breaking out of his frumpled gaze he finally gives you a handsome smile, “How could I forget?”

“Well it was pretty traumatic so.” You deadpan with a dark humored snort before Geralt leans in to capture your lips once more.

The next morning you wake from the warm comfort of the cabins large single bed, an equally as warm arm covering half your face as you feel a large body pressed firmly against your side. Your hair lays free and unkept around your face as well, and you already know your naked underneath this soft blanket and snoozing man next to you.

His breaths are slow as he stirs in his slumber, pulling you in even closer as his arm now finds itself against your one free breast. You giggle quietly at the situation, how awkward it would be if someone was to burst forth from those doors and find you both in the nude like this. Ha, let them try.

Apparently you’re not as subtle as you’d thought, Geralt awakens before sucking in a deep breath as he stirs slightly, suddenly freezing in place once he realizes his hand is practically squeezing your boob.

You chuckle, moving your hand to keep it there, “You’re surprisingly a cuddlier, who would have thought?” You jest humorously.

“Uh....yes.” Mutters Geralt awkwardly as you smile, though he can’t see it.

Noticing his change of behavior you realize he doesn’t really know what to do about your boldness so you help him out by shifting yourself to face him. “With how well you were treating me last night I would have thought my breast would feel quite nice in your hand. Have I misinterpreted?”

He smiles, a small dusting of pink finding its way onto his chiseled features, “I find it important to respect you first Y/N, this is still...new.”

Biting your lip you lean in close to place a gentle kiss against his soft lips, “I enjoy your touch, you’re something that I believe I’ve been missing for a long while. Maybe we were meant to find each other and you not kill me.”

He chuckles a sweet sound that fills you with pure joy, “And you to heal me, I don’t feel much pain anymore.”

You smirk, rolling your eyes as you graze your hand down his face and arm, “I healed you enough about six days ago, I know you were just milking it since.”

“No I wasn’t...”

“Oh shut it, I think it was a clever idea to get in my pants if that was your plan.”

He fake scoffs, “That wasn’t the plan Y/N.”

“Then what was the plan? Oh wait,” You move yourself even closer to him, lips just barely touching, “Witcher’s don’t have plans, they just flatter and hope for the best.”

His strong arm holds you close as you rest your hand on his shoulder, “Maybe so.” Whispers Geralt before pressing his lips to yours.

Soon enough you find yourself pinned down to the bed, a very hot and visibly happy Geralt deep inside you as you try and keep yourself from screaming to loud. You can’t help how big and beautiful and so very large he is, and anyways he looks like a man on the edge of paradise. Who are you to deprive your new lover of his high?

Geralt does admittedly feel blessed against you if you’re being completely honest, the way he thrusts deeply into your womanhood like a man deprived of such pleasantries, or maybe the way your name falls onto his sweet lips when he feels his weakest. You can’t tell for sure, but he may be in love with just as much as you are with him and that is a promising thought. Or is it?

With an almost whiny moan do you finally come, the pleasure built up after such a ride releasing at long last. Sending a wave of euphoria throughout your entire vessel causing your slick walls to clench around Geralt’s hard cock as he continues to relentlessly pump into you.

Soon you can feel a hot warmness pooling into you as your Witcher grunts in satisfaction while his length twitches inside you, painting your walls with his seed like the skilled artist that he is.

Hovering just above your sweaty and very naked form does he smile kindly before leaning down to capture your swollen lips with his own. He bucks his hips into you a couple times more as he enjoys the feeling of making you squirm underneath him. Completely surrendering all that you are to him, though he’d be lying if he said that he wasn’t doing the same with you.

Laying flush against you, his body still between your sore legs he pulls away from your pouting lips to lean his arms against your face. Soon another kiss is stolen, then another and another as he gently presses his lips to your cheek. Then jaw, where he decides to stay and attack for awhile which causes you to chuckle at his adorable-ness. 

“You need new clothes.” You practically moan as he playfully bites your jaw, kissing that spot just as quickly.

“It’s warm in here.” Mutters Geralt against your hot skin, “Nothing is as interesting as you.”

You bite back another moan, “We need food.”

He smirks against your neck, rolling his hips to try and sway your mind, “But you’re delicious enough Y/N.” Oh this man.

Breathing heavily you do your best to fight off your growing arousal, “Geralt.” You warn through clenched teeth, hands leaving red marks down his back as you playfully threaten him.

He kisses your cheek once more as a sly hand squeezes your firm breast, “Fine. Let me make love to you first then we can go.” States Geralt against your lips as he suddenly gives you three deep slow thrusts that send you into another realm of pleasure.

[babbushka]

Open Heaven’s Gates

Ancient Emperor!Kylo Ren x Goddess!Reader x KOR

3.2k - Content Warnings: Mentions of pregnancy/pregnant!reader; Graphic descriptions of violence and gore against a minor character (mutilation, torture, human sacrifice); NSFW (gangbang, double penetration, blow jobs, hand jobs) 

Dedicated to the very patient @safarigirlsp​, thank you for inspiring this oneshot! 

Available on AO3 

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

It is the darkest hour of night, in your temple.

The window to the heavens has been opened wide, and as Kylo looks up through the marble pillars, as he casts his gaze towards the stars and sees how brightly they shine, he feels a shudder of divinity rush through his body.

Clothed in nothing but jewelry made of gold and precious stones, he opens his blood-slicked palms to the pitch-black sky. It is the darkest hour, and yet the Empire is wide awake, has filled this temple to the brim. The lamps are all lit, flickering flares of warm yellow light cast stark shadows across the walls of your temple, across a thousand faces. Citizens are quiet as they watch, as they bare witness to the events which are about to take place, the sacrifice which must be made.  

They too are watching, they are listening, the Goddesses.

They watch, and they wait. 

Kylo will not disappoint them.

Kylo kneels before the statue made of marble which he has come to worship. As crimson drips down his back from lashes he’s carved himself, he prays – until the touch of your soft fingers brushes across his shoulders, and his eyes snap open.

“I can feel it.” You hum, your hands fully cupping his shoulders, massaging the muscles there. He is so tense, a low hiss of air puffs out of his lungs while you tip his head back to rest against your pregnant stomach. He regards you, beautiful as ever even though you are upside down, as you ask, “Are you ready?”

For a moment, Kylo is lost in your eyes. There is a knowing depth there, something ancient and new all at once, a millennia of knowledge behind fresh irises. Through you and you alone, the Goddesses speak, and through you and you alone, may they be appeased.

“I’m always ready for you.” Kylo bites at his bottom lip, before coming to his full height and facing you. He relishes in the way you have to crane your neck to look up at him, he loves how you love to look at him. Kylo does not break eye contact with you as he raises his blooded fingers to your cheek and shouts loudly so that all may hear, “Bring him in!”

A dozen of the high guard rush the temple, carrying high above their heads a bound and gagged man. They throw him to the floor with little elegance or grace, not that he is deserving of any. This man is one that Kylo recognizes as one of the lower guards. He is of middle age, his eyes an unnerving shade of blue. They are bloodshot red, a sign that he has been crying. Let him cry, Kylo scoffs to himself, a thought that you seem to echo as you appraise him.

“Stand tall, pig.” Kylo’s voice is booming, commanding, deep as it rings through the temple. “Stand before your fellow citizens of my kingdom and hold your chin high, let them see who is to be sacrificed tonight.”

“I – please, your majesty – please -- !” The ex-guard scrambles to his feet to the best of his ability, and though he is tied by ropes and chains, he manages to his feet.

The empire casts judgement down onto him, for they have been told of his crimes, they have been told of his violence and cruelty against the innocent women in this village. They shout and spit from their seats, jeers and boos and hisses, rage restrained only by Kylo’s hand.

They have no sympathy for this man.

Neither do you.

“Begging will do nothing for you now.” You give him your most stone-faced glare, and before the ex-guard can even reply, Kylo has his teeth bared.

“Look upon the scum which walks among us.” He bellows, back bleeding steadily from where he has given himself the ceremonial lashes. The Empire is in a trance at his words, they are bloodthirsty, they seek violence. “Cast your eyes down to him, so that he may be filled with shame for the actions he has committed.”

The shoutsjeersbooshisses only increase in volume, as the citizens play their part for this ritual.

“Kneel!” Kylo procures a long blade from a small table which has been set up for the evening’s events. He slices the back of this sacrifice’s kneecaps, and down he goes with a guttural scream as blood streams from the wounds. “Kneel before the glory of the Goddess who stands before you.”

You are shocked and offended, when the sacrifice turns his gaze towards you. Those eyes are too blue, blue but blank. This is not a man who is sorry for his actions, but rather a man who is fearful of the punishment which comes with getting caught.

“How dare you look at her as if you are worthy of her visage.” Kylo catches him once again, for Kylo did not say he may look at you.

With the very same blade, Kylo carves deep gashes into the man’s skull. His strong thighs hold the man steady as those blue eyes are ripped torn sheared away from the writhing thrashing screaming body below him. The citizens cheer, they applaud and clap their hands, stamp their feet, whistle.

Chest heaving, naked body stained deep red with blood, Kylo holds the eyes out to you for your inspection.

Blue, too blue. You hate them.

“It is time.” You nod.

You kneel underneath the portal to the heavens, that window which has been carved from the roof of your temple. Kylo is slightly behind you, for he never dares to be ahead of you in any way, he is far too reverent, he adores you, worships you too strongly to put himself ahead.

“O heavenly bodies above us, hear our plea,” Your voice is loud and clear, and all silence themselves to hear you. “Take this man as a sign of our devotion, may the blood that spills echo that of our enemies. We offer him to you, one of our own for one of theirs.”

“An eye for an eye.” Kylo gets up then, places the eyes in a small basket on the altar, the statue of you which stretches far up into the air, nearly touches the Goddesses themselves.

He turns back to the blinded man, stabs the blade through his chest and plunges his hand inside the wound, tears out the man’s still beating heart as he screams and screams and screams. You wonder when the shock will kill him, when he will be silenced forever more.

“Pulse for pulse.” Kylo shakes with rage, blood splattered in beautiful arcs across his cheek, spattering up the scar which bisects his face. The heart in his hand stills, and he places the organ in another small basket next to the eyes.

Kylo passes you the blade, and you slit the sacrifice’s throat and wrists. He bleeds out onto the marble tile flooring, hemorrhaging, voids where his eyes should be black and red. It brings you great satisfaction to see him suffer this way, after he put the women of your care, of your Empire through so much suffering himself.

“I invite the people to rip this man limb from limb, a display of our power and a vision of victory! Show the Goddesses what we intend to inflict upon our enemies.” Kylo finally allows the citizens to pour onto the temple floor from their seats. “Come down and steal the last breaths of life from he who I may not give the dignity of calling a man.”

You grin, and with a small golden bowl which has been set on that very same small table, you pool up some of the blood that gushes from the wounds on the sacrifice. Handing the bowl to Kylo, your fingers brush against one another, and you can only smile wider.  

“Follow me.” You whisper.

As if he were in a trance, Kylo walks behind you, hot on your heels, never wanting to be so far from you. You lead him through a back door behind the statue, his hands soaked with crimson, trickling and streaming down his arms, dripping in little spots on the floor. The citizens behind you are in a frenzy, the sound of cracking snapping bones and happy cheers masquerading that of the door closing.

It is like another world in here, in this back room.

Kylo performs many rituals with you here, bloody and clean alike. A thousand candles are lit against the circular wall, the ceremonial bed is freshly made with clean linen sheets. With the door closed this way, the noises from beyond the walls are muffled. You release a deep breath, and Kylo trains his eyes on you, on your magnificence.

Standing in place are the Knights of Ren. Five large men, naked aside from the helmets they wear and jewelry which adorns their body. You do not acknowledge them, though you know they are there, your thighs already clenching because you know why they are there.

And oh, you cannot wait.

“Undress her.” Kylo orders, and softly, slowly, they do as they are told.

You do not wear much, a single layer of fabric draped beautifully, intricately across your shoulders. A belt made of braided gold is unclasped from your waist, and the Knights are reverent, their heads bowed, as they lift the rich purple silk away from you. Their hands are like ghosts, barely there and yet your skin turns to flame in their wake.

Kylo walks around and around you, keeps close to the curved walls. He appraises you, takes your pregnant body in. The harvest ritual had been a success, the Goddesses had blessed you with a child – that had been a success, and Kylo was determined for this to be a success as well.

The Knights caress you, worship you the way Kylo worships you. You smile at him, at Kylo, where you know he is hiding in the shadows of the candles.

“Lie down, beloved.” Kylo instructs, and before you can take so much as one step, the Knights are there with their arms around you.

Lifting you off the floor, they carry your naked body to the bed. Though this is a sacred space, a blessed space, your feet are too precious to touch the floor. You allow yourself to be laid down, the bed soft and comfortable, sheets cool to your overheated skin.

Kylo steps forward then, the golden bowl in his hands. He has a paintbrush, and your thighs quiver, legs falling open for him as he comes closer to the bed.

Even strokes decorate your flesh with the blood, as he writes across your skin.

Kylo is methodical, careful, as he dips the end of the brush into the bowl and soaks the fibers through, smearing it in intricate letters and sigils.

It is a prayer for victory, one that he hopes by adorning your body with, it’ll be even louder heard up in the heavens above.

“My body is their body,” Your eyes slip closed, remaining as still as possible while Kylo decorates you with the calligraphy. Your voice is not barely above a whisper, but it sounds so loud in this small room. “Revere me as you revere them, pleasure me so they may be pleased.”

The brush tickles your arms, the secret parts of your sides, your large round stomach, your soft thighs, the arch of your foot. He spells it out in the languages of old, the ones only you and he and the stars know. You are divine, you are sacred, and he takes his time to get these words right, these sigils must be drawn perfectly, or else this will have been for naught.

“Pleasure me, and be pleased.” You say again, this permission being given to them all, to the Knights.

They are hesitant for just a moment, because they know Kylo will kill them with one wrong move. They may be the most elite warriors and his most trusted guards, but they are replaceable, expendable. Everyone was, everyone aside from you.

With their helmets on, you do not know who is who. One of the men climbs onto the bed, you sit up to make room for him on the narrow mattress. He lifts you so that you straddle his hips, sinking down onto his cock with ease. You had spent the day getting prepared by your husband, he who had made sweet and passionate love to you to warm you up, stretch you pleasantly so that you might take these men with ease.

“Ohh, yes,” You sigh, settling down onto it.

Leaning against the chest of the knight underneath you, a second one climbs onto the bed and moves forward, hooks his arms underneath your knees and bends them up so that he can sink his cock into your pussy alongside his partner.

“Yes – more, I want more.” You moan, your head tipping back and eyes closing. The stretch is unbelievable, and your ribcage expands as he shallowly thrusts himself inside, his cock working alongside that of the knight underneath you.

A third kneels over your chest rubs the head of his cock against your tongue. You take a deep breath through your nose and he pushes his dick down your throat in slow little thrusts that have your throat stretching around him. Kylo’s much bigger, and you’ve swallowed him with ease, you are not so concerned about this man’s.

“Be careful with her.” Kylo demands of the knight down your throat, and you hum around the length which is stuffed in your mouth, hum in thanks.

The final two men each claim one of your breasts into their mouths, guiding your hands to their hard erections to jerk them off as they crowd against you on either side of the mattress.

“Good.” Kylo says, as he watches these men take you.

You know he’ll have his turn with you, he’ll have the final turn, the only turn that matters. But you need to be properly fucked out, blissed out of your mind, overstimulated, and this is the fastest way to accomplish that goal.

It very quickly becomes overwhelming, the pleasure from all sides, all avenues. You drool all over yourself as the cock in your mouth fucks your skull, hard hard hard and fast, tears hot and stinging the corners of your eyes. Your pussy is stretched and hot, wet and slick, so slick that the sound of their dicks rubbing against one another inside of you fills the room loudly.

“Feel this, Goddesses above.” Kylo whispers as he comes to the top of the bed, his hands warm and wet with blood cupping your cheeks where you rest on the shoulder of the knight below you, that shoulder acting as a pillow for your beautiful head. “Feel how full she is, all for you, everything for you.”

Hands are all over you, they’re all over, bending you and moving you in ways that give you more pleasure, give them a deeper better angle so that you might cry out for the Goddesses to hear. Your stomach is rubbed, caressed, the bump which juts out beautifully is lavished with attention. They rub the blood into your skin, smear the sigils and the letters which Kylo so carefully painted – but this is the point, the purpose, and they do their job well.

As do you, your hips widening for the pounding they give you, the muscles under your breasts flexing as your nipples are sucked and pinched and licked, your throat relaxing and tightening as need be. The grunts and groans and sighs and moans above you make your clit throb, and you don’t know how many fingers there are, pressing and rubbing and smacking at it for your body to shake and tremble the way it does.

“Good girl,” Kylo whispers still, hands cupping caressing stroking your cheeks, your jaw, as your mouth is stretched wide to be fucked, “Beautiful girl, bring us to victory.”

Like this you are reduced to nothing more than the sensations of pleasure. Your body sings, chants, begs and pleads for more more more, and they give it to you. Hands and dicks and tongues and teeth are all over you, marking you, giving you what you desire. Your limbs shake and shudder violently as your nerves grow alight, as sparks fly behind your eyelids.

Your back arches and you come with a shattering orgasm, you come so hard that your jaw moves to snap shut, and the knight in your throat must pull out quickly so he isn’t severely injured.

“Ohhh!” You shout, your vocal cords free, gasping in breaths quickly and harshly, your back arched and your toes curled, your entire body trembling as you shout, “Kylo! I want you Kylo.”

At once, the bodies which have surrounded you are pulled away. They are all still hard, no one but you has come yet, just as is intended. They leave the room to give you both privacy, and to take care of themselves alone.

No one is dared allowed to come inside you, no one but Kylo – and even he feels unworthy as he rests you softly, sweetly on your back, pushes his cock inside your aching throbbing drenched pussy.

“I want you to come in me.” You wail, hiccup around his lips as he kisses you, as his tongue wriggles hot and wet against yours.

He holds you steady as he thrusts evenly into you, your legs wracked with tremors as he smears the last of the blood. You are gorgeous, divine, glowing from the inside out, your eyes rolled back into your head, all knowing, all seeing.

And then, just then, as his hand is placed on your stomach, he feels something move inside you. A kick, he thinks, the gentle nudge of life that he himself has helped you to conceive, and before he even knows what’s happening he is doubled over you, collapsing as he comes hard.  

“Thank you,” He whispers, as his cock throbs and tears stream down from his eyes. He does not know to whom he sends his thanks, all he knows is that he hopes they hear him, so he says it again and again, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Your breathing is beginning to even out, even as your body shivers and jolts from pleasure. Kylo’s hand drops to your clit and he swirls little zig-zags and circles, pinches and presses at it, wanting to keep you in bliss, wanting to keep you warm and wet and filled with come.

“Win this war for me.” You say, words slurred from how drunk off the pleasure you are. “Win for me, for our Empire. For our son.”

“It’s a boy?” Kylo wrenches his salt-stung eyes open to stare at you imploringly, pleadingly.

Your eyes are lidded heavily, but you grin wide and that grin is dazzling in the light of the candles. Kylo has not cared one way or the other, he will love this child just the same no matter how they come, but the knowledge of a prince fills him with such joy he cannot help but weep.

“Win, and return to me to find out.” You tuck his sweaty hair behind his ears with a pleasure weak hand, and Kylo hopes beyond hope that what you have done together tonight will be more than enough, to secure such a victory, to open heaven’s gates.

[bluegarners]

Oooh for the bingo card can I pick survivors guilt with dick feeling guilty cause he ran away from home just like Jason but he lived while Jason died 😢

ahhh sorry this took awhile to get to!! i hope you enjoy this though~ requested for my Bad Things Happen Bingo ; it is also on ao3

Survivor's Guilt

The days bleed into one another to the point where it’s almost offensive, how indistinct and indiscriminate each sunrise and subsequent sunset is. A little boy died and the world carries on like nothing happened. Like his life was nothing less than the lawn being mowed or a tree being cut down. Is there an analogy Dick’s forgetting about, comparing dead children to nature? He’s not sure, he’s just tired, and the days continue to bleed into one another.

Monday is actually Thursday and Dick looks in the mirror and traces the bruise on his face. There’s a line in the fading purple blob that’s just the slightest bit darker. Knuckle indents. He saw it coming but he didn’t do anything. It was… just a punch. He applies some ointment and looks away. A little boy died and he’s still taking care of a tiny little injury, hardly an injury, it’s nothing, it’s nothing, because-

It’s four in the evening and Dick just woke up. It’s not a good habit to fall into, to sleep so late, do so little, think about dead little boys and missed funerals, but Dick can’t help it. Sometimes, he loses time within the bleeding days, just sits down for a moment and then an alarm goes off to remind him that it’s morning now and that he should be getting up to do… something. Go somewhere. Take care of things. But what? But what? Dick only just sat down, it doesn’t seem fair for the world to demand he be pulled this way and that when it already took a child, already took someone that never graduated tenth grade.

What do people learn in tenth grade? They’re just children, and Dick can’t remember much from his Gotham Academy days, so he really hopes they aren’t put under too much pressure. They’re all just so young, tenth graders, so young and youthful and there’s really no reason for them to be bogged down with work or stress from education. Life was infinitely more important than some late homework and Dick wonders if the school requires missing assignments from dead children. Wonders what they do with that extra, empty desk or the absent name on the roster. Wonders if they just shove another kid into their place, cross out the name for attendance, and carry on like the rest of the world seems to have.

What’s more, what do the friends of the dead child do? Do they mourn? Mourning seems so sad for the young, it's got no place in their view, and yet Dick remembers mourning, grieving when he was just nine but it was all so wrong. Dick hopes that the friends of the dead child are okay. Dead child. Dead little boy. Dead tenth grader.

He heard the funeral was nice. Heard that the school hosted a vigil. Of course, he wasn’t able to attend. Wasn’t extended the invitation to attend, but it’s not about him. It’s about the dead boy.

Dick has never been comfortable with children. Not in the sense that he finds them strange or annoying or that he can’t stand youth. He’s just not comfortable with the sheer light, with people who possess so much of it that it literally oozes out in all the things they do. Leaks out from their innocent smiles, their troubled and off-handed questions, their zest for adventure, yearning for dreams so much larger than themselves, their endless compassion for others, their infinite amount of crushes, their worry about deadlines and asking someone out on a date, their constant need to keep up with trends of the day; so many light things that Dick hasn’t touched in so long. So many things he feels like he shouldn’t be allowed to touch.

You were lucky.

Was he? Dick doesn’t think he was, but then again, he’s not a dead little boy with a specially made coffin to fit his small, under-developed, never got the chance to reach a growth-spurt, body. Being Batman’’s partner was terrifying. He remembers it being scary, not knowing if he was going to live through the night or if Batman was going to go off on another rampage because Dick screwed up. Not knowing if screwing up as Batman’s partner meant no longer being welcomed as Bruce’s ward.

How many times has it been now? Twice? Three times?

A key is gone from his chain now and its missing weight burns holes in all of Dick’s clothes. It’s a finality that feels just as permanent as the dead little boy’s gravestone.

A size six and a half pair of sandals sit on the edges of Dick’s tiny balcony. He has a no shoe policy in his apartment, hardly cleaner than the streets below, but it was the principle that counted right? No muddy boots, no dirty sneakers, no rain logged socks, none of that. So Dick keeps a pair of size six and a half sandals on his balcony in case a size six and a half wearer decides to waltz in.

Dick wears a size eleven.

He’ll have to get rid of them at some point. There’s no reason for them to stay there, collecting dust or peeling away whenever it rains. They weren’t even that good of a pair, just some knock off brand he found at a convenience store once, so keeping them for their worth isn’t that important. He spent the entirety of seven dollars on them, so really, he’s not strapped for cash and he can’t wear them himself and he’s sure that some homeless kid or anyone really would be happy to have them. He could just donate them, throw them in a box and leave it outside for the trash to pick up. He could. He could.

He can’t.

They aren’t his. They belonged to someone, someone very important, and he can’t just throw them away. You don’t throw away a dead little boy’s shoes just because they can’t wear them anymore. His parents always taught him to respect the dead, respect their belongings, and those sandals aren’t his so he’s got no say in what to do with them. It’s fine if the dead child’s shoes stay out on Dick’s balcony. It’s fine. He doesn’t go out there much anyway. The shoes are so tiny, only a size six and a half, and Dick can hardly get half of his foot in a size so small and they belong to a dead boy anyway so he shouldn’t touch them. Shouldn’t touch the dead child’s shoes.

He’s distancing himself on purpose. It’s a lot easier to say a dead little boy, a dead child, than it is to admit a name belongs to such a ghastly title. There are so many other words, so many other titles infinitely more fitting for a child than dead, and yet it’s the only one that describes him in this moment. Dead. Gone. Passed.

There used to be a box shoved away in the back corners of his closet. A cramped and banged up cardboard box containing every memory he had from being Robin. There used to be a picture of his parents in there, a cracked glass frame and a stained photo all he had left from Haly’s; there was his old costume from the circus, the same one he wore on the night where the sawdust turned black and he learned what sounds a body makes when it hits the ground; there was a small photo album in there too, pictures Alfred took of Dick’s time at the Manor, of his time as Bruce’s ward. Sometimes he’ll flip through its pages and feel that sting in his eyes, feeling the ghostly fingers of longing cradle his head through each memory every pristine photo contained.

And, most importantly, in that old, worn out, and beat up cardboard box, was Robin. Red, green, and yellow. Shorts and a velcro cape. Boots he doesn’t know how he ever fit into. A vest that would be impossible to get around his shoulders now. The crest, the emblem. Robin.

It was supposed to stay in that box. Remain there for the rest of his days, leave behind a child soldier and trade it out for a freelancer looking for a new war to fight. A new landscape to reshape and hone as his own. But then another little boy, taller than when Dick started out, appears in the night and leaps and frolics and laughs by Batman’s side. Stands over Gotham and gloats and jeers and grasps Robin almost perfectly.

And for the first time, Dick understands the horror that plowed into every other superhero out there when he first debuted as Robin. Understands the numbing terror of the thought of a child, someone who probably didn’t know how to do calculus or read Shakespeare or tie their shoes correctly, out there fighting the dirtiest and darkest sides of the world. That someone with a shoe size of six and a half was out there punching rapists, getting up close with drug lords and traffickers, witnessing and investigating crime scenes and analyzing gore and blood spatters.

Just a child. Just a little boy.

It feels wrong. So, so wrong, to give his blessing to someone who’s just barely hit puberty. Who’s still struggling to perfect a Robin cackle or speak without his voice cracking and pitching wildly. It’d make him a hypocrite not to though. He was younger, so much younger, when he started out as Robin, so who is he to stop an almost teenager from being Robin?

Well, actually, Dick is an adult. His frontal lobe is completely developed, he can pay taxes, drink, vote, organize his own affairs, drive, buy cigarettes, make his own decisions. Help others make decisions. Jas- the dead boy was just that. A boy. He had no idea how to do any of those things, much less think about them for the next few years, so how can he just allow a child to decide if they want to traumatize themselves, bleed themselves dry, for a city that doesn’t love them and devote themselves to a man’s mission that hasn’t changed in over a decade?

But even if he hadn’t given his blessing, the boy would have been Robin anyway. Remember? Dick has no say in anything to do with Robin. Anything to do with Gotham. No, all that was taken away the moment he stepped out of line, stepped out of the conformity and obedience Batman demanded. The blessing… it was just a formality for something Dick had never wanted to continue. Robin was supposed to disappear with him, die with him leaving Gotham, and yet…

Robin died anyhow.

There’s a dead little boy that used to be named Robin buried in a cemetery with a beautifully carved gravestone that just wanted the child to rest in peace, sleep well, and dream of a better life. And Dick gave his blessing for him to die as Robin.

The days still bleed into each other, melting and drifting over and mixing until the sunrises and sets in the same minute. Dick keeps losing time and people keep calling him but he just forgets to pick up the phone to answer. He can’t help but stare at his balcony, can’t help but stare at the empty space in the box, can’t help but listen to his own heartbeat and watch the way his chest expands as his lungs do.

He is alive. Alive when he probably shouldn’t be.

Robin was not meant to last. Dick has told himself that over and over again, the clear and simple fact that Robin was not meant to carry on. Born through the same circumstances as Batman, Robin was supposed to be nothing more than a temporary outlet but Dick got addicted and now he can’t stop. Now his thoughts loop around and around and all he can think about is a dead child wearing his Robin uniform and running out in the night with his blessing.

You were lucky.

Bruce was right. He was lucky. Lucky beyond belief that he survived being Robin. Lucky he stuck around long enough to learn what he needed to and then some under Batman’s tutelage, only to be fired and leave a gaping hole behind that was just calling for a replacement. Screaming for someone to fill the void, beckoning the ears of the young and naive to answer its call. Of course a child would answer. Of course someone eager and looking for love and praise and meaning would find their way there.

And perhaps Dick used up all the luck, all the magic, Robin gave. Used it all up and without a care in the world for who would be next to wear the cape, parade the emblem, because now there’s a dead little boy in the ground and his blood stains Dick’s hands.

Maybe if he had died as Robin instead, died in those early days where he was nine and filled with moxy undeserved, it would have served as warning enough to stay away from Batman. Stay away from Robin. Stay away from the beckon of being a child soldier. And, really, it wouldn’t have been all that bad if he had died so young. If he had died after Zucco was found because then he would have been with his parents, would have been reunited with his family again.

Dick isn’t sure he believes in the after life, if there are places like Heaven and Hell, but sometimes he hopes there is because there is a dead little boy in his arms and he is desperate for the hope that he has a good place to go to. To move on to.

But Dick’s not dead, still very much alive and breathing through working lungs with blood pumping through his veins, and now he’s not only outlived his time as Robin, but the next as well. He has outlived a child.

How do you outlive your own legacy?

He can’t call the dead child his brother. They’re not, legally, and Dick didn’t bond with him like brothers should. He tried, tried to after the initial shock and horror, bought size six and a half sandals, helped with homework, lent an ear to vent to, but it wasn’t enough.

Somehow, a dead little brother is so much worse than a child and Dick can’t give him another title to cling to. Can’t assign another name and still…

Jason is dead. Dick missed his funeral, missed it all, and his name is Jason Todd and he was only fifteen when he died and god, Dick wishes he had been a better brother. Wishes so badly he had never given his blessing, never lived through being Robin, because that would mean Jason would have never had to die and he would be in Dick’s place, simply breathing and alive and that’s… that’s all he can ask for.

The days continue to bleed into each other and the bruise slowly fades away into his skin.

The sandals remain on the balcony.

[my-writings-and-musings]

I was wondering if you could do something with ambulon, possibly fluff? Love the imagines btw

Thank you for giving me an excuse to love on my favorite underappreciated boy. Also, thank you, I love all the inspiration!

The chipping paint was a sore point for Ambulon, like so many other things about himself, but unlike all his other unfortunate traits it was made so much worse by the simple fact that it was impossible to hide. Having an embarrassing altmode, the true reason for his name, even his past as a Decepticon... he could cover all that up no problem. But the constantly chipping paint job? No shielding that from anyone close enough to simply see him...

It was made worse by how often bots tried to offer tips; use a primer, pay for a proper redo, try some new sealant... He knows they mean well, but none of them know what they're talking about, not really. If it was that easy, did they really think he wouldn't have fixed it by now? The Decepticon purple paint underneath was just as fragmented as the medic coded red and white on top, and that wasn't going to be fixed by anything simple.

The truth was "Flaky Paint Syndrome" could have many causes despite manifesting as a single, embarrassing result, and while most bots had poor application or easily irritated mesh to blame, his problem was rooted in something far less corporeal.

He was anxious. Every hour of every day, something had him on edge, and the constant strain on his nerves resulted in chips of paint cracking away from his always agitated frame. It was lucky really, most bots as unsettled as he was developed spark static or overheated and warped joints, his constant buzz of disquiet just made him look somewhat sloppy. Such a personality probably made his occupation seem like a bad choice, but he was content to endure the struggle for the satisfaction of saving lives, and now that he was on the relatively stable Lost Light he was managing better than he had in a long time. Thus, he hadn't had any plans on changing his status quo anytime soon.

Until you had showed up.

He hadn't even met a human before you'd joined the crew, but even if he had, he never could have expected that you'd get tangled up in his life the way you did. Something about you had just... connected with him. Maybe it was the fact that you didn't make fun of him, either for his altmode or his appearance, and also hadn't judged him for his past... Not even the reason for his silly name had made you laugh! He just liked spending time with you, even if it was to do nothing in particular.

As a result of these feelings, a desire to impress you had formed, and he'd actually made an effort to keep up with his looks for a change. Granted, that meant daily repaints completely unaided and in secret, all in his room where he twisted and turned in a ridiculous effort to look good for the person who probably only saw him as a friend. Logic didn't play much of a role in feelings, however.

Of course, it was just his luck you'd walked in on him at this most embarrassing time for the kind of friendly visit he ordinarily would have been thrilled about.

The cry of surprise that had escaped him when the doors whooshed open was impressively high pitched for a bot of his size, but you'd probably been more focused on the paint his startled jump had sent spattering in all directions, though none of it had flown far enough to hit you by some miracle.

"Ambulon, are you okay?!" You shouted in alarm, seeing the flash of red but not his paintbrush and immediately thinking of blood. Though you knew bots bled glowing pink, the instinct to offer aid at the first impulse was just too hard to ignore. Without hesitation, you hurried to get to his side, only growing more concerned as he hid his hand behind his back. Even if this wasn't how you'd wanted your visit to go you cared far too much about the medic to be concerned about such petty things. "What's wrong? Where are you hurt?"

"Who? Me? Hurt?" He rushes in ongoing panic, backing up against a desk to put as much space between you and him as possible. Despite looking ridiculous backing away from someone as small as you, all he can think to do is hide his paintbrush in an effort to save his dignity. At least, what's left of his dignity as he sputters through an excuse made up on the spot. "I'm just, uh... You know..."

Painting a landscape? Applying color to his hab suite? Decorating his medical supplies!?

"Are you painting something?" You asked, moving your small body to catch a glimpse of a bot sized paintbrush in the hand he hadn't done a good enough job of hiding. You figuring out the problem actually seemed to make him panic more, and he twisted again to hide the offending object behind his back, looking down at you as if you'd just stumbled upon him burying a body.

"Of course not!" He said in a rush, lie falling apart when the thick application of bright red he'd applied to his chest dripped downwards from the force of his rapid twisting around. Cringing, he avoided your eyes like a criminal. It would be bad enough if you simply knew about his troubles in any level of detail, but to have personally seen his juvenile and ridiculous efforts to cover up his humiliating condition... Would it be too much to ask that he dissapear at this very moment?

"Ambulon, are you okay?"

Nope, he's not, he won't be ever again but it's very nice that you thought to ask-

"Seriously, look at me."

You're firm but not at all angry as you issue the command, starting to put the pieces together in a way that makes some sense. The medic has had paint troubles more or less his entire life, as you've heard, but they had started to dissapear right about when you showed up. Though you hadn't pried, it had been logical to assume he'd been fixing himself up. Regardless of the accuracy of your guess, however, you know that this bot needs help. As much as you care for him, you simply can't let him suffer needlessly. No matter how often he switches between seeking you out and avoiding you...

"I'm... I'm fine, I promise." He mumbles, feeling like a pitiful failure for not even thinking to lock his door. There's so much to be embarrassed by he doesn't even know where to begin being mortified, but it's obvious the fallout will be a spiral into further humiliation, so he still wants to stall. You'll laugh when you hear he's been fixing himself up in a ridiculous attempt to impress you, because of course it's absurd, and he'll never be able to show his face again...

"Why are you embarrassed about some paint? I figured bots touched themselves up every now and then." You said innocently, baffled as to why he'd react in such a way. Rodimus bragged about redoing his colors all the time, so you'd figured there were no issues in doing so. Was there some other reason this could be considered embarrassing? The only possible explanation required you to go on a bit of a limb, but for his sake you decided to chance it, gulping once before you hesitantly spoke up. "Did you do this for me? Have you been redoing the colors since I got here?"

Ambulon flinched, and you realized you'd hit the nail on the head.

"I'm sorry-"

"For what?" You asked incredulously, head swimming with emotions clustering to be felt first. There was surprise, giddy delight, bashfulness, and even confoundment at the idea you could be in this situation. A part of you wanted to celebrate, but there was still far too much to sort through at the moment. His look of hopelessness exemplified the problem.

"For being ridiculous! Look at me! Pretending if I touch up some rough patches, it'll actually do anything? Ha!" He said, giving voice to the unpleasant uncertainty that lurked just below the surface. Drowning in his insecurity, he frowned hard, the absurdity of what he'd been trying to do all but slapping him in the face. Forget the species difference, you were a vibrant and charming individual who deserved far better than he. What had he even been trying to do? The answer came out of him as he sunk down to the ground and let the brush fall, hugging his knees as the weight of it all pulled him down. "I wanted so badly to look good for you, I lost track of common sense..."

"But Ambulon-"

Unable to hear you, he kept right on going, lost in his own little fog of shame. "You weren't supposed to know... Nobody was supposed to know... But I blew it-"

"Ambulon!"

You couldn't take it any more. The heartbreaking sight of the bot you thought was so delightful tearing himself apart was too much. Ignoring any common sense, you put yourself out for his sake, opening up your heart in the hope that your own vulnerabilities might help him feel better. A tender hand on his own preceded a gentle expression of reasurance as you looked into his optics.

"I'm flattered you want to look your best for me, really. But it's not necessary." You said, suddenly aware that your heart was hammering as you prepared to confess. It was probably about time you cut to the chase, after spending these months bobbing along in uncertainty, but that didn't make it any less scary to be so open. Hopefully it would all end well... "I think you look fine just how you are."

Ambulon felt his processor go blank, and all that he could do was fall back on his usual attitude with a surprised retort. "But I'm a mess!"

You laughed, but not in the way he'd feared. It was a good natured, loving, laughing with him and not at him kind of sound. "I don't care about some paint chips now and then, you goof. Why do you think I'm here?" All of a sudden your fear seemed to be turning into confidence, the anxieties you'd created for yourself melting away as the truth came out. Seeing a towering alien laid low by your simple feelings definitely made it much easier to express them. "I wanted to see you, purple and red and all, because I like you."

Something clicked inside of him upon hearing those words. So much shame and fear dissolved in what felt like an instant, his optics pushing up with his cheeks as he smiled the biggest and happiest smile he could, optics brightening the whole while. It was what he'd wanted more than anything but feared he'd never receive. Unfurling his legs, he leaned down just a tad to get closer. Heedless to everything about himself that had bothered him so much, he spoke softly in return.

"I really like you too."

"I know." You replied softly, looking to the brush that had fallen to the floor and the paint still drying on his frame as an idea hatched in your head. The two of you had a lot to talk about, it seemed, and you had the perfect way to pass the time while doing so. "Now, how about I help you finish up? Don't want all this to go to waste."

Realizing what you were suggesting, he picked up a much smaller paintbrush and handed it to you, still smiling as he helped you onto his desk where the paints laid out for use.

"I'd like that."

[cl-01-kestis]

Shut Me Up - Jerome Valeska x Female Reader | Part 3

Summary: You continue recieving more calls from Jerome and getting used to staying with Bruce Wayne.

Warnings: Descriptions of death

You stood beside Alfred, leaning against the limousine-like car whilst waiting for Bruce to come out of school. You had a black overcoat on that reached to your mid knee, you kept it open so the dress was on show. Students walked past the car and didn’t take a second glance at you and the butler, going by their business and scurrying home just that little bit faster considering the recent news of Arkham Asylum.

Your arms were folded over your chest and you felt slightly more easier when Bruce Wayne walked out of the school entrance, looking around and smiling when his eyes landed on the car.

You kept a sharp eye out for anything funny looking, still on the edge about everything happening within the day so far and trying not to show the fact you were fearing for your life, very much. Alfred gave you a handgun before leaving the manor, you hid it underneath the overcoat you were wearing and kept your hands firmly in your pockets to avoid suspicion.

Bruce approached the car, his gaze was on you and there appeared to be a smile on his face. He greeted Alfred and looked happy rather than suspicious to have someone else there.

“You’re (Y/N), aren’t you?” The younger boy asked with certainty, pointing his finger subtly at you without seeming rude. You nodded your head and got up from leaning against the car.

“Indeed I am, I’m your guest for the next lord knows how many months” You joked, earning a brief chuckle from Bruce who nodded his head and looked up to Alfred. The three of you got in the car quickly, not wasting a moment further being around Gotham High and racing straight for the manor. You sat in the passenger seat whereas Bruce sat behind you and Alfred in the back of the car. He was looking out of the window, it looked as though he was in his own dream world. You and Alfred had a nice chat about dinner, you convinced him that you’d help him and insisted you were a good chef. He seemed pretty hesitant though, it was clear it had been a long time since he’d received help from someone that wasn’t his Master.

You got out of the car and checked your surroundings even though there was a tall gate around the perimeter of Wayne Manor. Alfred and Bruce spoke for a brief moment when all of a sudden your phone buzzed in your pocket, your ringtone bursting to life and nearly scaring you to death. You quickly pulled your phone from the coat pocket and looked up to Alfred once you saw the No Collar ID appear on your screen.

“I’ll catch up with you two in a minute, dads calling” You lied, earning a nod from Alfred who went on to escort Bruce into his home. You noticed Bruce look over his shoulder as you answered the phone, a concerned expression written over his face before the door closed and you were left outside.

“Hello?” You answered, your heels clicking against the concrete slabs as you slowly made your way up the stairs to the entrance door. You sat down on one of the many steps and folded the coat across your body due to the brisk wind.

“Hiya doll, you thought about my offer yet?” Jerome’s voice cackled through the phone, a deep sensation of nauseating pain embedding itself in your stomach as his voice rung in your ears.

“Tried, forgot about it” You tried sounding unbothered but you were so on edge, your voice came out in a soft whisper instead of a sarcastic tone.

“Not good enough doll, you know, you should check the news, you’re missing all the fun!” His voice was deep and full of amusement, it was clear he was trying to toy with you.

“What did you do?” You asked quickly, standing up from the steps and sneaking inside the manor without Alfred hearing. You looked around the hallway and listened into what your red headed psycho had to say before leaning around the arch to the living room where Bruce was watching the TV, his back faced to you as the door was open, giving you a great view of what he was watching.

There was so much going on. 5 bodies dressed in inmate clothes stood on the top of one of Gothams many buildings, throwing bodies off the roof that eventually splat all on the ground, remains of crushed brains and spatters of blood on the ground and some getting on the camera lense. The camera switched to another which was zooming up on the inmates, one which you couldn’t miss.

Jerome laughed as he held the phone up to his face, his laugh echoing in your ear as he watched another body fall to the ground.

“You see doll, if you come to me all of this will stop, or, at least I will, I’m not sure about them,” he pointed with his thumb to the other inmates next to him. “You’re all I want sunshine! Call it an obsession if you will, I’ll find you if I have to!” His voice started mutating into that sickening laugh that made your stomach turn, you dropped your phone and coughed as the last body fell to the ground. You held a hand underneath your mouth as you raced to the downstairs bathroom in the manor and slammed the door open, spewing your stomach up as the images of those innocent men falling flashed in your mind. Would that have happened if you turned yourself in quicker?

Bruce was the first to get to you as he raced to the bathroom to see what was going on, confusion written all over his face but quickly coming to the realisation that you were there.

He acted quick and pulled your hair out of your face to avoid getting anything caught in it, holding it behind you with his hand as the other patted your back. You were surprised a boy this young knew what to do in situations like this, it’s common sense but it still mildly shocked you.

Your thoughts were muted as you held tightly onto the toilet, continuing to cough up the nasty fluids that swirled uncomfortably in your stomach. After everything finally stopped, you leaned back and spat out the remaining taste in your mouth. Bruce watered a cloth and gave it to you to clean your mouth, still holding back your hair as you cleared your throat and apologised.

“I’m sorry about that, I just- the news shocked me” You sighed, holding onto the cloth after finishing cleaning your face and looking up to Bruce who nodded in understanding.

“I understand, it’s horrible what those inmates done” Bruce glared at nothing in particular, his eyes holding such disgust and anger. You carefully wobbled to your feet, Bruce’s arm positioned itself behind your waist, helping you walk out the bathroom after flushing the toilet and calling Albert for some help. The butler was rapid in taking over and telling Bruce to go back to what he was doing. Albert helped you upstairs and made sure you werent going to be sick, trying to reason with you that there was a chance it might happen again even though you stubbornly insisted it was just from the shock. Even so, Albert still left a basin at the side of your bed after he told you to get some rest and left you alone in your room.

You got out of the dress which gladly didn’t have any sick on it, placing it back on the hanger considering there wasn’t a wash basket anywhere and you weren’t allowed out of your room. You took your heels off and got into bed despite having no pyjamas, only in the comfort of your underwear. Albert drew the curtains before he left so it saved you from moving around any more than you needed to. You realised he had brought your phone up and left it on the side of your bed, you weren’t sure when the call with Jerome but you were glad it was over. You could finally get some rest and rejuvenate for the night ahead.

-

You woke up to the sound of the wind whistling, you weren’t sure what time it was but outside was dark so you assumed it was late at night. It took you 10 minutes to fully wake up and get out of bed. You grabbed a dressing gown on the back of the door and opened it to walk out into the upstairs hallway. Yawning, your bare feet walked down the steps of the manor and you only got midway until a familiar face appeared.

“Dad?” Your voice was sleepy but still full of surprise, your Dad stood at the entrance to the manor with his hands in his coat pockets. His face lit up immediately when he spotted you and walked over to embrace you once you’d made your way fully down the stairs.

Your Dad held you tight, the most tight he had in a long time as he breathed out a sigh of relief.

“Thank god you’re alright” His voice sounded gruff, tired, as though he’d been working all day and night. You pressed your cheek against his shoulder and closed your eyes, wishing you could be safe in his arms like this forever but you had to unfortunately pull away. Your eyes glistened with tears but you didn’t cry, you were just happy to see that your dad was okay and well.

“Is Leslie okay?” You asked, holding onto your Dads shoulders as if you were trying to keep balance. Jim nodded, silently assuring you whilst trying to remain calm and not freak out at the fact a maniac was after his daughter.

“She’s fine, back at the GCPD, the good thing is that you’re safe” Your Dad cupped the back of your head and pressed a firm kiss against your forehead, bringing you in for another close hug that made you feel comfort like no other. You squeezed your father just for that extra reassurance, just to remind yourself that he was still well and in your arms. Jim was doing the same, he was over the moon you were okay but he still felt like you were in a lot of danger.

“What’s going on with Jerome?” You asked, pulling away and holding your dressing gown close to your body as an unpleasant shiver erupted over your body. Jim frowned, pausing for a moment before resting his hands on hips and letting out a sigh.

“Unfortunately we don’t know his whereabouts, there’s been no lead on where he could be, any more calls from him?” Your dad asked with a stern tone, eyes still as he stared at your face.

You gulped, going unnoticed by Jim as you shook your head.

“Nothing at all” You lied.

Jim nodded slowly, as if he was taking his time as to believe you or not. Thankfully, just in time, Jim’s phone started ringing in his pocket, buzzing violently as he quickly pulled it out of his blazer pocket and excused himself, taking the call which seemed to be important.

You let out a sigh of relief, looking away from Jim and to Alfred who held a suspicious look on his face as his eyes looked at your face, as if he knew you were lying. Bruce smiled as you turned to face him.

“Want anything to drink?” He offered kindly, you nodded and thanked the young boy bluntly before following him to the kitchen where he kindly poured you a glass of cold water.

“What was your Dad talking about back there?” Bruce asked with a strong tone of curiosity, sitting down at the table in the kitchen which was lit with only a few candles. You sat opposite him and let out a short, sharp sigh.

“It’s complicated” You said before sipping at your glass of water, avoiding Bruce’s eyes whilst looking around the kitchen, inspecting the interior.

“I’m sure I can understand” He reasoned with a smile.

You stared warily at Bruce for a few silent seconds, raising a brow at his nosiness but biting your tongue to stop yourself from saying anything snarky.

“This guy, Jerome, I met him at the circus where we found his mother’s body. He tricked me into thinking he was innocent. Long story short, he got ahold of my phone number and now he’s calling me” You put it in the most simple way possible, avoiding detail as much as you could and begging that Bruce wouldn’t bring anything else up or ask about anything.

“Sounds fun” Bruce joked, making you smile for the first time in what seemed like ages and you felt a little bit better at the situation.

“I wish i could say that myself” You sighed, taking another long sip of your glass of water and scratching the back of your scalp to pass the time. Bruce looked at you, as if he was trying to study you but he couldn’t quite get a grip of what you were feeling.

“I’m guessing Jerome’s been calling you by the way you answered Jim’s question” Bruce asked rhetorically, making you roll your eyes slightly before nodding your head and making sure your dad wasn’t around.

“It’s not like I don’t trust Dad, I just don’t want him worrying anymore than he needs to” You put the glass down on the counter before leaning on both of your elbows, hands rubbing your face before eventually clasping in front of you mouth.

“You’re his daughter, I’m sure he’d want to know if anything was wrong” Bruce tried reasoning with you but you waved him off and frowned.

“If it was anyone else but Jerome then it would be easier” You said.

“What do you mean by that” The boy asked, leaning on his elbows as well so the two of you were level and face to face. You sighed once again, biting the tip of your tongue and wishing you didn’t have to open up so much, especially to a 13 year old.

“Because... feelings I guess, they make everything difficult” Your voice faltered for a moment to reply Alf it left Bruce with burning, fiery curiosity.

“I see, are your feelings for each other mutual?” Bruce asked, figuring out exactly what you were getting at in a blink second and earning a surprised, impressed expression from you, only to be quickly replaced once again with the emotionless one.

“Honestly, no clue. I felt attraction towards him at the circus but now... maybe I still do, I don’t know” Was your final reply before hearing footsteps approach the kitchen, revealing Alfred who came out of his hiding space and walked in to greet you and Bruce.

“Pardon for the intrusion but your Dad’s leaving, probably should say goodbye to him” The British butler said with a smile before watching you get out of your seat and thank him graciously, walking rapidly to the main hallway of the manor once again and seeing your Dad. Jim had his hands in his pockets and a soft, manageable smile on his face. You walked up to him and wrapped your arms around his torso, your head resting on his chest as he embraced you tightly, pressing a firm kiss on the top of your head as he stroked your back and sighed.

“If I could I’d stay, but Jerome’s out there and if I don’t do anything you might be in danger” Your dad stared in a determined tone, pulling away from the hug and patting your shoulder reassuringly. You didn’t want the hug to end because you felt safe for the first time in what felt like days, you didn’t want him to go because you felt like Jerome might find out where you are and find a way to sneak in and kidnap you, or worse, murder you.

“Stay safe, okay?” It wasn’t a question and Jim knew that as you said it, nodding his head firmly and managing a small smile before walking away and approaching the door.

“I love you Dad” You called out just as he opened the door.

“I love you too, Angel” Jim looked happy, relieved to hear such a thing before bidding farewell to Alfred and Bruce and eventually closing the door, leaving you alone once more.

-

You stared at the no caller ID name tag in your contacts whilst chewing nervously on your lip, your legs hurled up to your chest as you hovered your finger above the name tag, contemplating whether or not you should press on it.

Jerome had been plagueing your mind ever since the last phone call, his offer to you was starting to sink in and you started to realise how much this would benefit other people from getting hurt, including Leslie and Jim. But you weren’t going to give yourself away, it wasn’t going to be that easy. Jerome was a crazy, ballistic psychopath who could kill you in the blink of an eye but for some reason you weren’t scared. You were intrigued, intrigued by a coold blooded murderer, and you didn’t even blink an eye at that.

You had been stuffed up in your guest room at the Wayne Manor and refused to leave, you were itching to call Jerome but you kept stopping yourself from doing so. So much was going on in your mind, your feelings were peeking and you felt like you were going to vomit.

You confronted yourself at the fact you definitely had feelings for Jerome, love of some sort? Maybe, but definitely attraction. And you hated yourself for it, you felt like you were betraying your dad and everyone in your life by falling in love with someone who killed for sport. You could have fallen in love with a boy at school, had a friend set you up on a date with a normal boy, but no. You had to fall for the psycho. Ironic wasn’t even the word.

Sucking in a breath, you finally pressed the tip of your finger on the no caller ID and waited anxiously in the dark, candle lit room. It rung for over ten seconds and eventually he finally picked up, causing your nerves to sky rocket.

“Jerome?” You mumbled, voice barely audible as you started chewing on your nails, waiting for his reply.

“Well this is certainly a surprise; a welcome one of course” Jerome’s voice caught you off guard as he spoke loud and clear through the speaker of your phone. You quickly turned down the volume to prevent anyone outside of your room from hearing, your heart practically in your throat. This was wrong.

“I’ve been thinking about your offer” You said, voice trembling slightly with each word that left your mouth.

“Good, that’s more like it doll! So tell me, have you made up your mind yet? Or am I going to have to wait longer?” Jerome’s voice slid down into a teeth grinding tone which you didn’t react well to, body shaking feverishly as you inhaled through your nose to calm your breathing down.

“I can’t give you a solid answer just yet, this whole situations so sudden... I just- I’m overwhelmed” You sighed, running a hand through your hair as you lay down beside your phone and listened in closely as you heard Jerome take a sharp inhale before humming to himself in disapproval.

“You take too long doll, I know you want to be with me” Jerome teased in a coy, mischievous tone. You clenched your jaw at his response and didn’t reply right away which you immediately regretted as Jerome started laughing to himself.

“It’s unhealthy to avoid your feelings you know, don’t deny it gorgeous” He continued. You gripped the covers of your bed and clenched then tightly, trying to distract yourself from the amount of shivers running across your body.

“You know what- yes, I do, but my issue is you’re a murderer and being with you would put me in serious trouble-“

“So you admit it?” Jerome cut you off with a boyish giggle.

“Yes! there, are you happy now?” You asked in a pathetic tone of voice, trying to sound tough when really you were trying not to burst into tears.

“I am actually, how does it feel knowing daddy’s out there on the hunt for me and you’re in bed, phoning me to express your feelings towards me? Tut tut, bad girl” Jerome smirked, his voice lowered as he spoke the last few words. You didn’t know how to respond, he was right. You hated admitting that. Your Dad was spending so much valuable time trying to find Jerome whilst you were creating a romance with him, it was a dangerous game you were playing.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Jerome” You hissed, hiding you and your phone under your covers as you continued to stare at the low light screen with No Caller ID written in basic white letters.

“Flatter myself? I hardly consider flattering myself as hearing the girl I’ve been thinking about for weeks telling me she has feelings for me” Jerome’s playful tone faded away once again into a more serious one, you couldn’t keep up with his mood changes and it made you confused as to what he was really feeling.

You tried to think of a reply, your mind scattering with different approaches of all types of tones and attitudes. You didn’t have the energy to be angry or snappy at him, not after he learned how you really felt towards him. You had nothing to defend yourself with anymore; the evidence was on the table.

“I want to see you” You said, you started to immediately contemplate whether or not you should’ve said that in case you sparked something inside of Jerome.

“Really now? Say the word and I’ll be there gorgeous” He replied smoothly, his tone tormenting but the amusement was cloaked with interest. You had his attention fully now.

“North wing of the docks, midnight tomorrow, and come alone” You chewed your cheek anxiously as you waited for his reply, lifting your knees up to your chest and holding them close as you ran your fingers through your hair.

“I’ll be there, I promise” Jerome’s tone lightened at the end as though he were talking to a baby, it irked you but you held your tongue from saying anything that gave him an advantage to torment you any further.

“Good... I can’t believe I’m doing this” You said to mostly yourself as you pinched the bridge of your nose, letting out a frustrated sigh which earned you a coy giggle from the handsome psychotic red head.

“You’re doing it because you want to, gorgeous, you can’t resist me” Jerome smirked, his voice getting under your skin, you shuddered as a result and you found yourself unable to stop the thoughts of something happening tomorrow night that you might regret. What if this was your last day alive? You could never know, maybe Jerome wasn’t blood thirsty for you, perhaps is was just an obsession you could hopefully control.

“By the sounds of it you can’t resist me either” You replied, causing Jerome to make a small playful gasp.

“Flirting back are we? I like where this is going” Jerome’s voice kept changing, you were unable to keep up with it but the tone he had on now made you bite your lip. He sounded so seductive, it tempted you and you couldn’t help but let yourself accept the fact that you truly wanted Jerome. He was everywhere you went, he was your every thought at this point, what was the point in denying how you felt?

“I’m afraid we’ll have to continue this conversation later, don’t miss me too much” You allowed yourself to giggle, hanging up before Jerome had to say anything else and collapsing onto your bed, your eyes staring up at the ceiling that felt like it was caving in on you. What the hell did you just get yourself into?

[soukokuwu]

Sushi.. sushi.. What if.. hear me out. An organization or something finds out Chooya has an S/O and targets them. Threatens to kill them, you could make it that they kill them. I dunno— You have so much fluff requests and I just wanna.. allow you to make some angst and break my fragile heart.

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➥ angst [chuuya x reader]

➥ warning/s: death

➥ word count: 2.5k

➥ summary: the things that make chuuya human.

➥ notes: seven! i made this a full fic too if you don’t mind and and i hope this can make you sad 😔✊🏼

Life is a series of moments.

Meeting you was arguably the best moment of Chuuya’s life. Being with you was probably the best decision he’s ever made. Every moment with you was fleeting, but precious.

Being a Port Mafia executive didn’t allow for a lot of free time, especially not for someone as formidable as Nakahara Chuuya. Most days he is worked to the bone, and he can’t seem to refuse orders no matter how much you nagged at him to take care of himself.

You never once made him feel bad about it though. No matter how many times he’s showed up late to meet you, or how many times he’s had to cancel dates. Even when he had to celebrate your birthday late because something urgent came up that Mori absolutely needed him to handle that night.

Chuuya always made up for it. Always surprising you with his sweetness, although you’ve never expected him to do anything for you. The mafia was very important to him, and you knew that. You accepted that, why would you have agreed to be with him otherwise? You understood very well that it meant busy schedules and danger, but you loved him more than you would ever allow yourself to be petty or scared of his enemies.

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Life is a series of moments; some more fleeting than others.

Chuuya remembered all of them. Some were small yet important moments.

The first moment he saw you walk into the cafe. All he had wanted was to spend lunch alone, away from headquarters, away from all the headache. You were a soothe to his migraines, something he had not bargained for. Thank god the cafe was packed and he was the nearest to you; you wouldn’t have sat with him otherwise.

The first moment your hands brushed against each other on the first date; it was a simple movie date. The cliché hands brushing against each other on the armrest kind of thing. Where he would usually gag upon thinking of such things, when he replayed it in his head with you as the subject, he’d always smile at the memory.

The first moment your lips found each other, the way your tongues danced in harmony with the taste of wine still lingering in each other’s tongues. How could he ever forget? It was the first time his heart pounded so loudly he felt it might jump out of his chest. That was when he asked you to be his girlfriend. And you gave him the answer he prayed for.

The first moment you slept over and it was filled with innocent intimacy— Chuuya’s chest pressed up against your back, his arms wrapped around your waist and the scent of your hair permeating his senses. He remembered you chuckling as you told him to quit looking at you and sleep, and he remembered the way goosebumps formed on your skin as he whispered, low and raspy, into your ear a “goodnight, my princess.”

Then there were subtle moments that slowly spiralled into something bigger.

The first moment he visited your parents with you, and they had been so warm and welcoming. Had it not been for them, Chuuya would have never known ‘parental love’. They were people with such kind souls; they accepted him as an ability user, said that he was welcome anytime, even if you weren’t there with him. And he immediately knew where you got your kind nature from. They never expected anything more from him than the usual; to treat their daughter right. And damn right he would. When you had gone to the restroom they looked at him with such genuity as they said they’d be blessed if they ended up with such a sweet son-in-law like him.

The first moment you talked with him about the possibilities of having a family, expecting him to freak out but instead he agreed. He’d be honoured to have one with you. And you told him he’d have to come up with a heck of a proposal to lock you in forever. The both of you were aware of what a lie that was, though— you’ve had each other’s hearts since the first few dates, there was no way you’d say no.

But the moment he treasured the most? The life-changing moments.

The day he actually did propose, in a simple humble way— in front of the only people who mattered: you and your parents. He had asked for your parents’ permission to take your hand in marriage beforehand, and they easily agreed, welcoming him with open arms. He still remembered that being the first day your father called him ‘son’, and they had shared the warmest hug he’s ever felt from anyone other than you.

The moment you said ‘yes’ and the both of you had tears in your eyes. He had slipped the ring through your finger and got up from his knee, hugging his now-fiancée, your parents clapping in the background.

“I’ll protect you forever, my princess,” Chuuya vowed.

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But life-changing moments could mean both good and bad, and that day set the tone for the rest of Chuuya’s life, whether he liked it or not.

“Okay but promise you’ll be back later?” you had asked him, getting up to send him off at the door for yet another mission.

“I promise, my princess,” he replied, smiling at you and giving you a quick peck on the cheek. Chuuya noticed your wide grin and arched a brow. “What’re you so smiley about? Has all the wedding planning got to your head?”

You playfully punched him on the shoulder and looked around to make sure no one was near— the both of you had been at your parents’ house to ask them for opinions on the wedding. It was coming up in a month and everything was almost settled. Almost.

“Hmm, I’m not too sure about it yet, but I’ll leave it as a surprise when you get home later,” you teased, sticking out your tongue.

Chuuya let out a resigned sigh, ruffling your hair. “Fine, I’ll try to be back as fast as I can then,” he told you, giving you another kiss before he turned to go.

And he did make it back.

Just not in time.

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Please be okay, please be okay.

It replayed like a chant in his head as he continued to make a beeline to get to you. Flashes of your smile crossed his mind as he sped through the city on his bike, tears already streaming down his face. He prayed and prayed for your safety, although the rational part of him knew that it was useless. The only one who could do anything was him.

He should’ve caught on sooner. The enemies were buying time by drawling out the fight with him. They were angry at the Port Mafia— more specifically, with Chuuya— for killing their leader. And they wanted him to pay for it.

But they knew they weren’t going to get his head.

So they went for the next best thing: you.

Their earlier conversation replayed in Chuuya’s head, no matter how much he begged for it to stop.

“You’re the vessel of a god, of Arahabaki, aren’t you?” the new leader had taunted, unfazed by Chuuya’s presence. “You’ve never known fear, or danger, have you? To be weak, to be... human.”

“Get to the point, asshole.”

“I don’t really have one, except...” and he had grinned, the most triumphant grin he’s ever had. “I know your weakness.”

Chuuya had rolled his eyes. “Then come at me, if you dare,” the redhead had coolly replied, completely unperturbed. But the next sentence that had floated to his ears might as well have killed him.

“Oh, I’m not going to do shit to you, boy,” the leader had revealed. His grin had grown even wider. “Let me show you how human you can be.”

And he did.

The sight that greeted Chuuya when he got to your parents’ house he’d never forget. White mahogany door wide open, the lock broken, no lights on and the biggest kick to the guts? Even a few feet away from the house, he could see the blood spattered on the floor.

As he rushed into the house, it played in his mind over and over again — your smile, your laugh, the way you moved, the way you loved; all the moments you spent together, or even when you were apart and all he could think of was you. Now, he wasn’t even religious but he was praying to god that you were safe.

But life was harsh. It dashed his hopes in a matter of seconds. Because moments later, he had your lifeless body in his arms, tears streaming down his cheeks and your blood getting on his face as he tried to kiss you awake.

“No, no, please come back to me, please wake up,” he mumbled, over and over, touching your bloody face and kissing your eyelids, hoping that they’d somehow open. “I haven’t made you my wife yet please get up, princess.”

But your body temperature said you’d been there for a few hours already. It was pointless.

The moment he gathered the courage to look around the room, he wished he didn’t. There, just a few feet away from you, at the edge of the living room, next to the kitchen counter, your parents lay beside each other, hands clasped together, bodies as lifeless as yours.

And as his eyes caught on to what you had been holding onto as you died, Chuuya’s heart fell.

It was your ‘surprise’ for him.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Life is full of fleeting moments.

Life, in itself, could be fleeting.

A month later, he brought flowers for each of you. He’d been diligent this time, in visiting your graves everyday. You had no other close family members, so he’d had to settle everything. All of you were next to each other, and as he looked at your gravestones, an image of the four of you having your last meal together at your parents’ house flashed across his mind.

He stifled back the tears. No, not out here. Not again. Chuuya had already lost count of how many times he’s grieved for too long at the cemetery. Not today. No. Today was supposed to be your wedding. Yet here he was, standing on your grave.

Chuuya clenched his fist at the thought, and then remembered the flowers he brought. He brought one for each of you.

He placed a bouquet on your father’s grave. He had tied a note to it, saying ‘It would’ve been an honor to be your son, dad.’ Chuuya couldn’t hold his tears in any longer as he thought about the way he had so warmly welcomed Chuuya into the family. The way he called him ‘son’, how they’d just watch tv together in the living room while you and your mother would be preparing their favourite meal. He remembered your father whispering to him, “you know, I never thought I wanted a son, until I met you.” They had shared a hug after that. “You’re a good kid.”

Chuuya clenched his fist. If there was something he could hit he would. No. How could he be a good kid? His mere involvement with his daughter led to their entire family’s demise. How could he be good? How could he have ever deserved to be called ‘son’ by the man who gave him the kind of love he wished he always had?

The tears didn’t stop there, because they got even heavier as Chuuya turned to look at your mother’s grave. He placed another bouquet on her’s, the note tied there said ‘You’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever met, and I’m so glad your daughter took after you.’ Because it’s true. He’s heard of the sacrifices your mother’s made for the family. How she put everything she wanted aside for you and your father, so you could each live out your dream while she stayed put and became the mother and wife that you both needed. Chuuya never spent a lot of time alone with her, but he remembered your father telling him, “I’d die for her. I’d kill anyone who tried to come near her.”

You should’ve killed me, you should’ve turned me away. You shouldn’t have let me be with your daughter. It’s all my fault.

And as he walked over to your grave, he held two bouquets. No, he didn’t miscalculate. He put one down, to which the note said ‘If I could’ve done it all over again, I would’ve loved you right.’ Chuuya fell to his knees as he recalled everything about you; every memory he had with you. How close you two were coming to being blissful. It had been a month since that fateful night, and today was supposed to be the day of the wedding.

Slowly, he pulled a note out of his pocket and looked at your name carved in the headstone. “Hey princess,” he whispered, trying hard not to choke on his tears. “We, uh, never got to do this so let me read you mine, okay? But only if you promise not to laugh.”

And he laughs at how stupid he was being. He wished you could laugh, and tell him how silly it sounded. But you couldn’t. He still read it out loud for you anyway.

“Never in all my life, did I think I’d be so lucky as to be able to marry someone like you. You’re my best friend, my confidant, my lover, my home. I’ll follow you wherever you go, and I promise to support you in whatever you do. I’ve always wondered how you always seem to make me feel at home, and I found the answer in your parents.” Chuuya looked over to their graves, more tears threatening to spill out. “Mom, dad, I’m so glad I’m finally able to be a part of your family now when I’ve never had one. You have both taught me what it means to be a good parent,” and the redhead turns his attention back to your grave, softly calling your name. “I promise I’ll be the best husband, and I promise to put you... and our baby first.”

And then he placed down the other bouquet right next to yours. “How silly of me, vowing to put you both first but failing to protect either of you,” he choked out as he cried.

That night he lost everything. The only real parental figures he ever had, the love of his life, and the only one he could possibly love more than you.

He stared at the note on the last bouquet: ‘I wish you could’ve seen the world, I would’ve given you everything, my child.’

Chuuya lost what was, what is, and what could’ve been, all in one night. All solely because he existed.

He felt everything; grief, loss, terror. He’s dying on the inside. He’s never felt more human.

And he thinks he’ll never recover.

tags: @yokelish @gogolparadise @fyowyn-writes @sigmas-cursedcookies-writing

[reallystellacadente]

A Fresh Start

This was supposed to be part of a longer work that I won't describe because maybe it will eventually get written. But I'm testing the waters of this fandom again, working on various WIPs (AU story We Belong will be completed!!) and felt like I should just get this out there. It initially had an edgier title but I got distracted and forgot it.

Content warning for brief violence.

Find it on AO3 here. My epic take on the Quinn/SW story is here.

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Two heavily bearded prisoners, one reeking of piss and shit, the other a bit better kept, were dragged before the magister’s desk.

He was a civilian advocate, a military retiree compelled to return when asked to serve in this role. His sole job: to pass judgment on errant military personnel. On occasion, his rulings were dictated from on high. He did both with all the brains and heart he could stomach.

And he did so from behind a simple wooden table behind a meter-high plasteel panel in a cold, steel gray room.

Today, it was two officers. He hated this part of the job. Because either they were guilty and a shame upon the service, or they were innocent and being framed to protect someone higher up who actually was guilty. So still, a shame upon the service.

Today, he had one of each. The first case was open and shut: A young lieutenant had gotten drunk and forced himself upon a barmaid. Normally, such a thing would be overlooked, since the young woman had not been severely injured, except she was the niece of a prominent Sith family. Human, but still Sith. He’d appealed, saying his drink had been spiked by a spiteful colleague. There was no way to prove it.

“Gorbinn, step forward.” The young man was clearly too weak to escape the guards holding him, so they dragged him to the front of the table. “You must stand to hear your fate, son.” The guards stood him up and then backed away.

“Jamith Gorbinn. The Military High Tribunal has reviewed your appeal. Your appeal has been denied. The sentence of death stands. It will be carried out immediately.”

The young man opened his mouth to protest, but one of the guards pointed his blaster at his head and fired before he could say anything. His body slammed forward to the duracrete floor and a pool of blood began to form.

A doctor walked slowly toward him, gave him a quick scan, and pronounced him dead.

The other officer somehow managed to pull himself up and the guards released their hold on him. He stayed in place, but stood up fully and attempted to straighten the dirty prison uniform he’d worn for the past three weeks. There was nothing he could do about the blood spatter on his left side. He assumed the magister would understand.

He’d last been given a clean uniform for his appeal hearing, brief and bewildering as it had been. He knew the process – all the arguments were laid out before the military court without the accused present, unlike the grueling court martial he’d been through the month before. Then the accused was brought in for a final statement, and questions if necessary. There had been none, but the officer had been certain that some of them looked upon him with pity and not scorn. It had been his only hope for these past weeks that somehow, his life might be spared.

Two young enlisted troops ran forward with a tarp and rolled the body onto it. The two guards who had escorted Gorbinn in lifted the body and dropped it onto the tarp, rolled it up and carried him away. One of the enlisted men went to the back of the room, just beyond the officer’s sight, and came back with a vibromop and a towel, and quickly removed any evidence of the justice that had just taken place.

Now it was obvious what the plasteel panel was for.

“Next. Prisoner Dorn-37652, step forward.”

Malavai Quinn, 27 years old, had been stripped of his captaincy and left without rank or even a name for the past three months since he’d taken it upon himself to countermand a moff’s misguided and cowardly orders. Reversing the retreat had saved hundreds of thousands of Imperial troops and hundreds of ships. It had been a glorious victory for the Empire, but it had come at a severe price to him personally.

He hadn’t regretted it until the court martial, when one of the judges remarked he had known Quinn’s father, who had died months earlier at Rhen Var, in service to Darth Mekhis. “You bring great shame upon a glorious military family,” she spat.

“I would not change what I have done, your honor. My actions were for the good of the Empire. We won the day and thous…”

“You disobeyed orders. There is no excuse.”

Quinn bowed his head and remained silent. The proceedings stretched on for three days, rather long for an Imperial court martial.

==

The young man bore a strong resemblance to his father, who the judge had researched while awaiting the decision he was to present as his own.

“Malavai Quinn. I have reviewed your appeal. The appeal of your death sentence has been approved, and the Military High Tribunal concurs. You will be returned to custody until such time as your final sentence has been determined and you are released.”

Quinn felt his stomach fall and then return. “Thank you, your honor. Sir.”

The judge rose slowly, picked up his datapad, and turned to leave. Quinn stood still, waiting for a formal dismissal.

“For the record, son, my granddaughter was at Druckenwell. She’s at home with her son now. I had no part in this decision, but I’m glad of it,” he said, turning his head back toward the defendant.

Quinn stood at attention and then nodded. “Sir, I may no longer be in service, but I am grateful nonetheless.” The two guards motioned toward Quinn, who followed them back.

As he retreated, Quinn figured he’d be dishonorably discharged, banished from Dromund Kaas and made to feel lucky he’d been left alive. There was nothing remaining for him here anyway. His mother had disowned him, whether she was still grieving for his father or worried about his sisters’ career and marriage chances, she hadn’t said. She was incensed he had refused an offer to simply leave the service without an official trial as part of a plea bargain. “You’re just being difficult, Malavai. You’re always difficult. You don’t think of anyone but yourself.”

“I’m thinking of the truth, Mother. It needs to be heard. Moff Broysc was …”

“I don’t care. Why should I? You don’t care. About anyone except yourself and your impossible standards. You’re worse than your father, and he’s a full colonel.” She brought a handkerchief to her eyes and mumbled into the cloth, “He was a full colonel.”

Quinn could never bear seeing her cry. “Mother, I’m sorry. I have to see this through.”

“Then you see it through alone. I’m done with you, Malavai. I have no need of a son who gives no thought to his family’s shame.”

And she cut the transmission. As a prisoner, Quinn had no way of contacting her, so he begged his advocate, who said they’d been unsuccessful at reaching her.

So this was it. Quinn followed the guards back to his cell. Two hours later, a fresh prison uniform was delivered and Quinn was ordered to the showers to clean up and shave.

He was escorted into a small workroom with a tabletop holo. A few minutes later, a large figure appeared and addressed him as “lieutenant.”

Quinn bowed, assuming he was addressing a Sith of some stature by the man’s dress and battle mask, and the high-end computer terminals behind him. “My lord, I have been stripped of my rank as a …”

“I know why you’re in there, Malavai Quinn. My name is Darth Baras. I have asked my master, Darth Vengean of the Dark Council, to spare your life in exchange for a new start with the military. You are to be transferred to Balmorra, where you will serve as my eyes and ears.

“Trust me, Quinn. Your talents will not be wasted.”

Quinn wasn’t sure what to say. He’d just been granted a new beginning. A humbling one, being returned to the rank of lieutenant when he was all but assured of a promotion to major before Druckenwell. And exiled to Balmorra, still a fresh warzone. But he was alive. And he was still Malavai Quinn.

He stood at attention, then bowed his head in deference. “Thank you my lord. I shall serve you faithfully for as long as I am required.”

The impassive metal face gave Quinn no clues as to the man behind it. It wasn’t even particularly frightening, like many Sith masks. His round figure likely meant the man was no fighter, or at least, had not been one recently.

“You will receive your official orders and a new uniform shortly. The shuttle to your new post leaves in two hours. You had best be on it. I will contact you again when I receive word you have arrived. Baras out.”

The holo went dark. Quinn was both elated and terrified. He was back in the service, his mind already calculating his newly possible futures: put on hold for a few months on Balmorra, a year at most, able to transfer back to a more relevant assignment after that. He’d be spending this time serving a Sith lord, a darth no less. As his father had done.

And look what that had gotten the man. Quinn vowed to do his father one better. Even disowned, he would make his family proud.