#how terrible it must be to carry scars that should be physical only in your mind

[nexadarling]

How it must feel having lived through traumas your body doesn’t show…

My piece for @wwwhumpweek ‘Scars’ This concept was so fun to play with!

[arabellachant]

hold me like a knife. iv.

warnings: language, underage drinking, targcest, infidelity (from almost everyone), allusions to sex, religious guilt, mysoginy, pregnancy and childbirth, possible grammar mistakes (english is not my first language)

words: 4.9k

It takes some time before the girl gets to see the Targaryens again, only exchanging letters with Queen Alicent, and writing a couple shy words to Aemond every now and then. But once the news reached the girl about the terrible inflictions suffered by her husband-to-be, she urged her father to let her visit King’s Landing, desperate to know of his well being.

“The scars on his face… will never fade.” Lord Jason’s voice is careful when he explains the situation better to his daughter, their carriage only a few minutes away from the Red Keep. “I will understand if you wish to break the engagement after you see him.” Although his words are kind, Elora can’t help the shocked frown that appears on her face.

“It is not a scar that would make me give up on my marriage.” Her voice is determined as she grows offended with the assumption. In her mind, she believed others should know she was not vain and shallow. “Bearing a scar only indicates that my husband is strong.” She reasons with the man.

“It’s not only a scar.” Her father sounds more wary when he adds. “The prince has lost an eye. He might not be how you remember.” He reaches a hand to rest on the girl’s knee, trying to prepare her for the truth.

Elora only grows more concerned with the comment, looking away from the man in front of her and out through the windows. She furrows her brows and strats to fidget with the fabric of her skirts, lost in thought. A wound couldn’t change someone so much. No matter what, Aemond is still her betrothed, the shy and kind boy who got nervous every time they spoke. She thought it was better to hope he was still the same, that nothing would change.

‘O gods, please let him still be the same.’

Soon enough she would learn the true graveness of his scars, as the carriage starts to pull up in the inner gates of the Red Keep. This time only the queen is there to greet them, excusing the absence of her husband with fleeting words. Lord Jason is quick to look for his king, and the lady and the queen are left alone.

“Thank you so much for coming, Elora” Queen Alicent’s voice is kind, there are dark circles under her eyes, she looks far more pale than the last time. The girl wondered how much sleep she must have gotten ever since her son was mauled. “I’m certain Aemond will be very pleased with your company.” The queen puts a hand on the girl’s shoulder, leading her inside the palace.

Anxiety builds up in her stomach as they walk along the corridors. The queen’s expression remains serious, but there’s a hidden sadness that Elora knew very well how to read. The worry of a mother, the secret dark thoughts that darken their minds when something is wrong. Really wrong. “How is he?” The question is slow, careful, not wanting to ignite the fire. For a short second, she believes she sees Alicent crack. “No one has given me any real information on his state.” She keeps talking like someone readying themselves for an attack. “I should know how he is if I am to make him feel better.”

The woman stops in her tracks, looking down to the girl with a grim expression. Her lips tremble as she ponders over her words, and her face carries a grief beyond repair. “He is… well enough, physically.” Her speech sounds rehearsed. “But he is still fairly upset with the event. Being attacked by his own kin… defenceless.” The queen seems so far away from reality, the memory looking so recent to her.

That look scares Elora, a dreadful fear that there's more to Aemond’s incident than what is known. “His kin?” She asks in a low whisper.

And the sadness is so quickly replaced by hate. “Rhaenyra’s sons. And Daemon’s daughters. The four of them together… attacked him and blinded him over an insult.” Each word spilled out of her like venom.

The girl wanted to question further, finding it shocking to know Aemond was maimed by his own nephews. She never spent too much time with them, but they didn’t seem the type to be capable of something so cruel. Fearing the weight of her next words, she simply nodded in understanding and the two started walking again. It was a silent uncomfortable walk to the prince’s chambers, the only place where he could be found as she was told. Even weirder than the walk was the sorrowful look of queen Alicent as she urged the lady to go inside.

Frightened, she entered the dragon’s den alone. The room was dark, the curtains were closed, the mirrors were gone, and the once so bright prince roamed in the shadows with his face turned away.

“Prince Aemond.” She announced herself, curtsying as she was supposed to. It was hard to see inside the murky chamber, the only source of light in the lit fireplace.

“Mother told me you were coming.” He didn’t look at her as he spoke, still sitting in the big armchair, the flames showing the silhouette of his profile. For the first time ever since they met, he sounded cold.

Elora nodded and took a step closer, her hands clutching each other in front of her. “I wanted to see you.” For the second time she felt she might be getting too close to the fire. “I was informed you were hurt.” Her slow approach is rapidly stopped by a hiss.

“That is close enough.” He tilts his face only slightly, his features still engulfed in darkness.

His rejection was sharper than a knife to her heart. “But I wish to see you…” She explained in the kindest voice she could find, but remained in her spot.

“What for?” There was a bitterness in his tone that she couldn’t recognize. “Judging if I’m still fit to become a husband?” And that bitterness spilled out of him and into her. The same misconception of her father. How vain they truly think she is.

Swallowing her cry and her wounded pride, she remains standing tall, looking straight to his hidden figure. “I wanted to check if you wanted company, or if I could help you in some way.” His initial sting turns her own voice dry.

“I’m alright, thank you.” His face turns away from her again. “You can go now.”

His blunt response made her caring feelings vanish. She wanted to shout at him, tell him of how worried she was, how she had to beg to come here, how far she had to travel to reach him. But she did none of those things, instead she bowed to him and left without another word. She would explain to the queen that Aemond did not wish to see her, and she would return once he was healed.

However, it was not the queen she found in the corridor.

“Troubles in paradise?” The elder prince was leaning against a wall, a half finished bottle of wine in one hand and a goblet on the other. On his face, an intoxicated smile

Elora pursed her lips together, lacking the patience to deal with his teasing, she started to walk down the corridor. “He has suffered a terrible wound, and is in great pain.” She speaks back at him, hearing his wobbly footsteps follow her. “Your brother needs patience.”

The boy scoffs, wrapping an arm around the girl, she imagined it was to better steady himself. “Little Aem needs a lot of things.” His warm breath stinks of alcohol and the words are slurred in his tongue. “Patience is the least of them.” He takes a swig from the bottle, as the hand with the goblet is on her shoulder. 

She looks to the side and examines the cup dripping onto her dress, finding it oddly familiar. “Well, you’re not helping by drinking every bottle you find.” The girl spits at him, escaping his grasp which makes him stumble. She turns on her heels and looks at him, furrowed brows and crimson cheeks. “Or listening to his conversations.” Her accusation makes his eyes widen in amusement. “What were you doing standing outside his door anyways?”

Taking a deep breath and wearing a sarcastic expression, he walks closer to her. “You see, I wasn’t really there when the ‘cutting eye out’ situation happened.” His voice tones down the severity of the episode. “So as the good brother that I am, I decided to stay close by and make sure I’m available if he needs me.” His proud look doesn’t match his foolish explanation as he gestures to himself.

Rolling her eyes at his nonsense, she nods in fake agreement. “So return to your task and let me be, will you?” Another time, she tries to escape him, but even in his drunkenness he follows her with ease.

“I am doing my duty.” Aegon speaks with a fake shocked tone. “Tending to my brother’s interests is also one of my assignments.” His wink is followed by a gallant smile. If he was someone else and this was any other moment, Elora would have agreed he looked handsome. But this was her annoying brother-in-law mocking his scarred brother, so the boldness only made her rage.

Had she been born a boy, she could just punch him right away and call it a sparring match that she would probably be dismissed. For a girl to hit a man was a showcase of her own lack of education, to punch one was an unthinkable act. But there in the lonesome hallway of the palace with only the victim as witness, who would really know.

So when her fist landed on his jaw, she blamed on instinct, on emotion, on grief maybe. And even as her mind was screaming at her about how bad the consequences of this would be, she had to admit it did feel good. The look of bewilderment on his face was worth the possible punishment she would have to suffer. Her heart was beating so fast with the adrenaline that she feared it might burst. It was the smile that followed that ended her small moment of glory. The satisfaction in his eyes as he cleaned the blood dripping down his chin.

“Impressive.” There was a genuine pride in his eyes. The look of someone who discovered something new. “Has little Aem taught you to punch?” Her striked had apparently sobered him up, as he suddenly stood up to his full height, way firmer than she had ever seen him. 

This was it, the moment to flee. To run to find the queen before he did. To beg for her forgiveness for laying a hand on her precious son, to beg her father to help her escape before she is imprisoned for treason. But for some unknown reason, her feet would not move, only her lips.

“Does it really surprise you so much that I know how to defend myself?” The tone of her voice was so much different than what she usually sounded like. So frustrated, so impolite, for the first time she sounded her age. “Or are you just not used to having a girl actually tell you to piss off?” Elora didn’t even know where she had heard those words, or how she dared to repeat them. But that was Aegon, just prince Aegon. And from this moment on she chose not to care of what he thought of her.

He chuckles, a red tint on his bottom teeth. “Oh no, I wouldn’t expect less of a lioness.” Through his mockery, his eyes glint in amusement, and the lady can’t possibly understand what kind of person enjoys being hit.

Rolling her eyes at his stupidly handsome grin, Elora storms out of the hallway, surprised to not hear his footsteps behind her, and walks to the chamber she was already used to. All of her belongings were already there, far more modest dresses than from her first stay. More fit to a caring bride, as her father said. Locking the door to avoid any more strange interactions, Elora hid in those chambers for long hours, watching the sun go down as she was lost in her thoughts.

‘Aemond was hurt. He is still healing.’ She tried to convince herself. ‘He will get better. He won’t change. He is still Aemond.’ Her thoughts consumed her. She knew that bearing such a scar must take its toll, she knew he never got along with his nephews and that he wasn’t necessarily affectionate, but he was not bad. Not to her. It didn’t matter that he looked different, or that he now was the rider of the greatest dragon in the world, he was still him. She chose to believe that.

This night, however, was not the night in which she would be proven right. The queen informed her that Aemond now had all his meals in his chambers, and that he wouldn’t be joining them for dinner for the next few days at least. The new information worried her. She was barely allowed to see him in his room, and now she feared she wouldn’t see him anywhere else. How was she supposed to help him if he refused to meet her?

Elora did her best to not frown too noticeably during dinner. She barely listened to the conversations around her. Nodding when she had to, smiling when her father spoke to her, but how she wished to be anywhere else. There were whispers of a wedding, probably not hers. Not when she was still considered too young, especially not after her dear groom was maimed and in self-isolation in his rooms. But a prince was to be married.

Aegon made sure to arrive fashionably late to dinner, smiling happily like there wasn’t a deep cut on his lip. His eyes glowed in contrast to the purple tint on his chin, his gaze dark like a shark. Elora was his prey tonight, and now she was trapped. The queen was fast to question him about his bruises, her tone a strange mix of concern and disappointment.

“Oh, this?” He shrugged, filling his cup and taking Aemond’s usual seat, right in front of her, burning the lady with his eyes. “I must have fallen somewhere.” He smirked the entire time he talked, keeping his violet eyes on the girl as he downed his cup.

No one else seemed to notice his strange behaviour, perhaps already used to his weird demeanour and nonchalant way of talking. But she knew of his intentions, and even though her temper screamed at her to lunge forward and strangle him right in front of everyone, she smiled emotionless to him, ignoring his teasings.

“Drinking already, dear brother?” Her kind tone was laced with poisonous rivalry. “No wonder you fall so often.” Violet and green crash against each other in fierce battle as both try to hold their gaze the longest, neither willing to retreat.

The princess Helaena, sitting beside her brother, seemed to be the only one to notice the tension in the table, momentarily looking up from the caterpillar she had crawling on her hand. “Fire tests gold.” She mutters to no one in particular, returning to her lonely thoughts.

Both the prince and the lady turn their eyes to Helaena, both seeming confused by her words. Elora opened her lips to speak, but was quickly shaken out of her questions when she heard Aegon snort out a laugh, putting even more wine in his cup. “Yes, of course, little sister.” He responds in mock sympathy, turning to her and watching the green bug circling her fingers. “It surely does.” With his body still turned to the princess, he returns his attention to Elora, raising his eyebrows to her.

Her expression on the other hand grows even more serious, offended by the way he spoke to Helaena, wondering how siblings could be so mean to each other. “What does she mean?” She asks with genuine curiosity, her eyes travelling from one Targaryen to the other, waiting for any sort of explanation.

“Who knows?” Aegon shrugs, turning his goblet of wine and drinking it all, wiping away some stray droplets with the sleeves of his doublet. “I don’t even think she knows.” He leans forward on the table, pointing to his sister in a joking way. He supports himself on his elbows as he bends over the dinner table, getting awfully close to the lady. “My advice is to just ignore all the weird shit she says, or else you might…”

His whispered mockery is quickly interrupted by queen Alicent, who clears her throat to call his attention. Both of the children turned to the place where the adults were seated, the monarchs and Lord Jason watching the strange interaction in disapproval. Elora froze the moment her eyes met her father’s, the clear disappointment from being caught acting so immodestly, her face burning red in shame. The prince only gives a sarcastic frown, slowly returning to his seat on the table. She couldn’t help but be bothered by the difference in their reactions to be openly scolded. The way he could afford to not care about it, how his reputation could be dirty and tainted and filled with the worst rumours, and his position would remain secure. Aegon could be the most devious, vulgar and indecent prince in the world, but the Seven Kingdoms had to bow to his wish no matter what. She was a good lady, she did all she could to be a decent lady, the perfect daughter, and now the smallest fault could destroy her prospects of a future. Her rage grew as she watched him continue to drink, wearing his bruises like they were honourable, teasing his sister and the poor maids that had to serve him.

Aegon Targaryen was the one person she despised. She would make sure he knew that.

***

Her father returned to Lannisport the next morning. Lyonel needed his father close, Elora could survive on her own. She said her goodbyes in the palace, not having the courage to watch him embark the carriage and disappear from her sight. The walls of the Red Keep were familiar to her, but now they lacked the warmth she had gotten used to it. The idea of having to endure the royal family without being able to shield herself behind Aemond was terrifying. His brother was more careless with his games, eager to drag her name through the mud along with his. The other women in court should become her refuge, queen Alicent was always kind to her before, hopefully that hadn’t changed. Helaena was a quiet child, but she had a gentle nature, surely they could get along if she tried. Aemond would have to get out of that room eventually. He would come to her eventually. And things would go back to normal and she would be the future princess again, like she was always meant to be. 

It was on one of her lonely walks among the numerous silent halls that she stumbled upon the queen. Alicent Hightower, in her dark green dress, looking down as she floats through the castle like a ghost, her beautiful eyes like molten bronze filled with a sorrow much deeper than Elora had ever seen.

“My queen.” She curtsies kindly, trying to waken the woman from her mindless trance.

The queen’s face lights up momentarily, slowly approaching the young girl. “Lady Elora. Enjoying your stay?” Her kindness sounds more like a procedure than a genuine concern. The question itself was out of place. How could the girl enjoy anything that palace had to offer when her betrothed was abed with lifelong scar across his face.

“Very much, Your Grace.” Her answer doesn't give away her growing turmoil and they start walking side by side. “Although I cannot say it is as merry as my previous visit to the Keep.” She measures just the right amount of sadness she is allowed to show in her tone, her attention drawn to each and every reaction from the queen.

“Yes, I fear Aemond is not capable of keeping you company as often now.” Alicent frantically toyed with her fingers, the skin around her nails being the poor victims of her anguish. “I hope you can find some solace elsewhere. At least until my son feels disposed again.” Her voice did not change to deliver a single word, the phrase detached from the mouth that speaks it.

The two of them shared that monotone way of speaking, hiding the way they both wanted to scream their frustration into the world. For a moment, Elora gazed from the queen to the tapestry behind them. A handwoven picture of King Jaehaerys with his wife Alysanne and their many children. The portrait did not show emotion, neither did the living queen in front of her. Maybe this was the fate of all the women in that place, to marry a great man, act as a dutiful wife and become the symbol of decency across the kingdom. And still, their eyes looked hollow. Poor queen Alicent, had her son maimed in his own home and the one responsible walked out unpunished as she was not allowed to grieve openly. The queen Alysanne, Good Queen as she was called, suffered for decades losing child after child, only consoled by the fact that she loved her husband. Poor Lady Aeryn Targaryen, sent away to Lannisport to marry a stranger and be forced to bear his children, only accompanied by the same beast that would eventually kill her. How many women like her mother had the same destiny that was being written for Elora in this same moment.

“Come with me to my embroidery room.” The queen's voice awakens her from her trance. “My daughter sometimes accompanies me there, perhaps you could as well.” Her gentle smile is followed by her arm linking with Elora’s, an affectionate act that was probably an attempt to comfort them both.

The lady agrees with a polite nod, and the queen quickly leads her across the hallways. Every now and then she would comment on a piece of artwork or an antique treasure that adorned the walls, and even though the girl responded with some enthusiasm, they both knew none of them was actually interested in that conversation. It doesn’t take long before they arrive at the embroidery room, a maid quickly moving to open the door for them. Princess Helaena was already there, stabbing her needle back and forth in what appeared to be a blue beetle, not raising her eyes even when the other women arrived. Alicent points to a seat for the young girl that clings to her arm, a servant not hesitating to bring her a piece of fabric and some thread. Elora looks down on the blank cloth, wondering what she should make. She lacked the practice to do the intricate designs that were on the queen’s dresses, and she wasn’t much an admirer of bugs like the princess. Looking for some inspiration, she scans the crowded room they were in. Shelves from the floor to the ceiling, stuffed with all the richest kinds of fabric, and threads with more colours than the rainbow. Not only sewing tools, but also for paintings and musical instruments scattered across the atelier. Her eyes landed on the big harp that rested abandoned near a window, the sight making her breath hitch. The specks of dust illuminated by sunlight were almost like a ghostly figure over the chords, their invisible hands playing melancholic notes through the breeze.

“Do you play?” Helaena asks without taking her eyes off her work, sounding slightly dreamy.

Elora swallows dry. ‘I did’, that was the real answer, but that would create another question, and she wouldn’t answer that one so easily. “I don’t.” She answered politely, she could end the matter there, but for some reason more words spilled out of her. “My mother used to play.” Her confession came out weakly, and a grim atmosphere came down into the room.

Alicent shifted on her seat, putting down her handiwork to look at the little girl in front of her. “I fear I never had the chance of meeting your mother, until it was too late.” Her voice sounded comforting, her words however, were not. “But my husband has fond memories of his cousin.” The queen tried to brighten the girl’s mind, receiving a sad smile in response.

“Yes, my mother avoided leaving Casterly Rock after her marriage.” Elora answered shyly, defending her mother’s absence in the Keep. “She avoided even going out of her chambers, really. She would usually only leave her rooms to go to the hill where her dragon lived.” Her brows creased with the memories of her estranged mother, a ghost in her home before death even came for her.

The air became thicker in there, a cold gust of wind making the lady shiver. Helaena stopped what she was doing, gazing into nothing while her mother was entirely too aware of the situation. Aeryn Targaryen was not an easy subject for anyone, especially for those involved in her story. A mad girl, sent away to be married, killed by her own dragon. Definitely not the most agreeable conversation for ladies doing their needlework. But now she had slithered her way into that room with the other women, and she was never one to go unnoticed.

“My mother loved music, always did. But hated all other lady-like activities. Embroidery too.” Elora didn’t know why she kept talking about that woman, She didn’t know more about her than the queen herself, she was a stranger. A memory that haunted her dreams since she was little. “That’s why she never taught me, I think.” She tries to dismiss her own sombre spirit, joking about the poorly woven lines on her cloth.

The exact moment when queen Alicent raised from her chair to approach the girl, she could not tell, but now she stood close to her, studying the uneven lines of thread she made. “Maybe I can help with that.” Her touch was warm when she enveloped the lady’s hands, guiding her movements with the needle. “It’s truly just a matter or practice , you’ll get used to it.” The lines became straighter, more delicate and more firm at the same time. The design however was still a mystery, aimless lines of red and green woven in a strange braid.

A light breeze kept coming in through the window, moving the thin strings of the harp to create an eerie sound, the strands of light passing through reminding the girl of the woman who was supposed to play those cords. She weaved and weaved, a ghostly dance of thread creating abstract patterns on the linen. And she would have covered the entire piece if not for the queen’s next words.

“Perhaps you could work on your dress for the wedding.” Alicent’s voice travelled around the room, forcing Elora’s finger to her needle.

Covering the scarlet drop on her fingertip, the young girl turned her gaze to her. “My wedding is still far away. I still have time to think of my dress.” She tried to hide the weak trembling in her voice, but something told her that the queen could feel it.

“Your wedding is still away, yes. But not my daughter’s.” Alicent’s voice carried a grief only the mother of a princess can feel, and Helaena’s eyes filled with sorrow. “It was my husband’s idea… to hasten the ceremony. Have some joy after such grim times in the family.” It was the queen’s turn to spill her anguish, the look on her face that of an spectator of an execution.

Elora’s eyes turned to the princess’, distracted by the colourful gardens in her frame. The purple of her eyes in deep thought, trying to be anywhere but in that room. How could such a small and fragile thing like Helaena be married so soon? Her face still lingering to those childlike features, would soon be the face of a married woman. It was an execution really, to end the girl’s life so early, tie her to a man and make her into an accessory. Elora knew what happened to married princesses, as did Alicent, wed to the king at such a tender age. The girl was in shock, how could the king allow his youngest daughter to suffer such a fate so early in life.

“To whom, may I ask?” Was the only response the lady could give to such news. ‘Hopefully someone not too cruel’, she thought.

“Aegon.” The queen’s answer was dry, bitter and cold. A physical shiver took over the Targaryen princess. No one commented on it. “In the tradition of Valyria.”

“Also the king’s choice, I believe.” The girl almost bit her tongue when she uttered such a question, knowing it was too insolent of someone in her position to question a king’s decision.

No answer came this time, only a forced smile on Alicent’s lips, her eyes reddened as she returned her focus to the embroidery. Helaena shivered again, stronger this time.

A servant closed the windows of the room, but the cold lingered.

[julie-su]

I guess this post isn't for anybody who follows me, and certainly isn't applicable to any of my friends, because I'm quite brazen and open about sex - it's very 'bend or break', I ... Tend to say it how it is.

This post, I made it because SO MANY TIMES on this site do I see people needlessly moralising sex. And by that I mean, people are choosing 'good' sexual acts - missionary to maybe some light nibbling, some have been yielding to soft forms of petplay - and then deciding that every other kind of sex are 'bad' ones, painting this bogeyman idea, that it's only interesting to some alt-right neckbearded men in their mothers' basements, who jack off to too much porn. That there is this 'good' sex, and the rest is some kind of sex disorder for Jabroni Men and nobody else.

It's just reimagining the concept of 'degeneracy', with a brand new label. And none of these people seem to be aware they are doing it!

'good' S&M to these people is 'dressing up with your partner and having silly rp sex', and 'bad' if you even THINK about hurting another person, if you insult them, hit them, bully them... Trying to police other peoples' sex lives because they're not comfortable with it. You don't have to whip-to-scar in your bedroom, but you can't take the whip from our hands. We're all consenting adults with these deeply embedded rulesets on how to play safe, to play within eachothers' mental and physical limits. SSC (safe - sane - consensual), RACK (risk aware consensual kink), hard limits, safewords. But people don't ask us that. They assume.

Or gooning! How many people learnt that word, and immediately went 'oh, how disgusting that those loser men are doing that!' ... The instantaneous judgement on a neutral act, the imaginary image of that bogeyman comes around, that must be 'bad' sex. Gooning is something that many people of many sex and genders do, it's just that. It's not 'gross', it just... Is.

The inherent shame people have of recognising sex toy brands. "Oh no, I am unfortunate enough to know what that is" when it's a slightly too large buttplug, or some door-closure-hanging wrist restraints. "Eew, icky, kinky stuff. How terrible of a curse to know what THAT is!"

These people seem to have this idea that enjoying sex too much makes you some depraved pervert (really, you should only call somebody that if they ask. Hey-o!) and that you must partake in sex with a sense of loathing, that having fetishes makes you lesser or weird, and is some boulder you have to carry, some burden that makes you bad or unlovable. It's a lot of baggage, and I do feel sorry for you if this rings true, but... You have to unpack it, you can't go around telling us all to stop having fetishes, to stop having kinky sex.

Sexual liberation is freedom, keep rattling that cage.

Some of you guys have a lot of repressed shame around sex that you project onto others.

[theghostofblackbunnymask]

can you pls write alphabet for yandere fundy ty and ily!!!

Author's note- Little furry boi, I really want more Las Nevadas Crew request

Warnings- Obsession, Worship, mental abuse, Psychological torture, physical abuse, panic attacks (Fundy), lack of freedom, guilt tripping, and fear

Yandere Fundy Alphabet

Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?

Fundy would be very touch starved, so he would cuddle you, kiss you, and just pick you up and carry you around.

But if Fundy couldn't touch you, he would give you gifts of things you like, he'll spoil you rotten.

Blood: How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

Fundy can be pretty messy. His main method is quite simple, he'll just slash the person in the back with his claw like nails and then claw them to death.

Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?

Fundy wouldn't want to to treat you badly, he doesn't want to be like his father, and just the thought of it makes him sick.

Fundy would treat you with respect and will respect your boundaries, but if you don't like being touched, well I'm sorry because this furry boy will NEVER let you go.

Darling: Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?

I mean, possibly touching you if you don't like being touched. Oh, and not taking you outside, he'll only take you to Las Nevadas since you two live there, but even then he'll watch you like a hawk.

Exposed: How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

Fundy is pretty vulnerable, everyone basically left him, he can't loose you too. So if anyone threatened his Darling, he would fucking beat them to a pulp until someone pulls him off.

Fight: How would they feel if their darling fought back?

Pretty disappointed, he's given you everything, besides freedom, but who needs freedom anyways when you have someone to think and do things for you. He'd most likely just lock you in your room until you behave.

Game: Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?

This. Isn't. A. Fucking. Game. This man would go into straight fucking panic the moment he find out, he may even have a panic attack. But after that he'll calm down and using his fox sense of smell to find you.

Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

Picture this:

You just said to Fundy that he was just like his father, and that, that would break him. All of his common sense, all of his self control and all of his sympathy and empathy are all gone.

"Just like Wilbur? HAHAHAH, you think Wilbur would do something like this... Oh... I'll show you what he would do if I'm just like him!"

Fundy would pin you you down and start punching you, and they he would start to claw at your face, and he would only stop when he looks at his hands, all of it covered in blood. Fundy would look at your passed out and limp body with so much regret. He would patch you up while crying and cuddle you saying.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, you're right... I'm just like Wilbur..."

Ideals: What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?

Living in Las Nevadas with no worries. No more wars, no more Dream, no more Wilbur. Just peace.

Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?

Fundy gets jealous quite easily, and when he does he starts to get rude to the person and insult them until they run off crying. If you were to ask what was that for, he'd just say that he was protecting you and that they were just going to use you for their own disgusting desires.

Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling?

Pretty soft, he'd do whatever you want and treat you like absolute royalty. But don't take him for a push over, the moment he sees your taking advantage of his kindness and generosity, he'd lock you in a room with no food and no water, just so you learn that his kindness and generosity is a privilege, so treat it as such.

Love letters: How would they go about courting or approaching their darling?

Fundy would be so blush around you, he would send you love letters and gifts anonymously, and would watch you when you open them, wanting to see your reaction to his gifts, seeing you happy makes him so happy.

Mask: Are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?

Not really, no, but he is 10x softer.

Naughty: How would they punish their darling?

Fundy would never want to hurt you physically or emotionally on purpose, he doesn't want to be Wilbur 2.0

Key words are- Physical or Emotionally.

This man will definitely use some psychology shit on you. Have you heard of white room torture? He would definitely do that. This man would harm you mentally, but he could never harm you physically, cause whenever he sees the scars he starts to cry, seeing himself as a disgusting monster.

Oppression: How many rights would they take away from their darling?

Freedom and freedom of speech. God forbid you mention or say the name Wilbur around him, this man would go insane and beat you to a pulp, before regaining his composure, patching you up, and crying while cuddling you.

Patience: How patient are they with their darling?

Fundy's pretty patient, he understands that love takes time, trust, and that it can be cruel. He'll give you all the time in the world for you to love him, there's no need to worry.

Quit: If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

If you were to escape, he would find you within a few hours, and then drag you right back while ranting and guilt tripping you about how much pain you caused him.

Now if you died, he'd be heartbroken, he wouldn't even take care of himself anymore and would just let his nightmares consume him, and juust allow himself to wake up from those nightmares.

Regret: Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go?

Fundy would know it's wrong to hold people hostage, but he just wants to protect you, they're too much bad and terrible people on this server and he doesn't want you to fall victim to them, so if kidnaping keeps you safe, then I guess that's what he must do, love hurts, but it'll be worth it in the end.

Stigma: What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)?

☆PEOPLE LEAVING HIM☆ So whenevethe starts to fall for someone or befriend someone, he'd do anything for them not to leave him, but if they abuse or mistreat him, he'd drop and let them go.

Tears: How do they feel about their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?

Fundy would feel terrible if he made you cry, he would beg you to stop while apologizing. But if someone else made you cry, he would threaten the person.

If you were to yell at him, he may get scared since it reminds him whenever people got upset with him, mainly Wilbur, so Fudny would just back away scared before running off.

If you were to isolate yourself, he would tell you it isn't healthy and that you should talk to him if he or someone else did something wrong.

Unique: Would they do anything different from the classic yandere?

Not really sure.

Vice: What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?

A few things actually.

His obsession with you, if you act like you're obsessed with him, you may be able to escape.

His desperate attempts to not be like Wilbur, if you continue to assure him he isn't like Wil, you could gain his trust and escape.

Using guilt tripping against him, make him feel bad and he'll give you more freedom, then you could escape.

Wit's end: Would they ever hurt their darling?

Fundy has outbursts sometimes and during those times he can't control himself, leading him to hurt you. He doesn't mean to though.

Xoanon: How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over?

A lot of lengths, he basically worships the ground you walk on and would do anything for your love, affection and approval.

Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

1 year.

Zenith: Would they ever break their darling?

Fundy doesn't want to break you, he could never live with that.

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 286: VESTIGE ANTICS ARE A GO

Previously on BnHA: Deku was all “what’s the record for most consecutive bone breaks within the span of a single minute” and, without waiting for an answer, proceeded to unleash roughly 17 Smashes onto Tomura. Kacchan was all “THAT DOES IT, I’M TAKING THE REINS OF THIS SHITSHOW” and carried Endeavor and Shouto up to where the action was so Endeavor could hit Tomura with a Prominence Burn. AFO was all “Tomura would you rather burn to death or let me take over your body” and Tomura was all “...” and so AFO TOOK OVER and was all “STABBITY STABBITY” and used his Stabbing Quirk to do some Good Old Fashioned STABBIN’. First he stabbed Endeavor, and then he was all “hee and now I’m gonna stab Deku”, but Kacchan was all “SIR THAT’S MY EMOTIONAL SUPPORT RIVAL” and so he rushed on in AND GOT HIMSELF STABBED INSTEAD. And so basically THIS PAST WHOLE WEEK HAS BEEN A RIDE, LET ME TELL YOU.

Today on BnHA: Kacchan is all “sup Deku lemme just downplay how I totally took this fatal blow for you just now” before he dramatically passes out and is caught by Todoroki “BTDUBS I CAN FLY NOW” Shouto, who is also carrying his dad because the kids really are just doing it all, here. AllForRaki Tomura For One is all “HAHA BAKUGOU IS PRETTY DUMB”, at which point Deku just LOSES IT ENTIRELY and ASCENDS INTO A NEW PLANE OF FURY LIKE A LITTLE GREEN RAGE BUDDHA. But then like two seconds later Tomura is all “ANYWAY, SO” and FUCKING TOUCHES DEKU’S FACE, CAUSING THE TWO OF THEM TO ASTROPROJECT INTO THE FREAKY OFA/AFO MINDSCAPE BECAUSE THIS CHAPTER IS BANANAS. Vestige!AFO is all “reports of my demise were greatly exaggerated but aren’t you glad I saved your life though, Tomura”, while Tomura is all “!!” because he’s hopefully starting to get A Clue, and meanwhile Deku just stands there watching all “what the fuck.” The chapter ends with SHIMURA MCFUCKING NANA showing up all, “HI, I HEARD SOME BITCHES WERE TRYING TO HAVE A GIRL POWER ARC, AND THEY DIDN’T INVITE ME.” Go on, Nana. Give ‘em hell.

you guys. I’m not normally one to take pleasure in another human being’s misfortune. BUT THAT SAID, there are exceptions to every rule, and so let’s just say certain events have transpired early this morning which have PUT ME IN A VERY, LET’S JUST SAY, NOT-TERRIBLE MOOD which this chapter will hopefully improve upon!!

oh my god Deku’s one non-fucked-up eye that he still has control over is SO WIDE YOU GUYS

hmm I know I shouldn’t be all (゜▽゜) while the two of them are all (； ▼ Д ▼) (⁰ Д゜;) ... and yet here we are. btw I’m worried tumblr’s formatting will ruin those two emojis which I worked so hard to get just right so I’m gonna repost them on another line here just in case

(； ▼ Д ▼) (⁰ Д゜;) that’s them. Kacchan and Deku. my boys 

HERE COMES THE CHEESY “JUST GOT STABBED BETTER PLAY IT OFF ALL COOL!!!” ONE LINER OH MY GOD

(ETA: really love how my son, with what for all he knows could be his dying breaths, decides that the absolute most important thing is to preserve his selfish asshole facade so as not to fuck up his status quo with his rival. “LOOKEE HERE I GOT MYSELF ALL STABBED AND SHIT FOR YOU, BUT I TOTALLY JUST DID IT BECAUSE I WAS TIRED OF YOU GETTING ALL THE COOL HERO MOMENTS” yeah, that’s right! SELFLESS MOTIVATIONS, WHAT ARE THOSE sob.

also tbh I’m glad they didn’t delve any further into their feelings right here and now because this really isn’t the place or time for it sadly. WE WILL JUST PUT THOSE ON HOLD UNTIL AFTER THE ARC ENDS, when they are all recovering from their various wounds and traumas and have time to catch up and have some long-overdue heart-to-hearts. it deserves its own chapter or two or three. maybe time to head back to Ground Beta once they’re healthy? “healthy” perhaps being a relative term given their current condition fjsdjkf.)

by the way it looks from here like only the ones through his torso and shoulder actually hit, so that’s something at least. WE’VE LOST ENOUGH LEGS TODAY. I need to conserve my remaining puns

MEANWHILE TOMURA IS HAVING A CRISIS

ARE YOU MAD AT YOUR EVIL DAD TOMURA. HE JUST WON’T TAKE NO FOR AN ANSWER WILL HE, THAT GUY

anyway so it looks like Kacchan might have caught a break here because AFO/Tomura is pulling the stabby quirk activation tendril things back out! rip, “Kacchan vs. Deku part 3″ theories

p.s. I got ALL CAUGHT UP IN THE DRAMA and thus glossed over the chapter title which is “one among us”! hmmm this is definitely AFO/OFA related, calling it now. ooh lord I am excited

NOW MY SON IS DRAMATICALLY FALLING

THE BLOOD FROM THE MOUTH OOF NOT GOOD AHHHH. DEKU’S FACE AHHHH. HIS BODY JUST WENT TOTALLY LIMP DID HE PASS OUT AHHHH. SOMEONE CATCH HIM!!

BY HIS FOOT, SHOUTO?!

well NOT EXACTLY THE MOST GRACEFUL THING I’VE EVER SEEN, but we’ll allow it because HOLY SHIT BOY. ARE YOU ALREADY CARRYING YOUR DAD ON TOP OF THAT?? HORIKOSHI PLEASE CONFIRM, IS TODOROKI MOTHERFUCKING SHOUTO FUCKING FLYING AROUND UNBALANCED AF ON HIS ONE FLAMEY LEG, CARRYING HIS 500 LB POP AND NOW HIS FLOPPY PASSED OUT BEST FRIEND AS WELL?!? HOLY SHIT TODO?!?!

LADIES AND GENTLEFRIENDS OF THE VILLAIN STANDOM, FEAR NOT, TOMURA’S HAIR IS THE FIRST THING THAT GREW BACK LOL

even before his eyeballs kfldkakjk. which, btw, how does he even know what’s going on right now? “this fight has shed a lot of useless blood” sdkmkjl okay well (1) WHOSE FAULT WAS THAT, AGAIN??, (2) SERIOUSLY THOUGH, HOW DOES HE EVEN KNOW WHAT’S HAPPENING. DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHO YOU STABBED?? ARE YOU EFFECTIVELY BLIND FOR THE NEXT FEW SECONDS HERE, WHAT’S GOING ON, and lastly (3) I seriously can’t tell if this is AFO or Tomura talking right now. or are they going back and forth?? help this is so confusing

HEY

THE DISRESPECT. I’LL HAVE YOU KNOW KACCHAN ANGST IS NEVER USELESS!!

AND NOW HE’S BACK TO THE STABBING JFKJLKJLF I AM NOT TOO HAPPY WITH YOU RIGHT NOW MISTER

okay and now we’re cutting to some quick panels of the unconscious Aizawa, Gran, and Ryuukyuu, along with the “still conscious but in a very real sense might as well not be counted” Manual who is really having a day, that poor guy

anyway but then there’s also some dialogue boxes being all “if you act out of rage your power will respond accordingly, the most important part is to keep your head clear.” which I’m like 90% sure is Deku/OFA related, but honestly NOTHING ABOUT THIS CHAPTER IS CLEAR SO FAR YOU GUYS. except for the Shouto-is-a-badass part anyway

HMM YEP I’M GONNA GO WITH DEKU-RELATED

it must be a callback to some line I’m forgetting. maybe Lariat explaining Blackwhip to him that one time. probably should have been in italics if it was a flashback quote, but hey. anyways the point is Deku is absolutely, 100% following this advice to the letter (/s)

(ETA: yep I’m almost positive this is the same quote from chapter 213. “listen, when you use this power out of anger, it’ll really start working for you. what really matters is controlling your heart.” which is still one of the weirdest pieces of advice in the entire series, but basically I think he was just trying to tell him it’s okay to get mad, so long as it’s calmly mad. like, controlled fury, as opposed to this white-hot berserker nonsense he’s been running on as of late. anyways I do still love me some shounen rage all the same but Lariat has a point.)

...

it took me a minute to realize THOSE WERE DEKU’S EYES. holy --

AND ANOTHER MINUTE TO REALIZE THAT DEKU FUCKING GRABBED THE ACTIVATION TENDRIL WITH HIS BUSTED UP OFA HANDS AND BIT INTO IT WITH HIS RABID OFA JAWS AND SNAPPED THAT SHIT LIKE A FUCKING KITKAT KLJLKSJDLKJFLK WOOOOOOOO I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT’S HAPPENING BUT GODDAMN. POWER MOVE

(ETA: this is a two-page spread omg. I didn’t even realize at first. this scan ABSOLUTELY DOES NOT DO THIS BADASS PAGE ANY KIND OF JUSTICE but I can’t wait to see the real deal on Sunday holy shit.)

LMAO

DEKU RAGED SO HARD HE TURNED INTO AN ANGRY GHOST SONIC THE HEDGEHOG FKLSKG

(ETA: he actually looks a bit like the Vestiges/Kurogiri tbh.)

meanwhile Tomura basically has the exact same face I would have had in his position. yeah for real man. I don’t even know

p.s. WHEN will people learn to STOP INSULTING KACCHAN IN DEKU’S PRESENCE. WHEN, I ASK!!

WHAT IN THE CINNAMON TOAST FUCK

if this was a physical page I was holding I would have FLUNG THAT SHIT AWAY LIKE THERE WAS A SPIDER CRAWLING ON IT. WHAT THE FUCK

HOT DAMN. well uh. so that’s SUPER DISTURBING, what a lovely panel of Tomura’s melted face slowly growing back while his ears lag behind, and meanwhile that little scar that had been growing and growing and which at one point certain people (ME) thought might turn him into a BEAUTIFUL BUTTERLY instead RIPS HIS FACE IN HALF to reveal the KINDER EGG AFO SURPRISE UNDERNEATH AHHHHH TAKE IT BACK

THIS IS WHY YOU DON’T LET MAD SCIENTISTS PERFORM EXPERIMENTS ON YOU, KIDS. PSA. JUST SAY NO

-- NO!!!

HORIKOSHI!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

fuck

oh my god. I almost would have rather cut away right after the Kacchan incident than freaking cut away NOW of all times, jesus. THAT’S JUST A BITCH MOVE, IS WHAT THAT IS. if we don’t cut back within the next three pages I SWEAR TO GOD

anyway so GUESS WHAT GIGANTOMACHIA’S DOING YOU GUYS. if you guessed “the exact same thing he was doing last time we saw him” then you are absolutely right, because it was actually PRETTY EASY TO GUESS

anyway but he says he detects “master’s scent”, except that there’s apparently two of them. interesting! one in Tartarus and one in Jakku, right? lol Horikoshi has burned me so many times already with his excruciatingly slow reveal of this that I’m not gonna hold my breath just yet, but I’ll get the hype train warmed up JUST IN CASE

okay so meanwhile in downtown Jakku, the heroes are handing off the civilians over to the police and rescue forces while they prepare to engage with “the villain”, by which I assume they mean Gigantomachia. does this mean Iida and Ochako are gonna fight Machia you guys omg

OOH!!!

“PLEASE INFORM THEM ON FOOT” well I know a certain SPEEDY BOI who would be PERFECT for that job oh my. make haste, Tenyar FastmLeggy

WAIT WHICH WAY ARE THEY HEADING

ARE THEY HEADING TOWARDS MACHIA OR TOWARDS DEKU AND AFO

so rather than answering my VERY PERTINENT question, Ochako is instead spending an entire page thinking about how their complete clusterfuck of a life keeps getting exponentially worse all the time! well but she’s not wrong though

NOW SHE’S ALL “GUYS...!” and, rather than explaining ANYTHING AT ALL, Horikoshi is again cutting back to THIS, OMG AHHHHHHHHHHHHH

(ETA: good thing Kacchan wasn’t awake to see his dramatic “I’ll just get myself impaled for Deku’s sake” plan result in this outcome ALL OF TWENTY SECONDS LATER smdh.)

I ACTUALLY PREFER MY DEKUS NON-CRUMBLED, THANKS. ALSO JUST ON A SIDE NOTE, POOR SHOUTO THOUGH. THE LAST NINETY SECONDS OR SO HAVE BEEN ENOUGH NIGHTMARE FUEL FOR A LIFETIME HAVEN’T THEY

so now he’s all “MIDORIYA!!!” because OF COURSE HE IS. his best friend just got impaled, and his dad too, and now he fully expects to see his other best friend crumble to dust right before his eyes holy shit. T R A U M A ™

-- !!!

somehow in the excitement of the moment I forgot his actual goal for a sec lol. meaning I instantaneously switched from HORRIFIED to GRINNING LIKE A MANIAC :D :D :D come on OFA time to show him what’s what

AND NOW WE’RE SWITCHING OVER TO EVERYONE’S FAVORITE TRIPPY DREAM LANDSCAPE FOR ADDITIONAL DRAMA, WELL OKAY

I’M ON BOARD WITH THIS, WHATEVER. also it’s becoming increasingly apparent that Deku is in fact nekkid underneath that mystical cloud bs, so let’s hope one of his remaining yet-to-be-unlocked quirks is a pants-conjuring quirk lulz

“this place...” yeah we all fucking know what this place is son, let’s get on with this. by my count we’ve only got four pages left so PLEASE BUDGET THEM WISELY

OH MY

holy shit. I have so many screaming thoughts about this lol but I just want to keep on reading lkjlkjlkjl okay I’ll come back later and edit them in, how’s that

OR MAYBE I’LL JUST RANT ABOUT THEM NOW GODDAMMIT

shit. okay let me just try and sum this up as quick as I can

so just in case it wasn’t already crystal clear, AFO’s soul being roommates with Tomura’s seems to be just about 100% confirmed now. good for you, All For One For All theory!! the “Kacchan loses his quirk” theory died so that you might live on in glory

AFO does seem to have almost fully taken control now. it looks like Tomura’s still fighting back, but AFO clearly has the upper hand now if their body language is any indication. Tomura on his knees with AFO calmly holding him down and ignoring his struggles... not looking too good for him at the moment

people seem to have somewhat lost sight of this in the midst of the great “heroes vs. villains Who Is Right Who Is Wrong What Are Morals” debate of 2020, but just a friendly reminder that AFO is in fact responsible for 100% of all of Tomura’s suffering from pretty much the moment he was born up till this very moment we’re now witnessing!! like, you can go ahead and blame Nana and Gran and The Complacent Apathy Of Hero Society and whatever the fuck else from here till Sunday, but All for One is the reason Kotarou was orphaned. All for One is almost certainly the reason why the seemingly quirkless Tenko suddenly just magically developed THE MOST FUCKED UP QUIRK OF ALL TIME at the worst possible moment. All for One is probably the reason why no one helped Traumatized Baby Tenko in the immediate aftermath (I can and likely will write a separate post about this in the near future). All for One is definitely the reason why no one helped Tenko at any point after that. All for One is the reason why Tenko grew up all fucked in the head (“HERE’S YOUR DEAD FAMILY’S HANDS, MERRY CHRISTMAS”), and the reason why he grew up blaming Heroes and Society rather than the sole person who was actually responsible who was literally standing right in front of him the entire time. and lastly, All for One is the reason why Tomura has now been manipulated into unknowingly sacrificing his own body and possibly even his mind. so THANKS A LOT FOR THAT. more like jerk for one amiright

basically what I’m trying to say is that Deku and Tomura are not actually enemies here, and they never have been. the two of them have a common enemy, and I’m convinced Tomura’s story is about him eventually coming to realize this. and this looks to be the first step towards that, for two reasons. one, because AFO is finally starting to out himself to Tomura as the rat bastard he has always been. and two, because Deku is catching a glimpse of this now for the very first time. up until now he didn’t have a damn clue lol. but this is now something for him to file away in the back of his mind, and perhaps follow up on at a later date, once all of this craziness finally subsides and he has some time to process

anyway, so that’s basically it! tl;dr AFO is the final villain and unless I’m very much mistaken, this scene is going to finally start to set that up. let’s read on!

OMG

NANA?!?

lKDSJFLKSHGLISHDOGIHOLRKL

NOOOOOO I can’t believe it fucking ended there I can’t fucking believe it, fuck everything

smdh. what a place to end it. didn’t confirm a damn thing. not even whose mental landscape all of this is actually taking place in! like, don’t mind me though Horikoshi, it’s not like THE FATE OF THE WORLD HINGES ON THIS QUESTION OR ANYTHING except oh wait it really kind of does. kljkj

but seriously. because if it’s Deku’s mind, it means that Tomura’s attempt to take his quirk wasn’t successful. but if it’s Tomura’s mind, though... well... hhhhhhkhfff

or it could be both, I guess. more of that “AFO and OFA are the same quirk and thus linked” goodness. oh man. anyways stay tuned for next week when Nana presumably helps Deku out with the rest of that black fog and also hopefully finds him some pants. or maybe Nana can just go fight AFO herself. a little payback for everything he’s done to her protege and to her grandson. either way I CAN’T WAIT omg. VESTIGE ANTICS ARE A GO

[mommymooze]

Lack of Vision

Reader x Black Eagles

The smell of ancient vellum, leather, ink, paper and polished wood fills your nose before you enter the room. Some of the students have begun to clear out having finished the bookwork assigned by their professors. You prefer the library to be nearly void of others, their whispered conversations disturbing your concentration and you can feel their eyes upon you as they watch you reading and looking for the proper materials for class. You come from a well-respected family in the Empire, not a noble, however your family works with them and high level healers and mages.

None of that matters here at Garreg Mach. Teenagers are cruel creatures, judging everyone by their superficial standards. The more aesthetically appealing, the higher the regard given to the student. You are nearly invisible to most of the students, nothing of importance about you. There are thick eyeglasses on your face that warps your appearance into something strange and difficult to look at. You attract no attention, nor do you draw attention to yourself. The only person that notices you for any reason is Hubert. He took interest in you for a short period of time to confirm that you are no danger to his Lady, once cleared he ignores you like the rest.

The Professor is extremely hesitant to allow you to accompany the group into any battle. Your primary focus is Faith magic and healing, however you do cast reason spells. Targeting enemies at a distance is, extremely difficult for you. As far as healing, Linhardt keeps his fellow students alive long enough for the group to make it back to the monastery, Dorothea being his backup. When the student is brought back to the infirmary, that is where your magic becomes the most useful. Your healing skills quickly rival Manuela. Not being distracted by sparring, fighting and traipsing around the campus flirting, fighting or pranking like most of the students, you immerse yourself completely into your studies.

You constantly write home requesting additional and more advanced healing tomes and books about magical theory. Even Professor Hanneman is jealous of some of the people you correspond with regularly, discussing points of rune manipulation and theory. Professor Byleth is surprised that you pass the Gremory test before the ball. You would be upset if you had not passed, perfecting your magic skill is your obsession.

Eyeglasses are the worst in every weather. They fog in winter, get drippy with spring rain. Summer they slip and slide from sweat. Fall it is back to rain. At the academy, there is just enough space between the buildings that your glasses quickly get acclimated to the cooler temperature outside, then as soon as you step inside, they fog up immediately, rendering them useless. Useless for you means near blindness. You can tell that things moving around are other people. There is no depth perception, stairs are terrifying. As soon as you make your way inside a building you seek a wall to put your back against as you wait for the fog to clear.

Once Ferdinand had found you just inside the building containing the library. He grabbed your hand and started to drag you to the stairs. You had to stop and explain to him why you were so intimidated and refused to go with him.

He should offer his arm so that you can hold on and if anything bothers you or you do not feel comfortable you could let go and keep your balance and composure. He then starts to march forward at his normal pace, which is great if you are tall and long legged such as he is, however your height is more in the category of Edelgard’s and you would have to nearly run to keep up with him.

“Pretend you are carrying a teacup filled to the brim with hot tea. How quickly would you move with that in your hand? Do you want to spill it all over yourself and possibly burn your hand?” You ask.

“Goodness no!” Ferdinand responds. “What a terrible waste of tea!” Ferdinand thusly takes his time and you arrive at the library unscathed.

Time passes, Emperor Edelgard declares war. You join her side without hesitation. The church is indeed corrupt. The noble system is useless and only sustains power to those that should never have been entrusted to it in the first place. The Emperor also announces the Black Eagle Strike Force. Not long after this announcement you approach her, Hubert always alongside of his liege.

You reach forward placing a handful of necklaces with a Black Eagle medallion on them. “I wish to distribute these to the members of the Strike Force with your permission.”

Hubert immediately notices that the necklaces are enchanted. “What is this?” He demands an answer.

“As you know, my sight distance is limited. This will expand my abilities greatly. Should someone undergo severe injuries or become surrounded by enemies I can remove them from the situation or cast physic on them. It does not have to be visible on their person, they can wear it under their armor.” You answer.

“How do you know one from another?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Once everyone has worn them for a few days I will be able to tell the difference, who has which necklace and once in battle I will have no issue identifying the correct person to assist.”

“Hmmm.” Hubert is hesitant to agree.

“I think it is a wonderful idea. We have a long difficult road ahead of us. If it provides the opportunity to save an ally, I cannot see how this would be an issue.” Emperor Edelgard smiles.

Leaving a necklace for the two on the table, you seek out the remainder of the Strike Force handing them their necklaces, giving them instructions to try to wear it at all times, always wearing it during a battle. You then find Linhardt and discuss the intricacies of the spell with him. He is quite impressed, not impressed enough with needing to learn anything further, lest it cause him more missed naps.

Unfortunately, you are not able to give Professor Byleth theirs before the attack on Garreg Mach.

Without being amid the battle itself, you greatly aid your allies. Two clerics with minor healing skills and perfect eyes describe the battle as it unfolds. They both speak at the same time describing everything they see. You have been training them for weeks. They keep you appraised of nearly everyone on the battlefield. You cast physic and fortify on several allies, healing them, allowing them to keep fighting. Nobody must be rescued as a result, however it is always an option.

The weary warriors return to camp, the injured head to the infirmary. Once you heal all wounded there, you quietly make your way around camp. Stopping at the entrance to a tent you announce yourself.

“You are injured. Let me attend you.” You whisper to the canvas entrance flap.

“I have seen too much blood today. Let me sleep.” Linhardt moans.

You enter the tent, shuffling forward until you touch his cot. “You’ll sleep better if you are healed. Assist me if you want this completed quickly. Fight if you want this to take longer.”

“Very well.” The sleepy man turns on his side, tugging at his robes to show his right leg and the gash in his calf.

You need little light to work, most of what you do is by touch. Cleansing the wound, folding and refolding the cloth to have the clean portion removing the debris and dried blood. Healing the wound, finally rubbing the scar with light soft touches of magic until nothing is left but smooth and slightly pink skin.

You leave, heading for the next tent. It is easy to tell who is injured. Sometimes the smell of blood alerts you. Whimpers of pain, cursing, stuttered breathing, all of them involuntary tells that they are hiding their wounds. No amount of chastising them has worked thus far. You must seek them out and find them before they fall face first in the dirt, fevers burning because of infection that quickly settles in their neglected wounds.

You can tell this tent belongs to Ferdinand. He makes the smallest high pitched squeak when he moves an injured muscle the wrong way.

“Ferdie, I’m coming in.” You give him ten seconds before you enter.

“S-Sorry. I should’ve…” The redhead begins to apologize.

“Shh. Guide me to the worst first.” You instruct him. You’ve been through this many times before. You recall back at the monastery you would drag him back to the infirmary after returning from battles. He would then invite you to tea and tell you about everything that happened. He would frequently let slip about a few people that had been hurt, and those you had not seen in the infirmary would be sought out later.

His hip had a deep gouge in it from the point of a sharp lance. You wonder how me made it back to the tent with something that deep, the blood had dripped all down his leg. You cleanse it, pouring some healing potion in to soften the burn as you prepare him for the alcohol to follow, flushing out the debris and who knows what that was on the enemy lance tip. Finally, you heal the wound closed now that you are certain it will not become infected. He tells you the next injury is to his shoulder.

Completing your treatment of each and every one of his wounds you get back on your feet. “Tell me what you find in the morning. The worst infections can come from the smallest cuts.”

“I know, thank you.” He calls out to the darkness of his tent.

You know whose tent is next. You stand outside, pausing. “Don’t blast me into next week. I must do what is necessary.” You announce before entering.

“Your concern is unnecessary.” He fumes.

“You prefer necrosis?” You sass.

“To be looked after –ugh.” Hubert groans.

“Better than dead. I’m going to be here a while, aren’t I?” You kneel in front of his cot, smelling blood everywhere. You know he has a high threshold for pain but this man is ridiculous. He is a human pincushion filled with so many holes he should be classified as swiss cheese.

You begin by placing him under a magically induced sleep. This slows his heart rate, making him bleed out slower. Lighting several candles in the room you need to pick apart this man, healing every possible wound new or old, removing all signs of infection.

He cares so little for himself it is a miracle that he can remain standing on his own feet most days. Tweezers and a scalpel assist you with removing four pieces of shrapnel from his back. Two fractured ribs are also healed. His legs are battered by the fallout of spells attacking him. He can deflect them from his head and torso, however he is so tall that his legs still feel some of the impact of magic and what it carries with it. One last scan for any further untreated injuries makes you sigh in relief. You pull back on the sleep spell a bit. He remains asleep, allowing him to rest, however he should not be so deep in sleep as to not be able to be rustled awake.

Sitting on the ground in front of his cot, you rest and meditate until morning. You will not leave him unprotected. Once he begins to rustle several hours later, you stand and face the exit to the tent.

“I would ask if I missed anything, but you will never tell me if I did.” You state matter-of-factly.

“Thank you.” He mutters softly.

You nod and leave.

Camp is broken down. Everything is packed into wagons or on the back of horses. Enbarr is the next destination. Back to the capital to plan.

Most of the fights for the next few years are smaller skirmishes. The larger battles are much fewer and further between. However, this current battle is quite serious. The Empire has had control over the bridge at Myrddin since the Emperor declared war. There is word of kingdom forces approaching, threatening the bridge and surrounding territory. The entire Strike Force is called together to interfere with the invasion.

You have the bridge map memorized. The strategic meetings provide you with the locations of where everyone is to be deployed and defending their area. Your assistants inform you of the fighting and position changes as the battle unfolds. They update you as the enemy moves forward beginning their attacks. Suddenly the watcher to the right is quickly rambling, upset and excited.

“What! Tell me what is going on!” You order, having no idea what is happening due to their rambling.

“They are swarming, trying to get past Caspar and Ferdinand, many are getting through and overwhelming Hubert. He’s moving back but…”

Immediately you cast Physic at Hubert then Caspar.

“I can’t see Hubert there are so many around him!” the observer is shaking moving left to right to see.

You cannot let him fall. You cast warp and appear standing alongside his fallen body. There are a few surprised utterances by the soldiers, however they are quickly gathering their wits about them. They are not as fast as you are, you throw a series of spells. The first is your Thoron. You cannot see well enough to cast it as a normal Thoron, your modified version is closer to clusters of ball lightning emitting from around you, arcing out in a rotating pattern. You lean over Hubert, who is still alive from what you can feel. The soldiers swarming him are very very much at risk and feeling your wrath. Their bodies jolt and shake with the electricity. Just as the spell ends you cast recover on Hubert.

“Muh…more coming!” The dark mage blurts out, casting Mire at the closest one.

You call upon the hellfire from within you, casting your own special Ragnarock. The smell is horrific as all flesh in a huge circle around you is incinerated in the heat of the flames that extends around you for a 30 foot radius.

“What next?” You ask the dark mage on the ground beneath you.

“You were successful.” Hubert says as he takes your hand to assist him in getting back onto his feet.

Hubert begins to walk briskly towards the next sign of melee. You grab his elbow and are dragged along.

“Are you certain you wish to do this?” The dark mage asks.

“I’ve made it so far.” You counter, scared and excited at the same time as you are headed for the center of the battlefield.

There are a lot more sounds around you than normal. Spells going off, horses rushing in at the direction of their riders, the clashing of metal against metal. You keep turning your head at every sound. You hear the sound of boots coming closer, you cannot clearly make out a face, but the colors donned by the fighter are of the enemy, so you cast a normal Thoron spell at him. Hubert calls out and you direct your attention to him.

“Heal Ferdinand!” He orders.

You lock on the cavalier and cast Physic. A hearty Yes! is heard not too far away as you continue to be aware of your immediate surroundings.

Hubert dashes away from you, headed further toward the center of battle. You know better than to run into the thickest part of things where your clear vision extends not more than six feet ahead of you. A green coated figure comes close and you grab onto the arm of Linhardt as he walks past.

“Everyone good?” You ask as he is dragging you along with him.

“So far. I am glad this is almost over. I am so exhausted.” He groans.

You listen as the noise dies down, the sounds of spells being cast has ended. The voices are calling out more organizational orders than directing the forces to attack. Linhardt takes you to the area where they have set up camp, pointing you into the direction of the infirmary tent before he gets close enough to be dragged inside. A healer outside notices you and hauls you in, you are needed to put a few soldiers back together. Much later, as you emerge from the tent you are grabbed and warped away.

“Sit.” You are pushed backward until your calves hit a surface for you to sit upon. He stands in front of you, arms crossed.

“I know. It is a risk I had to take. You are too stubborn and so am I.” You confess before you are asked a question.

“Do you have any idea what-“ Hubert’s voice is full of venom and anger.

“Yes, I do. More than you. I did not join this war to do anything halfway.” You calmly answer. You know his bark is worse than his bite. And if he wanted to harm you, he would kill you first and ask questions later.

The dark mage turns to step away, then spins around to face you again. “And what of after the war?”

“I have no vision of what is beyond anything that I can see right now. I have bound myself to you through a blood oath that you did not participate in, so that I could help you live through this war.” You respond, quiet and rational. “You are not committed to me and owe me nothing. I knew you would not wear the necklace. I did what is necessary to keep you alive. We cannot win this without you. It is not like I will ever have a suitor clamoring at my door.”

Hubert is furious. You knew he would be. Based on ancient customs and rituals in several countries, one of them Brigid you created the spell. There is an exchange of blood between wedded parties, mixing their blood so the two could ‘become one’. However further research into the matter reveals that as a part of one’s self being with the other could be extremely useful, especially relating to magic spells to locate the other and/or to assist them.

The moment you warped to Hubert’s side, he knew what had occurred. You knew he would treat it as a betrayal of his trust in you, however this being a ‘one way’ blood passing would not bind him to you in any way. A complete exchange blood oath on his part would sever this one sided oath and cause a magical backlash to yourself. Since you had initiated this blood oath, you cannot perform this with another.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “What is done is done. Leave.” He orders.

The tents and supplies are packed away again, the long convoy is back on the road. The anniversary of the millennium festival approaches quickly. The weather has turned quite miserable, raining day and night. The roads are getting sloppier every day. Riding in the back of the supply wagon is dangerous for you, but you feel it is worse it is worse as you cannot tell where you are stepping. Just as someone announces they can see Garreg Mach in the distance, the wagon you are riding in flips onto its side due to the deep ruts in the roadway and shifting of the cargo. You are buried under multiple boxes and cargo from the wagon.

When you awaken you are dry and clean and lying on a cot in the infirmary of the academy. You sit up in the bed and recall what happened. Your left arm is wrapped up to your shoulder. You feel a bump on your head. What you don’t feel, is your glasses.

“Cleric?” You call out. You know someone was in the room with you, you had heard them with papers.

“Oh! You are awake. I will fetch Manuela.” You hear her footsteps getting further and further away down the hall.

Manuela arrives and explains the situation. Your left arm will have to be in a sling for a few days. Your glasses were crushed under the wagon. A message was written and sent today requesting a replacement pair, nothing we can do for that in the meantime. She fits you with a sling and at your insistence you walk from the infirmary down to the first floor. Alone.

You were able to slowly make it to the end of the corridor that led to a courtyard. From there you only have to cross the courtyard, find the stairs down and then the dorms in order to get to your room. Piece of cake you think to yourself. You know the layout of the monastery, where the obvious dangers are. It’s just the minor details that you can’t see. If someone leaves items out where they don’t belong or an item is in an unusual spot, that could be a problem for you.

The open courtyard is intimidating, people can come at you from all angles, and they do. You do not get run over, but you get spooked when a large something crosses your vision suddenly. You feel better when you get to the area that has bushes all along one side. You stay close to the bushes, keeping out of the way of the faster people.

Now is the dangerous part. The stone walkway in front of you, and the stairs that go down to the dorms. You must choose embarrassment or death. You choose to not die today. Sitting on the ground you scooch your behind closer and closer to where you think the edge of this level is until your feet reach the end of the stone covered walkway. You scoot until your lower legs are over the wall and feet are hanging. From here you scoot right until your feet touch the stairs leading down.

Whew. Now you can stand on the steps, hold on with your hands on the level above as you cautiously descend down the stairs. One step at a time. Your hands are now flat on the wall above the stairs. One last step and there’s no further steps. You made it! Nobody saw you or if they did they said nothing and you lived!

Cautiously you walk across the small courtyard until you knock into the porches of the dorms. You grab a post, sit on the porch, spin your legs and then stand up next to the post. No stairs, no problem you think.

You are at the last room, that belongs to Byleth. You knock.

“Come in.” Is pleasantly called from the inside.

“Byleth, can you give me a hand and get me to my room. I’ve been released by Manuela.” You request.

The former Professor walks past you, stopping so you can take her elbow. “I am happy that you are out already and didn’t have any serious injuries. Your eyeglasses were smashed beyond fixing. Are you going to be okay getting around on your own? She inquires.

“I can make it here and there. I have problems with stairs, anything that is left out of place, cats and dogs being on the paths. I perhaps should get a walking stick to help with balance. I can see a little, everything is just very very blurry. While you may see a barrel, its edges, the lines of the wood, the metal band holding it together, I see a brown almost oval blob. I can judge by the size of the blob if I am close enough to bump into it.

Byleth leads you out the door, pausing at the stairs, then through the courtyard to the next set of stairs, finally over to your room that is next to Bernadetta’s. Thanking her you go through your room, arranging your clothes and belongings. You are always quite organized in your room. Everything must be in its place or you can’t find it. You go to your desk drawer and pull out your magnifying glass. If you have plenty of light you can just make out a few letters in a row on a written page. So you can read, but it’s going to give you eye strain. You decide that maybe it’s time to do some handiwork. Heading out the door you walk to your neighbor and knock on hers.

“Bernie, can we talk a minute?” You ask pleasantly.

Bernadetta cracks her door open then shuts it quickly. “Who is it!”

“Bernie, it’s me. I don’t have my glasses, so I guess I must look different?” you question as you answer her.

“Oh! You do look much different without your glasses on.” The purple haired woman opens the door, now recognizing you, she lets you inside leading you to a chair by her desk.

“I heard they were broken when the wagon tipped over. How are you doing? I bet Bernie can help you some.” She smiles.

“Oh Bernie, that would be wonderful if you can walk with me sometimes. I don’t want to be a burden on anyone. I know you don’t like getting out much, but I do need to get to the dining hall. Honestly, the stairs scare me a lot!” You confess.

“Oh! I think they would be scary to someone that can’t see them. I will help you. Just let me know, okay?” Bernadetta offers.

“You have perfect vision, I trust you so much Bernie. Oh! I came over because I have a request. Since I can’t read much right now, I thought I would knit. Can I borrow a couple pair of needles you’re not using right now?” You request.

“Sure! I have quite a few different sizes, so you have a few to choose from.” The woman dashes to a drawer to grab her needles.

You are sitting on a bench outside the greenhouse knitting, a small rectangle grows longer below the needles.

Without turning you call out, “Hey Ferdinand, are you busy?”

“I did not see you there. You are looking quite well. Are you getting along all right? May I be of assistance in any way?” He happily answers, being the noblest of nobles, he must offer his assistance to all that could possibly require it.

“If you would have some time to escort me to the market briefly in the next few days, I would like to purchase some yarn.” You request.

Ferdinand bows low, “Of course, I would be most happy to assist. I do have somewhere I have to be, however I will return for you before dinner. I will then escort you to your room to store your purchase, and then take you to the dining hall as well. It is my duty to help all in need of aid. Please do let me know if there is anything else that I can assist you with.” He smiles brightly, you know because you can hear it in his voice. If a smile was ever loud, it would be his.

Time passes and Ferdinand returns to greet you again. “I am yours to command.” He says bowing before you.

“If you could please take me to the market and find the one selling wool and other knitting materials.” You say grabbing his elbow as he leads you past the pond.

“How are you getting along without your glasses? I see you are keeping busy.” He asks as you slowly stroll.

“I am doing fine. It’s not like I’ve suddenly lost my vision altogether. I simply cannot see clearly at the moment. The finer details are not visible. A basket of apples is varying shades of red in a brown circle. Grass is simply mottled green with no individual blades. Stairs do not show their depth, the ground does not reveal its pitch. If small thin items are on the footpath I cannot see them. Reading is difficult without a magnifying glass, and that gets tiresome after a while. I could not see very far away before, so nothing has changed there.” You reflect.

“Here we are.” Ferdinand brings you forward to the cart.

“Sir,” you ask the proprietor, “Have you any lambs wool or perhaps Angora?”

The man hands you two skeins of wool, one being a bit softer than the next. You feel some of the wool that he has on display. These two skeins are softer, but not by much, certainly not Angora wool.

“I have a project in mind for the Emperor you see…” You don’t care much for name dropping, however in this case, it is the absolute truth.

“Oh.” The merchant gasps. “I think this may be more in line with what you are looking for.” He takes the other two balls of yarn and replaces it with a different one.

This skein feels very silky and soft. There are long, soft hairs mixed in with the wool, which is much closer to the feel of the yarn you desire. “This is more like what I will need.” You answer. Haggling the price a bit you make your purchase. You also buy 8 other skeins of wool in different colors. And several pairs of knitting needles.

The merchant packages your goods and hands them to Ferdinand.

“Anything else?” the noble asks as he walks you back towards the dining hall.

“Thank you so much, it went much faster than me wandering from cart to cart, trying to identify what the merchant is selling.”

The next week you take your shifts in the infirmary, go to meetings and knit in your spare time. Bernadetta attends the meetings regularly, since she must escort you.

Guardian Moon is extremely cold to those from Enbarr. People from the Kingdom would probably walk about in their shirtsleeves. You invite Emperor Edelgard to tea in your room this day and she accepts.

You bustle about your room, gathering everything necessary for a lovely tea. The bergamot is steeping, smelling wonderful as she knocks.

“Please come in, Lady Edelgard.” You answer.

“You are as bad as Hubert! Just Edelgard, please!” She laughs.

“Please help yourself.” You offer sweet pastries with a delicious cinnamon crumble on top.

You fuss with the tea, removing the leaves now that the brew is complete. You pour for the both of you and offer sugar cubes or honey.

There is a knock on the door, “Package!” is called out in a male voice.

You are so excited you nearly knock over the tea table. You dive to the door and take the box from the delivery person, throwing coins at them and slamming the door.

You return to the table and hand it to Edelgard.

“Please open it for me. My new glasses!” You are beside yourself with excitement.

She laughs as she is handed the package and quickly removes the wrapping. Sliding the lid of the box open, she hands the box to you.

Your hands shake a little as you reach inside, taking the glasses in hand at the edge of the lenses, flipping the temples out, you slide them onto your face. You will have to adjust things a bit for the fit, but they feel like home.

“Well, how are they?” Edelgard excitedly asks.

“Perfect! You look even more beautiful than I remember you!” You grin widely, so happy to be able to see her clearly again.

“It is a shame that you have to wear them.” Edelgard comments. “They really distort your eyes. Perhaps some day they can create some type of magic to correct your eyesight.”

“Thankfully, I am not vain. I choose being ugly and able to see rather than be blind and pretty. As Dorothea says, beauty is only skin deep. It is the true beauty of the person inside that counts.”

“So true.” Edelgard nods.

You stand and scuttle over to a dresser. “I have something for you!” Reaching inside you remove a long red fluffy scarf. “It is getting colder outside, my hands need to keep busy. I made a scarf for everyone on the Strike Force.” You announce, handing her the scarf.

Edelgard takes it in hand and wraps it around her neck. “Oh my! This is the softest thing I have ever felt! It is so warm! I can feel my neck is warmer already!” She exclaims, then stands to give you a warm soft hug.

“We certainly need to keep warm through the next few battles.” You nod.

“Your perseverance is your strongest attribute.” Edelgard commends you. “We need people with that on our side. To engage the obstacles head on, finding new and different ways to get around them. I admire your strength in continuing to do your best, no matter what adversity is thrown your way. Knowing you makes me a stronger person.”

[recitedemise]

She's humble, isn't she? Gale wonders if it's wholly innate to her or if enduring in a hellscape will carve you modest. Her and's but horrors, after all, a hellscape on this plane fraught with fear and death, and Gale recalled its stories as a wizard in his youth... She'd make enduring its treachery a piddling thing.

But that, Gale believes, is very like her.

Shame. If only she saw herself well deserving of praise. Trudging along, ache lancing molten up his nerves, Gale would see her do so with generous fervor. Granted, they've only recently met, a handful of the most frightful weeks he's humored, but with ceremorphosis lumbering just around the bend, no saying more prevailed him than flame-forged bonds. She has always stood by him. She'd offered words when he sulked. Yes, he's a wizard, a source-well of cataclysmic storms, but he'd argue humbly that she's magic herself; she's offered him hope, a dying thing...

To teach her some spells in exchange feels more robbery than trade.

"You speak with a wisdom I wouldn't dare argue with," Gale agrees, boasting an amiable grin. His process is steady, but all the same, he's thankful as Dronia matches his strides. "Though if I didn't know any better, I'd have said your modesty was an attempt to pries for yourself more glowing praise," he teases. "No need. Continue as you are, and they will flow without trouble. Some exposure, as far as I can tell, could do you some good."

But praising him? Oh, perish the thought. Morosely, he hears Tara, clear as whistle in his memory, tutting his wizardly ego. She says, "do take care, Mr. Dekarios. I fear this goes even beyond you." But hunger he did, and find that book he had, and now with this orb whispering ill in his chest, he wonders, distantly, if Tara frets. He misses her terribly. "It feels like a lifetime ago, but, yes, I imagine she is. Soaking in the sun upon our terrace back home—gods, I dearly hope she's treating herself well."

Gale's mind dithers. Hearing the curiosity throbbing in her words, it only descends deeper. Harrowing. Further. Dronia eyes his branding, that wispy scar etched as though with tool to clay, but the wizard, thoughts floundering, fails to notice its curious heft; it's patient, perhaps careful, like wings off a butterfly. "Not spells, no. I'm afraid it isn't something quite as magical as a poorly fumbled incantation. You hardly need magic to err in rather remarkable ways," he laughs, devoid of humor. "I find it's enough should you carry some hubris." Something human. "And if you're ever so inclined, a desperate want." How vague. Dronia, yes, must believe this difficult to follow, but to Gale, he hears his irredeemable folly and Mystra's cold spite. It hurts. He'd longed to be her equal, to cherish her in ways inconceivable as man, but here is now scarred in a manner embarrassingly thoroughly—physically, of course, but perhaps mentally, too. Dronia knows scars; she boats her own share. And as they near their camp, a wisp of smoke from a long-lit fire, Gale wonders if ever they'll share these heartache of theirs... these guilts and regrets and pains they keep. The wizard bumps into them, his eyes falling to those scars on her neck, and maybe one day, one day soon. He leans a touch closer for some needed support. "I would be your most humble guide in my city. I can't say she boasts quite the same flavor of shadows that makes itself home in yours, but I argue, and do mind my forwardness, that the Dalelands would do well with a great deal less." Valiantly, he wrangles his somber air. "But I can show you my world far beyond Waterdeep's towering spires. If it's to your liking, I could whisk you to my realm on your word alone. To feel the Weave as I do and to hold it in your hands—I would like to show you that. My heart, my home, that's where it truly lays."

If Dronia ever knew how some people saw her, she might have been inclined to rebuke such things. She tries to remain humble, even knowing she's excelled in her trade. Much like Gale has in his. Though one certainly seems more fancy than the other and comes with more prestige.

Magic has always fascinated her, how people can just manipulate the weave to their desire. She can do a few things, nothing major but they help her get by. But not on Gale's level. Her patience was geared toward the hunt, not to hours, weeks, years devoted to learning through written word and meticulous practice. Gale knows he's skilled and isn't afraid to speak on his ability to cast or his magical acumen. She's not the jealous sort, but a part of her had wished she learned to cast magic at an early age. One day, she thinks she'll sit down and pick Gale's brain on the art. For curiosity's sake.

Her mind could use a more peaceful distraction. Away from the pain and guilt and the tadpole in their skulls.

Dronia shakes her head, a small smile on her face. “Oh I entertain fear often, I just try not to let it win. I don't view fear as an enemy. That's the trick, if you let fear rule you then you make foolish choices when they matter most.” She still can't seem to take a compliment, a problem she's been made aware of in the past. A little laugh escapes her, “I inspire that in you? Maybe that's my special talent, then. But, I'm glad to know you feel that way, truly.” She sometimes doubts her leadership skills, she was a guide not a rallying leader of a group. This was entirely out of her wheelhouse.

“She sounds like a perfect companion. Is she still in Waterdeep?” Dronia wonders what kind of cat Tara is, she used to chase the neighborhood cats around, hoping to scoop them up and hug them.

She stands close to him if the staff isn't enough to assist him, injuries like that are always painful to walk on and have taken out lesser men. “I'm afraid so, you'll just have to soldier through it.” As the conversation remains on scars and how they are obtained, Dronia wonders about the mark on Gale's chest. That symbol resembles mist rising from an orb. It looked like more than some tattoo, the grooves were deep, no artist worth their guild membership would ever dig so deep. It seemed carved, seared into the flesh. “Oh?” She asks. Admittedly, she wonders what kind of perils wizards could face from their towers and studies. “Were they spells that backfired, or just something terrible coming as a result of it?” There is much about the world of magic that she didn't know, that she will probably never know, and yet she is still fascinated by it. But the expression he wears shows he means his words, that he knows the pain that scars can bring. The ones on her face and the trails in her neck no longer bother her, the ones scored across her arms, torso, and back, testaments of survival, of living to see another day. The two punctures on her neck that almost blend with the law marks? Those are the ones she is ashamed of. Her greatest failure, her most horrible loss. “You did surprise me, but not in a bad way. There is a lot I don't understand about your world, but in the sense of magic, and coming from a place like Waterdeep. You'd have to travel a ways from the northern end of the Dalelands to get to any substantial city areas. I'd like to know more about it, to be honest. All of it.”

[zabrak-show]

When the Sun Comes Up | Maul x Reader

A/N: This was a request from @botherbother-blog​ using a prompt from this list. #33 “Everyone thinks I should stay away from you because you’re dangerous.”

I started this awhile back, but was hit with a bit of a block. I quite like the story and hope to continue it.

Word Count: 2.4k

Summary: Reader orphaned at a young age seeks vengeance. A strange man in dark robes prowls their city and an obsession blooms.

Warnings/Tags: Pre phantom menace, past trauma mentioned, loss of family, burns and scarring, disfigurement from burns, blood mentioned, no planet mentioned use your imagination and insert any that you like, gender neutral reader, morally gray reader, all set up pretty much so far.

AO3

Salty sea spray misted your face and the wind drew out your hair like wicked curlicues. Toes dipped into the wet sand, water pooling between them, the ebbing water’s edge dampening your hem. The gray sky mirrored the dull ache in your chest. The roaring of the waves allowed a small reprieve from the cacophony of voices swirling around your mind.

The man in black robes clung to your mind like seaweed wrapped around the driftwood on the shore. It was a mess. Impossible to distinguish where it all began and how to remove it without making a bigger mess in the act. Was the wood better or worse off with the seaweed? The seaweed would be fine either way. The seaweed gave no care in the world if the driftwood was there or not. It could find something else to cling to or float in the water on its own.

A speeder rumbled in the distance. The intensity of the moment grew as the buzzing of the speeder drew nearer and nearer. The beating of your heart thumped into your ears overtaking any and all other sounds. The thundering roar of the speeder was no match for your wicked heart. Even the ocean’s violent waves turned into background static.

You didn’t have to turn to feel his glowing amber eyes boring into you, into your soul. The sand cemented your feet into place, there was nowhere left to run. You turned to glimpse him, only a bit of his face shone under the dark robes now rustling in the sea breeze. Your stomach knotted and your breath hitched. His alluring mystery was more than you could stand.

For a moment, you imagined walking out into the sea. Letting the water have its way with you and disposing of you as it pleased. Ridding you of the utter madness of these thoughts, and these nightmares.

You’d followed him for weeks, studying his movements. Trying to make sense of someone whose sole life purpose was to take another’s life away. It was what you craved, after all though. It didn’t take long for him to catch you following him. The cat and mouse dance between you two was coming to a climax. Your guts, now replaced with bricks of uncertainty and eager anticipation of what was to come.

Duty called, revenge was so close you could taste it. You pushed the chaos out of your mind for the time being as you knelt down to pick up your side bag and shoes.

Revenge is all I need. Revenge is all I shall focus on from here on out.

He nodded his head, it was enough to know what he wanted.

You climbed atop the speeder and wrapped your arms around the man in black robes. You couldn’t ignore the warmth seeping into your hands from underneath his robes as you squeezed his middle for stability. You breathed in the smell of his musk; spicy, primal, and metallic. His recent kill still fresh on his skin and robes.

He was an assassin. Exactly the kind you imagined had killed your entire family and enslaved the rest of your clan. Pure dumb luck spared you. A tiny thing you were back then. The spaces between the walls were your playground. Hiding and scheming, dreaming up ridiculous pranks to play on your siblings. You’d barely made it out of the house on time when it went up in flames. Your body still holding the scars and disfigurement as proof.

For so long you had been alone on this dirtball. Alone with your thoughts of loss, sorrow, loneliness, and the ache of retribution that seemed so far fetched, yet was all that kept you clinging on to life. The others around you would never understand the ache in your belly. The ache that felt worse than any hunger pangs you’d experienced. Worse than the burns that never quite healed right across much of your skin.

“Stay away from the man in black robes.”

“He carries dark chaotic energy. A pure monster.”

“Cares nothing, but to kill.”

Whispers on the wind about the mysterious man who clung to the shadows and wielded power like none you’d seen before. You had to know more. This could not be a coincidence. Either he’d come back for you, to finish what he’d left all those years ago. Or he could lead you to who did.

You gripped him tighter still as he rounded a corner narrowly avoiding the cliffs on either side of you. He was firm and unmoving no matter how hard you squeezed it seemed. Not something you wanted to test exactly. You were only clinging to him for survival, of course. You would never choose to be so physically close with someone so...so evil. Yet you breathed him in, melting a bit into his back.

The speeder bike slowed and stopped with a soft clatter. You were slow to unhook your arms from him. Somehow the comfort of the moment had clouded your mind, but he stood and shook you off of him. Reality pooled back into your thoughts as you made your own way off the speeder.

He had taken you far away from anything and anyone. No one could hear you scream out here. There were cliffs flanking either side of you and the wind whistled through the crevasse, prickling your skin with the chill it carried.

He advanced with a smirk on his face. He was enjoying that he frightened you. This is the kind of thing that got him off, you supposed. What else would get an evil person so delighted.

“You may think I am evil. I am not. I am efficient.” He snarled out past grime-covered teeth.

“I...I don’t...I don’t think-”

“Why are you following me? Are you working for the Jedi?”

“A Jedi?! No, no I don’t know any Jedi. Why are you here? Who have you been killing?”

The words tumbled out of you in a rush. You looked down at the dried blood on his robes and back up to his glowing eyes. Instincts had you back away from him in fear. Afraid of what his answer would be. Afraid of his reaction.

He stepped towards you with a slow conviction, never breaking eye contact, until he was less than an arm’s length away. He grabbed your chin with a gloved hand and pulled your face up close to his. The leather of his gloves smelled new and it was soft and cool against your skin. His hold was firm, but not painful. A grimace overtook your features and you imagined spitting into his face, but held back out of fear.

“Now, you will quit following me and go back to doing whatever it is you do here.” He pushed you back with such force you half tumbled onto the rocky ground. He turned with a growl and started to mount his speeder.

“Wait.” you croaked out. “Wait, 18 years ago. Were you here 18 years ago?”

He paused atop the speeder and half turned towards you.

“Why?” he snarled.

“My family… someone, someone like you killed my entire family 18 years ago. That’s why I’ve been watching you.” It was a bold move. Laying all your cards on the table for him, but you had nothing left to lose. If he left you out here, defenseless as you were, you could die just as easily as by his hand. And if he’d wanted to kill you, he could have done it by now.

He remained in his half-turned seated position to respond, “No. No, I have never been here. And 18 years ago I was a small boy. I did not kill your family.”

He turned back to stare ahead of him and to turn the speeder on.

“Wait!”

You rushed to him, feet scrambling on the uneven terrain as you grabbed his arm.

“Please can you help me find who did?” His eyes grew big as he stared down at your hand clutching onto his arm through several layers of fabric. Stars, did he wear a lot of layers!

“I don’t have time for your problems. Hop on and I’ll take you back to where I found you.” He shook his arm free from your clutches and you climbed back on the speeder and held him close to you. He hesitated before taking off.

“But then you will leave me alone.”

You made no response and he took off.

The day was growing old and the night was settling in. Darkness crept all around, you could barely see where he was going, but trusted that he must. The warmth radiating off him took away the bite of the chill air whipping around you. You hugged him from behind, pressing your entire body and face against his back. Your eyelids weighed down and you blinked slow, each time harder to open them back up. It had been such a long day on the run and you were so tired if only to rest your eyes for a moment….

                                               *******

You awoke alone. Cold and dark on a metal bed with a thin sad excuse for a mattress and no blanket. Your body ached and convulsed with shivers. You sat up on the bed and looked around to get your bearings. It appeared you were on someone’s ship. How could that be? The last thing you remembered was, oh him. What had you gotten yourself into now?

Footsteps approached clanging on the metal floor plates. You looked down at the black leather boots now standing right next to you. Your eyes traveled up his black robes to his crimson face with intimidating black tattoos. You studied the designs for a moment, noting how they accentuated his already frightening and handsome features. You’d not seen him without his hood obscuring his face. You’d not seen the horns on his head that formed a perfect crown. He looked like a king. Your stomach turned upside down and your cheeks grew hot despite the cold air.

“You fell asleep on my speeder.”

His arms crossed at his chest and his permanent scowl stared down at you.

“I am terribly sorry. I um…” your teeth chattered from the cold and you hunched over trying to warm your bare arms.

“You should leave when the sun rises.”

“Do you have any blankets?”

He rolled his eyes and took off his cloak with finesse none like you’d seen anyone quite do when undressing before. Not even the dancers at the local saloon could pretend to carry themselves with such a flair for drama. He threw the cloak at you and you wrapped it around yourself. It was still warm and, stars, it smelled like him. You tried not to let on the pure rush of serotonin this maneuver had garnered by flashing a half-smile.

He started to walk away and you got up to follow him.

“What’s your name?”

He stopped and turned to face you. His grimy teeth bared in a grimace and he hissed in a breath of air.

“Maul.” He spat the name out at you and turned away, but you kept at him, following every footstep.

“Do you think you can help me, Maul? Help me find who killed my family?”

“I told you I don’t have time for that. I know nothing of what happened to your family and even if I did, I wouldn’t waste my time telling you about it or helping you in any way.” “Right, you’re busy. Maybe, maybe you could…” you stared at your feet, only your toes peeking out under his robes.

“Whatever it is you’re trying to spit out. No, No I can’t.”

You sighed. You were despondent. This was futile. He wouldn’t help you. Why would he? You were nothing from nowhere.

His comlink beeped and he rushed away to the cockpit of the ship. The door hissed shut behind him. You had until dawn to convince him otherwise. You mulled over the conversations of the day with him, as little as they were. There had to be something you could use to prove your worthiness. The door hissed open and it came to you at once.

“The Jedi.”

“What?!”

“The Jedi, you, you were asking if I was with the Jedi.”

“Yes, and?”

“I know where they are hiding on this planet. I can help you find them, if you help me.”

He pressed into you now with his entire body and you backed up until there was only the hallway wall and he didn’t let up. You were now overheated and unable to move.

“Tell me, why I shouldn’t torture and kill you for the information now?” His hot breath on your face drove you mad and your ears filled up with the thrumming of your heartbeat again.

“Because,” you squeaked out, “because you’ll need me to get into these places, they won’t suspect a local.”

He backed away a bit and put his hands against the wall at either side of your face, trapping you still. Your breath ran ragged and you didn’t hide it.

“Very well. When the sun comes up we shall test this theory of yours.” He let down his arms and backed away from you. Your body was rigid and felt like it would never relax even without his dominating form pressed into you. He studied you for a moment, giving you a once over with his eyes.

“You should get some sleep.”

“What about you? I mean, where do you sleep?”

“I don’t sleep. So whatever bantha fodder plan you’re thinking of, don’t.”

“No, I wouldn’t...I” you shook your head.

“Well, what then?”

“I wondered if you had a more comfortable bed?”

His scoff was answer enough. It was a stupid question. You’d never been on a starship before. You’d always imagined it being so much more luxurious.

You climbed back into the small dark bunk. At least you had his robe to keep you warm. You hoped his scent never wore off.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

so I’m sorry I start a million different little stories and then I lose momentum and yeah... but anyway it helps me to keep going if I get comments and reblogs (i hate acting like I’m begging, but just being honest as it does give me serotonin) so if you like this or any of my other stories in progress please please let me know! you can even send in an anon ask saying which one you’d like me to continue. thank you so much for reading! I truly adore you all!

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@brilliantbutbatty​ @maulieber​ @botherbother-blog​ @emissarydecksetter​ @wolfpack-arts-industries99​ @a-dorin​ @mother-0f-monsters​ @savagesbonergarage​ @beefygoth​ @always-on-tatooine​ @cobb--vanth​ @peach-darth-maul​

[slytherflynn]

Old and New | Pt I

Blaise Zabini x muggle!reader

word count: 1971

summary: y/n is new to France on a study abroad trip. Blaise is visiting France post-Hogwarts. rags to riches story of an unfortunate muggle falling for a complicated, ridiculously wealthy person who just so happens to also be a powerful Wizard.

a/n: this started with an idea, became a moodboard, then became an entire fleshed out fic! I thought it would be short but my brain had other ideas. enjoy! note: I did write this from my personal perspective in life. as a result it is not very inclusive. I plan to change that with my next fics, I’ve just been having a really hard time lately and have been writing a lot of comfort fics and/or self-inserts to escape from irl bc irl is rly shitty for me rn

It’s a brand-new start, in a brand-new apartment, in a brand-new city, in a brand-new country... an ocean away from home. I can bring Tacoma to France, right? At least, that’s what I’m trying to tell myself. Study abroad is fucking... scary. I kinda regret it. It’s a good opportunity and for someone who doesn’t travel, it should be a fun experience. But I’m currently having an anxiety attack over taking out the garbage, so I’m not sure my positive self-talk is working.

I look out the window of my top floor apartment, wait until someone finally finishes walking down the stairs, and run out my door - I nearly trip about five times going down the spiral of death, my arms feel like jelly thanks to perpetually pushing my garbage deeper in to avoid this trip, and I swing with all my might to hurl my garbage bag into the trash compacting dumpster - only it hits the bottom lip and falls to the ground, splitting open.

“Great!” I say, sarcastically, “First they send my luggage to the wrong location, then they try to say my passport isn’t valid because my apartment was a temporary address, then I’m greeted with a fridge full of rotting food and no power, then I’m bitten up by fleas and now - I just- fuck. Why can’t I just- do anything- right-“ I cut myself off when I hear a screen door slide and blink a couple times to erase the threat of tears that had been creeping up on me while I ranted.

When I look up, I see a tall, dark-skinned guy about my age - handsome. He’s wearing a suit, and expensive jewelry. Combine that with the fact he’s living in the apartment building next to me, which is worth more than my life just for one month of rent, and I put together that he’s probably rich beyond belief. I quickly look away, not wanting to stare. I silently pick up my garbage, piece by piece. As I work, I feel eyes drilling holes in the back of my head. I ignore it. It continues, and I still ignore it as I finally shove my ripped garbage bag in the compactor and slam the door shut. I hear a slight jump up above, and chuckle to myself.

I zoom back up the stairs and almost make it to the top, but I trip 5 stairs away from my door - and fall, hard. Body laid out flat hard. Cheek scraped and stinging from the metal grating on the stairs, hard. Lost the goddamned slide that caught on the stair, and can see it gradually falling, bouncing and rolling down the stairs, hard. I lift my head and see blood on the stair. I feel it running down my face. All I can think is that this really fucking hurts. The tears come, a combination of pain and frustration, and I pick myself up and stumble my way into my apartment, completely forgetting about the attractive rich boy who just watched me be a danger and inconvenience to myself.

I rush to the kitchen and grab a roll of paper towels, and run to the bathroom, I see the markings in the mirror and can tell it will leave a sizeable scar. Do I need stitches? I don’t know. Anyway, I start dabbing at everything and blood is still oozing out of every nook and cranny, to my displeasure. I’m about to start bandaging my face when I hear a knock on my door. “Fucking Christ!” I mutter to myself as I slap a wad of paper towels on my face and sulkily go to fling open my door.

I’m not sure who I’m expecting, but to see the same rich guy on my doorstep, slide in hand, probably wasn’t it. “Hey, um, I saw what happened, and I thought you might want your shoe back.” His accent sounds very British - I was expecting it to sound more like a snooty Frenchman’s.

“Oh. Um. Thanks.” I say flatly.

As my muscles twitch to begin closing the door, he says, “Would you like some help cleaning that up? I have certifications to give medical aid... and stitches. My name’s Blaise, by the way.”

Doctor, maybe? Probably. “Sure,” I say, opening the door wider and standing back so the blood doesn’t drip on his suit. “I’m y/n.”

A few minutes later we’re in my bathroom, me sitting on the toilet, him sitting on the bathtub as he helps me fix my face. “So, Mademoiselle y/n,” He asks, “Do you find yourself in these predicaments very often?”

“Which one? Poverty, flea bitten, or bloody?” I say.

“I suppose whichever you’d like to think I was referring to.”

“Well, in *that* case - I’m usually caught unawares in all kinds of predicaments - though I’d say self-injury due to clumsiness is an uncommon one. And do you usually find yourself in predicaments requiring you to treat someone’s wounds?”

“I used to, though now it’s only on the occasion.”

“Sounds like an improvement,” I note. “I won’t guarantee it, but I think I’ll get the hang of walking up the stairs soon enough, so you don’t have to worry about me.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily mind it if I did worry about you once or twice more. Why were you running? It seemed like you wanted to get away from something. Does your garbage compactor smell that disturbing?”

“It doesn’t smell great,” I admit, “But truth be told, I’m not a fan of human interaction. It’s scary. Especially when everything is new to me.”

“How long have you been In France?”

“A few days, just enough to get myself physically settled.”

“I see. And you are from America?”

“Mhm. Let me guess, my accent gave it away.”

“And the slang, I’ve yet to hear someone from France use certain terms that you seem to favor.”

“Oh, most of my slang is specific to my city, not just my country.”

“Your city?”

“Yea, Tacoma. It’s near Seattle, if you know where that is. Tacoma’s better, though.”

“I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never been there. My mother is a fashion designer, but she only travels where there’s inspiration or a business deal.” So that’s how he gets the expensive clothes. The rest of the money too, probably.

“Must be nice, having a handmade closet.” I muse. “Not that I care for having any more clothes than I brought. They’re pretty reliable, if I do say so myself.”

He laughs. “Yes, well, if the blood stains don’t come out of your jumpsuit you might need a new one. They shouldn’t be too difficult to remove, though.”

“Yea, I’ll just dump a bucket of Oxi-Clean on it and call it a day. That is, if any stores nearby have it.” I frown, realizing I have no clue if France carries any of the products I usually get. This is gonna suck. Hopefully the internet has some answers so I don’t have to ask anyone for help.

“Why don’t I take your jumpsuit back with me? Save you the trip. Believe it or not, I used to have chronic nosebleeds, so I know a thing or two about stain removal.” Blaise offers.

I smile, only just. “Well, if you insist. But I love this jumpsuit practically more than myself, so I expect it back right away!”

He returns the smile. “A fan of fashion? You ought to meet my mother.”

I chuckle. “I’m sure your mom would despise me - I only own seven jumpsuits and some athleisure for going on runs.” I pause, then tack on: “Oh, and some fuzzy pajamas for when I’m sick.”

Blaise cocks a brow at me. “And when you’re not sick?”

“Don’t worry about it.” I grin mischievously.

A wave of recognition graces his eyes, and he very quickly looks away, I assume for being flustered.

“You Americans, always so scandalous.” He tsks in mock scorn.

“That’s what we’re known for, is it not?” I say cheekily, “Beer, boobs and gun barrels. And all the other problems that come with that, but that’s a can of worms I am not looking to open today.”

He ties off his handiwork, and says, “It looks like my job is finished, other than stealing your jumpsuit off your back to fix it. I can wait in the other room, if you’d like?”

“Um, yea, that works. Lemme just, grab my next jumpsuit. Gonna have to do laundry early, I suppose-“

“I can wash your jumpsuit for you. I’m pretty good at reading labels, if I do say so myself.” He jokes.

“Oh?” I say, “Then you must be a real genius! Who taught you, Einstein?”

“No, but it was another white-haired, eccentric man, so you’re not that far off.”

“When all teachers are like that it’s kind of impossible not to hit relatively close to the mark.” I remark, then change clothes as quickly as I can, tossing the dirty outfit into a trusty plastic bag and tying it shut.

When I walk out to the living room, Blaise is toying with one of my sculptures. He’s definitely been meandering and lurking around. “Enjoying yourself?” I ask, at which he jumps. “You’re rather skittish, Blaise.”

“And you’re rather quiet on your feet, y/n.” He observes. “But yes, I quite like your eclectic style. If only you had an apartment that let your customization shine. Something more minimalist.”

“Yes, well, it’s something I’ll forever dream of and likely never accomplish. I don’t suspect I’m going to be someone leaving the income level I was born into.” I say, just a little bit cynical.

“And why is that?” He asks.

“Because most people don’t, and the ones who do are the ones who make money. My career isn’t going to make me money.” I reply.

“So why did you pick it?”

I sigh. “Because somebody has to care about the people like me. The politicians don’t, the middle class don’t, and the rich are hell bent on keeping us there so they can have factory workers and have people going straight to prison after they graduate because we’re all desperate and miserable.”

He frowns. “That’s terrible.”

“It’s reality. And I don’t want to be like the people who get rich and stop caring because all they see is the wage difference and pretend it’s justified so they don’t have to feel complicit in the system.” I look him in the eye, my face grim. “Not all luck is by chance. Most of it is by design.”

He nods. “I understand, in a way.”

“Everyone does.” I say. “But understanding in a way and caring enough to do something about it are two different things.” I look away from him when I see his posture change. “I’m not trying to be rude, but it’s impossible not to notice the wealth gap between us when you’re wearing designer clothes and living in what looks like a mansion and I’m living in a building made in like 1900 with no elevator. It’s just the way things are, though.”

“I know.” He says quietly, thoughtfully. “I’d better get going. Your clothes?” He reaches out tentatively for the bag I’m still holding.

“Oh. Right.” I say, handing it to him. Our fingers brush against each other slightly, and it sends chills down my spine. He heads to the door while I’m rooted to the spot, collecting myself.

“I look forward to seeing you again, y/n.” He nods, meeting my eyes with a rather changed expression.

“I’ll see you soon, then?” I ask, not quite sure which answer I’m expecting.

He smiles, only just. “As soon as I am able.” Seconds later, he’s out the door, and I’m alone in my dingy ass apartment. How in the fuck did any of that just happen?

[trashmenofmarvel]

Branded - Chapter 38

Pairing: Demon!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You deal with the consequences of Bucky's actions.

(This is a fan AU of Falling’s Just Another Way to Fly by araniaart​ . Please check out this incredible series for all of your demon Bucky needs.)

Chapter Warnings: Angst, whump, violence

AO3

You didn’t return home that night. The sorcerers wanted to monitor your vitals and made sure you were stabilized after the shock of the bond being suppressed. The agony you’d experienced hadn’t hurt you physically, even though it had felt like dying.

Now you felt… lost. You weren’t even numb, because being numb meant you at least knew what you were feeling. This was different and so much worse.

At least twice an hour you lifted you head from where you laid in the bed, some part of you yearning, reaching out to Bucky and expecting him to be there. But there was nothing across the bond, across the thread you hadn’t realized was there until it was gone.

The mark was still on your shoulder, but it appeared dormant. Faded pink like a fresh scar. The sorcerers said it had worked and you would no longer be compelled to be fed upon.

All you did was give a vague nod. You hadn’t spoken a word since Bucky had been frozen.

Rogers, for his part, never strayed far. He was clearly off-balance with the situation and didn’t seem to know what to do any more than you did. Bucky had sprung this on you both, and the angry part of you said he’d abandoned you to pick up the pieces yourself.

Perhaps it was cruel and unfair of you to feel that way, but anger was better than despair. You were too empty and wrung-out to cry, and perhaps that was a blessing.

It was well into the early hours of the morning when you finally dozed off, and when you woke before noon, Rogers had fallen asleep in the armchair by the bed. Just like Bucky had done when you’d woken up in this room the first time.

But he wasn’t Bucky. He could never be a substitute. A part of you wondered if that’s what Bucky had been thinking when he’d contacted Rogers. Maybe he hadn’t gone that far, but asking his best friend to “care for his girl” while he was gone sounded like some old chivalrous bullshit that he might pull. Goddammit, he might have even said as much to Rogers, assuring him that it was all right if you “moved on.”

You eyed the blond Avenger and grimaced.

When Bucky unfreezes, I’m going to punch him in his beautiful fucking face.

The thought was surprisingly reassuring, because it meant you truly believed he would wake up. In fact, you were going to guarantee it, even if you had to take matters into your own hands. Bucky had mentioned a library, and Strange was supposed to re-test you and teach you, whatever that meant.

Which meant you would be in the Sanctum on a regular basis…

…which also meant you could not only do some research on your own, you could visit every day.

They would let you visit, wouldn’t they? You didn’t know, but at least you could reassure yourself that the bond had nothing to do with your feelings for Bucky. They were as solid as ever, which was both a relief and a curse. His absence was already heavy in your chest, and it felt more akin to grief than just simply missing someone.

You got out of bed, seizing onto the determination to start, today, to help Bucky. It was New Year’s, after all. Time to get a fucking move on.

“Hey, Rogers. Wake up.” You nearly kicked his shoe but refrained, which was probably a good thing considering your voice alone startled him awake.

“Sorry.” He rubbed his face. “I must have dozed off.”

You ignored his apology.

“Do you want to help Bucky?”

“Huh?” He blinked, rubbing one eye with the heel of his hand. Apparently, Captain America was a slow waker. “Of course I do.”

“Good. I need to ask a favor.”

“What… kind of favor?”

“You’d just be carrying some things, that’s all.” Sheesh, what was with the nervous tone? What did he think you were going to ask? You folded your arms over your chest, resisting the urge to tap your foot against the floor. “I need to pack up my stuff and move it here. Strange is going to train me, or at least he should, and while he’s doing that, I’m going to do all the research I can into demon bonds. We’re going to free Bucky.”

“Whoa, slow down.” He rose out of the chair, forcing you back a small step. You’d forgotten how damn big he was. “What are you talking about? Didn’t Buck want you to move into his loft?”

“Yes,” you grit through your teeth. “But I need to be here. I’m sure Strange won’t mind if it means he gets to keep a closer eye on me. So, by the end of the day, I need to move all my clothes to the Sanctum and the rest into storage.”

Rogers rubbed the back of his head, one hand propped on his hip as he frowned at you.

“Aren’t you moving a little too fast?” He winced.  “I mean, I don’t know you, but shouldn’t you take some time to think about this?”

“To think about what? I need to be here and I don’t have the money to waste paying rent on an apartment I’m not using.”

“Oh.” His eyes widened. “Well, don’t worry about that. I can take care of your rent. It’s no trouble.”

Your eyes narrowed. Could have sworn you saw the sweat droplets form on his forehead, too.

“Did Bucky ask you to do that?”

His uncomfortable smile was all the answer you needed.

“I don’t mind, really.” His smile became more genuine and less nervous. “Got a backlog of pay from the US Government I wouldn’t know what to do with. I can afford it.”

“Listen, Rogers,” you said, trying to keep your voice even. “I appreciate the offer, I know you didn’t have to do that, but I’m fine now. You don’t need to take care of me.”

Hoping he got the picture, you turned and left the room you’d already designated as yours. You needed to run your plan past Strange or Wong, and then you could get started right away. That was the solution to both Bucky’s freedom and the painful effects of the severed bond. When you were distracted, your mind churning with ideas, it was easier to ignore the black hole occupying your chest.

Unfortunately, a second set of footsteps caught up with you, the owner of the voice a little sheepish.

“Bucky said you’d say as much.”

“Did he also tell you how stubborn and willful I am?” you responded sharply. “Maybe even threw in the word reckless?”

Rogers surprised you with a small laugh.

“Almost word for word.”

“Well, he’s not exactly one to talk,” you huffed. The man at your side just smiled wider.

“No, he’s not.”

“Good. Then you agree that Bucky is being an absolute idiot and something has to be done about it.”

“Hey, whoa.” A hand reached out to stop you from walking. You barely tolerated it and craned your head back to glare up at him. “Listen, I know you’re angry at Bucky, but…”

That was an understatement. He smiled sadly, as if he knew exactly what you were thinking.

“A long time ago, someone much wiser than I am gave me a bit of advice,” Rogers said. “As much as you and I may not like it, this was Bucky’s decision. He deserves the dignity of his choice, even if it hurts. Even if we miss him.”

He looked away toward the high windows where winter light was streaming inside to illuminate the wood floor.

“I wish I’d had more time with him myself, but… there’s nothing we can do. He had his reasons, and it sounds to me like they were very good ones. It will take time, it’ll hurt, but he would want us to move on—“

You pushed Rogers’ hand off your shoulder. Not roughly, but not gently either, and he blinked down at you.

“I’m not giving up on Bucky,” you said, clenching your fists as you fought to keep your tone even. “I’ll never stop looking for a solution. No matter how long it takes.”

With a heated glare, you turned and left Rogers in the hallway, grinding your teeth. You’d thought Steve Rogers would have understood if anyone could have. But he didn’t, and you were truly alone.

***

You found Wong on the way to Strange’s office, and he agreed to take you there, not looking too surprised to find you practically stomping down the carpet runner.

Strange agreed to redo the tests as well as add on a few that were more “specialized,” whatever that meant. It involved more poking and prodding with arcane instruments, but you never complained. The discomfort was a small price to pay.

The results were the same as before: you were as magically skilled as a brick, and not the kind of brick that went into building magical sanctums, either. But the Ancient One’s words must have held enough clout for that not to matter, because Strange promised you would be training under Wong the next day.

Wong didn’t look too enthused about it, and you couldn’t blame him. Regarding the last disastrous meeting, you apologized for biting him, but he waved you off and said no apology was needed. Regardless, you felt terrible. Not terrible enough for Bucky to be put into a freezing chamber, but still, pretty awful.

As you suspected, Strange didn’t deny your request to move into the Sanctum. Wong gave him a considerable side-eye when he agreed, but you’d gotten what you wanted, and that’s all that mattered.

Steve Rogers, true to his word, helped move most of your belongings to your new room. Monster complained at being put in the carrier—he’d been acting difficult lately—but once you released him into your room he settled down. You wondered what that was about and found your answer when he took off and you chased him down the hallways, leading you to the room that held…

The two guards in front of the door were trying to catch Monster, but he slipped through their fingers like furry oil and scratched and yowled at the door. Tears stung your eyes as you scooped him up, holding him to your chest, and the guards looked extremely put-out.

“Can… can I see him?” You already knew the answer but were still disappointed when you received it.

“Only the Sorcerer Supreme and those with his approval may enter,” one of them said, eyeing Monster.

Your focus went to that heavy, stone door. Intricate glyphs were carved into its surface, and you wondered if even a hobgoblin could slip past them. It took every ounce of your willpower to step away, to leave Bucky all alone, you held Monster tightly as you walked back to your room.

“It’s okay,” you spoke softly into his grey fur. “We’ll be able to visit at some point. I’m sure. If the bond is suppressed, then what danger could there be?”

Danger or not, Strange wouldn’t let you see Bucky. “Not yet,” was his response when you asked. For now, according to him, you needed to focus on your lessons, which consisted of meditation, learning the combat stances (sorcerers could fight?), and learning to conjure.

The meditation part was the easiest, or would have been if your mind wasn’t a constant bundle of anxiety. The martial arts lessons were definitely more interesting, even if your body was laughably clumsy and uncoordinated. You saw other “students” around, but you always trained with Wong alone. When you asked why, he cited the fact you were at the same learning level as a 6 year-old. The hit to your ego made you stop asking about joining the others.

Days turned into a week. A week into two. You’d returned to work, a truly surreal experience especially with seeing Davin again. He was kind and spent more time with you than he used to, sitting with you during lunch and then walking you to your cab after work. A part of you wondered if he knew. If Bucky had asked him to keep an eye on you while he was gone.

You didn’t ask.

Steve Rogers didn’t stop by every day, but he was there at least twice a week. At first it was awkward—what were you supposed to talk about with an Avenger?—but then he began to share history. Tales of his and Bucky’s youth and all the ways they got into trouble. It was through your common interest in Bucky that you began to warm up to each other, and he never had a shortage of stories when it came to his childhood friend.

Sometimes, he would get this yearning expression, and you were uncomfortably reminded that he and Bucky had been much closer than simple friends. You wondered if Rogers knew that you knew.

It was normal for a person to compare themselves to a partner’s ex. You weren’t sure how to feel being compared to Captain America, except the fact you couldn’t compare at all, and Bucky had definitely downgraded. You weren’t a super soldier with biceps the size of melons.

Regardless, Rogers’ company was appreciated and comforting, unlike when it had been simply tolerated before. But by week two, you were no longer coping as well as you once were. Perhaps Wong noticed during your lessons, because when you asked him once again if you could see Bucky, he had a different answer for you.

You stood outside the door, nerves tingling as the two sorcerers on guard duty unlocked the room with some complicated hand gestures. The door swung open heavily on its hinges, and you stepped forward, fists pressed against your thighs.

The room hadn’t changed, still dim and creepy with glyphs running along the walls. The iron chamber was where you’d last seen it, lit from within with a pale, ghostly light. It made the man inside appear barely real, darkness in the hollows in his cheeks and cast by the shadows of his horns.

“No touching,” one sorcerer barked when you reached out toward the lid. You retracted your hand, twisting your finger anxiously as you looked back at the guard.

“Can I have a moment alone?”

“No.”

You turned back to the chamber, your chest aching with the gnawing emptiness that never left. It was worse in Bucky’s presence, but it was worth it just to see him again. To know he was still alive, even when it didn’t feel that way.

There was so much you wanted to say to him, but even a whisper could be overheard in this place. So you thought back to the way you’d communicated with Bucky in the demon realm, a place where you’d had no voice but he’d heard you anyway.

Bucky, if you can hear me… I want you to know I’m so sorry.

He didn’t stir. You hadn’t really expected him to. You should have felt silly to stand there, talking to yourself in your own mind, but you didn’t. If anything, it felt like praying.

I’m going to find a way to set you free. From the bond, from this prison. And then you can go wherever you want and do whatever you want. You don’t… don’t even have to stay with me. You can be with Steve again, if that’s what makes you happy.

You swallowed down the painful lump in your throat and pushed past the heavy weight on your heart.

How many times have I told you I’d never give up on you? I meant it then and I mean it now. Just… hold on a little longer. I’ll figure something out. I’ll do whatever I have to so you can come back. So you can have a life you deserve. It’s the least I can do for… for… This is all my fault, Bucky. The bond, the time-loop, you breaking your deal with the Ancient One. It should be me in there, not you.

You took a steadying breath and blinked away the tears. Tears meant that you had conceded, and you weren’t ready to give up on him. Not now, not ever.

I’ll fix this, Bucky. I will.

I have to.

You stayed as long as you could, even as you shivered and grew colder in the chamber’s presence. It was constructed of thick metal and appeared air-tight, and yet, the longer you stood there the further the temperature dropped. By the time the guards informed you your time was up, you were trembling and your teeth clattered together.

You really, really hoped Bucky couldn’t feel the cold.

***

The resolve to stay away from Bucky’s apartment didn’t last much longer. That night, you informed Wong that you would be spending the night in the penthouse. You used the excuse that you wanted to make sure everything was in order. Maybe Bucky had some plants he needed watered, or something.

Wong just shrugged and said you weren’t a prisoner and could come and go as you pleased. Of course, that’s what he said, but you’d noticed the robed sorcerers trying to blend into the crowds as you got in and out of the cab for work. Bucky had been right when he said the wizards didn’t have parking, and you’d been forced to keep your car at Bucky’s building once you broke your old apartment lease.

You didn’t mind that the sorcerers were watching you. It was comforting in a way, even if a large part of you was still angry at Strange. You were pissed, but your brief encounter with the Ancient One had convinced you that the sorcerers weren’t malicious or evil. They seemed to be trying their best to protect the world from magical threats, even when their efforts fell short.

Tonight though, you wanted to be alone. Away from sorcerers and magic and iron chambers that looked too much like coffins.

After the taxi drove you to the building, the desk clerk greeted you as if he’d been expecting your arrival. You stepped inside the elevator and tried to relax as it carried you to the highest floor. You were exhausted down to your bones; maybe staying the night wasn’t a bad idea after all.

The place was exactly the same as Bucky had left it. There wasn’t even any dust aside from the snow that had gathered on the outside of the clock face windows. It was still too damn cold, and you pulled your coat tighter around you, slowly turning 180 degrees to gather in the large space.

Your old stuffed animal that served as your animus was nowhere to be seen, and you hoped it was someplace safe. Knowing Bucky, it was. Still, you wondered what would happen to it now that the bond was silenced. Would it revert to an ordinary toy, or would it still contain your metaphorical heart?

You weren’t sure you wanted to know the answer.

Pulling off your jacket and shoes, you crawled under the soft covers of Bucky’s bed, stretching out on the silken sheets. That was one thing you’d noticed about his bed. Maybe Bucky really enjoyed soft things, but he didn’t seem like the type to indulge himself. He’d said something about heightened senses; perhaps his skin had been too sensitive for ordinary cotton?

The curiosity in your thoughts tumbled away as you buried yourself into Bucky’s pillows, still strong with his earthy, musky scent. You missed him so much, and the magnitude hadn’t hit you until that moment. You hugged the pillow tight to your chest and allowed the hole in your chest to ache.

You drifted off like that, holding onto the pillow like a lifeline. It could have been minutes or hours later when your eyes snapped open. The hairs on your nape stood straight and your heart raced in a panicked beat. A stench permeated the air, familiar and sickening. Like rotten eggs.

You dashed across the bed, but not fast enough; a hand closed around your ankle and yanked you backwards. You yelled, clawing into the sheets as you were dragged across the mattress, and you hit the ground hard enough to lose your breath.

The face hovering above you was one you thought you’d never see again. Sickly green eyes glowed with malice, and the flower petal-like appendances of its face pulled back to reveal rows of neon green teeth. A mist the same radioactive color as its teeth leaked from its esophagus, and you covered your mouth as you screamed and kicked it in the shin.

The Alp gave a deep, terrifying howl, and you crawled across the floor and then scrambled to your feet.

Where was your phone? Your bag? It was dark, you couldn’t see. You clipped your leg against the couch and fell onto the hardwood floor, banging your knees.

You could hear it coming, its stink in your nostrils even if you couldn’t see it. Your phone was on the nightstand next to the bed, you couldn’t go for it.

Gritting your teeth, nauseous from the smell and the adrenaline, you dashed toward your only hope left: the elevator.

You didn’t make it even halfway. A hand grabbed you by the hair and pulled you back. You cried out, clawing at the fingers holding onto you, but the Alp didn’t relent.

Its other arm grabbed you around the waist, and that’s when the world tilted on its axis. The room spun, colors shifted and glowed together, and your stomach dropped as if you were on a roller coaster. Your surroundings blurred, and for the flash of a second, you saw red dunes and smelled burning, sulfurous air. The shape of the mountain range in the distance, the multiple moons hanging in the dusky sky, you knew them. Knew them intimately because you’d watched them for forty-eight years.

Before you could take another breath the world shifted again, and you were in a cold, dim room lit only by electric lamps and caged light bulbs.

You tore yourself out of the Alp’s grip, staggered and fell again, gasping as you hit the cold stone flooring.

You ignored the pain and cold temperatures as you scurried away from the demon. It didn’t lunge for you; it stared at something just above your head.

Before you could turn around to see for yourself, something jabbed into your shoulder, and pain shot through your body as your muscles seized and your nerves caught fire.

The flow of electricity stopped, and you collapsed without another word or show of resistance. You could barely breathe, your vision swimming. The echo of someone’s footsteps passed by your head, and then a man was speaking, his voice soft and accented.

“Stupid creature,” he said, leaning down in front of you. A soft touch at your neck, almost gentle. No matter how much you tried to focus, his face remained blurry. “Couldn’t even follow simple instructions. And now look what I had to do.”

The man rose to his feet and left your field of vision. The last thing you heard before slipping away was the crackle of a cattle prod and the broken, tortuous wailing of the Alp.

Next Chapter

[vivithefolle]

Not sure if you already talked about this. (I’m pretty sure you have) but someone seemed to notice that when the trio get into fights, Hermione’s always in the right. Even when she’s supposed to be wrong she always seems to be half right. That kind of bothers me. Especially since it’s evident in the whole Scabbers situation.

I have indeed, on Quora, so let’s move yet another answer of mine to Tumblr!

Hermione is seldom wrong in the Harry Potter books. Sometimes she makes mistakes but those mistakes are either completely swept under the rug or downright ignored.

It’s partly due to lazy writing and partly due to Rowling’s own growing bias in favour of her Author Avatar that was fuelled by Steve Kloves, the primary advocate of the Hermione Granger Is The Perfect Girl Ever line of thinking (an utterly ridiculous line of thinking mind you).

Lizo: Steve, Hermione is a character that you have said is one of your favorites. Has that made her easier to write?

Steve: Yeah, I mean, I like writing all three, but I've always loved writing Hermione. Because, I just, one, she's a tremendous character for a lot of reasons for a writer, which also is she can carry exposition in a wonderful way because you just assume she read it in a book. If I need to tell the audience something...

JKR: Absolutely right, I find that all the time in the book, if you need to tell your readers something just put it in her. There are only two characters that you can put it convincingly into their dialogue. One is Hermione, the other is Dumbledore. In both cases you accept, it's plausible that they have, well Dumbledore knows pretty much everything anyway, but that Hermione has read it somewhere. So, she's handy.

Now this, right here, is the exact core of the problem.

Rowling herself admits it: if she wants the readers to have information, she puts Hermione in the scene. Hermione is our primary means of exposition because, like *grits teeth* Sssssteve puts it, it’s easy to assume that she’s read about it somewhere and it makes sense.

That’s all well and good but at first, if you notice, Ron also gave us exposition about the wizarding world, mostly about its culture. He was able to recall the exact year of the Wizarding Confederation that outlawed dragon breeding in Philosopher’s Stone! He explained what were respectively a “Mudblood”, a “Squib”, and Parseltongue, Hermione doing a little exposition about the history of that last one! He was also able to identify Sirius, after being dragged into the Whomping Willow, as an Animagi!

But then Goblet of Fire happens and you can notice the first change that will exponentially grow through the books: instead of Ron, pureblood Ron, born-before-the-end-of-the-war Ron, lived-through-the-aftermath-of-the-war Ron, identifying the Dark Mark, it’s instead Hermione, muggleborn Hermione, lived-as-a-Muggle-for-most-of-her-life Hermione, has-no-idea-about-the-emotional-impact-of-the-Mark Hermione who looks terrified as the Dark Mark shoots into the sky!

And it only will get worse, by the end of the series, Hermione pretty much knows about everything the plot needs her to know, instead of having to work with things she knows but can’t always apply to the situation:

Suddenly has a deep knowledge of Magical Law (in the will of Dumbledore’s chapter, while we had Rufus Scrimgeour who could have provided it to us, or to a lesser extent, Ron could have explained how a wizarding will basically worked)

Is suddenly an expert at finding edible plants and mushrooms. Apparently books are always the goddamn answer in JKR’s world, you can literally learn anything from them

She can decipher all the Tales of Beedle the Bard (may I remind you that they were written in Runes, okay Hermione may have a few years of Ancient Runes education BUT I once tried to translate a 3k+ story I had written for fun, from French to English, which means I knew what the subtleties and intentions were, I knew which turns of phrase I had to preserve so it would make sense in the end, and it still took me two gruelling weeks to get a satisfying result!)

Has suddenly grown a sense of quick-thinking (escaping Xenophilius’ house, using the jinx to make Harry’s face weird-looking) despite it being the only remaining flaw she had at the time (remember when she turned her back on her enemy while he was still conscious just to compliment Harry, and almost died as a result, even though she had been training in the DA to learn how to fight Death Eaters?) Quick-thinking under pressure can be learned, but it takes time and a lot of work to force your brain to override its instinct - and it’s fine because we’re all human and different. But no suddenly Hermione is the Greatest Strategist Evah™ and those silly boys (who actually were the original quick-thinking ones, and one of them was established as the strategist early on) better be grateful for this literal goddess because she protects them from all harm with her superhuman brain.

Somehow knows about Quidditch stuff - she knows about a Snitch’s “memory-touch”. Why should she give all the answers? Why can’t Ron give us this particular tidbit of information?

And then when we come to something Ron actually knows, the damn narration itself goes “woah a book that Ron has read but Hermione hasn’t??? shocking!! incredible!! Ron is not dumb, somebody call the news channel”. But… is that really so surprising? We’ve never seen Hermione read wizarding fiction or even Muggle fiction. We’ve never seen Hermione with anything other than schoolbooks in her hands. Of course Ron has read books she hasn’t read since she doesn’t seem to read fiction at all!

Sorry, bit of a tangent over here.

There are only two characters that you can put it convincingly into their dialogue.

So, that’s one part of the problem: the fact that Rowling, after making Ron our insight into magical culture and Hermione our provider of knowledge, ended up saying “eh whatever I guess Hermione can tell us everything we gotta know because it’s more convenient for me”. Which is a decision that was not based on Hermione’s character, but simply lazy writing. Long story short, it probably went: “Could Ron explain this bit of trivia? Meh, better make Hermione say it cause she’ll have read it in a book. It’s convenient and I won’t need to bother myself with exploring Ron’s characterisation.”

(And thus completely forgetting that Ron could maybe ask his big brothers via owl and provide us with a good heap of extra advanced knowledge - Bill is supposed to have aced his NEWTs after all.)

The other part of the problem is quite simply that Hermione is more often than not, either painted as a victim by the narrative (which makes more people take her side, classic manipulation tactic), or made to be right anytime it’s about a plot point.

Hermione’s mistakes are never explicitly stated, corrected, or even pointed out as being unethical.

Hermione only gets one mistake expressedly pointed out as being a mistake: her misadventure in Polyjuice Potion. The rest of them? Even her crush on Lockhart can’t be counted as a mistake - people get crushes all the time, based solely on physical appearance, it’s not something awful or terrible (Except when it’s Ron who crushes on someone. Ron crushing on someone is absolutely forbidden, and he must be punished with much ridicule and humiliation if he thinks he can get away with not worshipping Hermione like the goddess she is. The nerve of him, really.).

Throughout the books Hermione eventually morphs into Rowling’s Powerful Angel of Vengeance, that punishes the people who dared to do something she disliked - Rita is silenced but at a very ethically dubious price; Marietta gets scarred for life because she was more loyal to her mother than to a bunch of people her friend insisted she hang out with; Umbridge is led to a very, very alarming fate that is never made clear but some people have ideas and they’re not all very kid-friendly; Ron first is “helped” without knowing it because Hermione can’t be bothered to have faith in his capabilities, then when he fails to dutifully reward her for “helping” him, she causes him bodily harm before actively bullying him for not mind-reading her interest in him; causes even more bodily harm to Ron because that’s how feminism works; etc.

Hermione’s mistakes are always justified through the plot itself (which is lazy writing).

Turning into a cat? Only affects her.

The Firebolt? Scabbers? Well, in the end, it was really sent by Sirius Black and Crookshanks really wasn’t the culprit. Therefore all the feelings that were hurt and all the trust lost are irrelevant because Hermione was right all along.

Trying to free the house-elves? Well, it’s the intent that counts, right? And we’re never told enough about house-elf lore to know whether they’re poor brainwashed victims or powerful Penate-like symbiotes who need to serve a wizard to survive?

Kidnapping Rita Skeeter, trapping her and blackmailing her? Rita may be one foul little beetle, but that’s going a bit far, isn’t it? Harry approves? Oh, well, I guess it’s okay then…? A main character can’t have a dubious morality, right?

Manipulating Harry into forming Dumbledore’s Army and forcing him to relive a traumatic event with the same woman she’s kidnapped and blackmail and that she knows he hates? In the end, it all works out for the best and Harry’s hurt feelings don’t matter since it’s all about the greater good.

Using the centaurs to get rid of Umbridge (which poses the highly distressing question of what did the centaurs do to her?), realizing that the centaurs aren’t nice little horsies that are going to gently obey her every orders like good Disney princess’ companions, my goodness could this be an opportunity for character growth - nevermind, here comes Grawp the Giant Ex Machina, saving her arse and protecting Hermione from all that scary possibility of introspection. Thanks, Grawp Ex Machina.

Trying to dissuade a highly stressed-out and irrational Harry from rescuing Sirius by telling him exactly what he needed not to hear, a.k.a. “you have a saving people-thing” which causes Harry to completely go bonkers and go save his godfather without thinking twice? Well she was right after all, it was a trap! Nevermind how mind-boggingly insenstive and inadept at dealing with someone else’s feelings she was being, she was right! That means it wasn’t Hermione’s mistake!… probably. (Geez, I’m sensing a pattern here…)

Endangering Cormac’s life (Confunding him WHILE HE’S ON HIS BROOM) to promote Ron’s success? Oh but that’s so romantic! (Yeaaaah, how romantic to display exactly how much faith you lack in your crush. Top it off with a broken neck and that’s a picture perfect first date!)

Assaulting Ron with magic and causing him even more scars than he already had? But he was being cold with her first, right? And he totally should have known she was asking him out! It’s not like her invitation was even worse than his attempt to ask her out two years earlier! Plus she’s just a teenage girl expressing her emotions, anyone who tries to find fault in this is a disgusting abusive misogynist pig! Ha!

Getting all jealous that Harry is better than her at Potions, then pretending she’s not jealous by claiming that TEH BOOK IS EVIL, HARRY, and giving him the cold shoulder too? But no, she’s right, look, Harry used Sectumsempra and he almost killed Draco, nevermind that he’s very horrified about it! Hermione was right, like she always is!

Hermione Obliviating her parents, which pulls her from the “ethically dubious” zone into the “wow okay I’m pretty sure that this counts as a violation of basic human rights” zone, makes her one of those quirky wizardfolk who have the privilege to control those simple-minded Muggles because it’s for the greater good? But nooo she’s crying about it so it’s obviously very sad and angsty and it shows her devotion to the cause!

Splinching Ron while fleeing from the Ministry? Eeeh, but he’s fine, they’ve got Dittany, he’s good as new!… blood loss? Anaemia? What’s that?

Hermione was wrong about the Deathly Hallows not existing? Um, um, that doesn’t matter, LOOK DOBBY IS DEAD AND HARRY IS BACK TO LOOKING FOR THE HORCRUXES!! Therefore Hermione was right, the Hallows weren’t important for their quest, therefore the Hallows might as well not exist, HERMIONE WAS RIGHT NO REALLY I’VE GOT RECEIPTS -

The books never forget to remind Harry and Ron of their own shortcomings and moments of weakness.

Harry’s wrath and recklessness cost Sirius his life. This is the lesson he has to learn from his entitled behaviour in OotP: actions have consequences, and the greater your responsibility, the greater the cost will be.

Ron’s envy and insecurity lead him astray; they’re used to humiliate, ridicule and torture him throughout the books. They’re supposed to teach him that he’s worth something - but how is he supposed to believe that, when nobody ever tells him he’s worth anything? When nobody ever apologizes to him? When his feelings are taken for granted over and over? When his two friends seem to discard him whenever he does one thing wrong?

Hermione is never punished. Hermione is never said to be wrong, never shown to be wrong, never called out on her behaviour. From Prisoner of Azkaban to mid-Deathly Hallows, she stays exactly the same character. She doesn’t grow up. She doesn’t learn. She doesn’t change. She has virtually no character arc.

The only time, THE ONLY TIME IN SEVEN BOOKS, the only time we have something remotely resembling a call-out of Hermione’s horrible behaviour is with this sole quote in HBP:

Harry was left to ponder in silence the depths to which girls would sink to get revenge.

Note how it’s about “girls” and not Hermione in particular, which implies that any girl would do what Hermione does to Ron. Thanks for the generalization, JKR, but I like to believe I’m actually a decent sort of person that doesn’t resort to petty cruelty and exploits my friends’ insecurities whenever I’m angry with them.

Hermione NEVER has to apologize. Hermione NEVER has to learn from her mistakes because she’s always presented as a victim when she really isn’t. Hermione NEVER develops into something more - she’s emotionally stuck at fourteen years old. Even less than that when you consider that her reaction to Ron’s return in Deathly Hallows is to trash him with her fists - and she was going to get her wand!! The utter psychopathic b- wanted TO THROW BIRDS AT HIM AGAIN!!! - and this reaction is an appropriate one for a four-years old girl, but certainly not for a supposedly “mature” seventeen-years old.

(Yes, because what separates a child from an adult is the ability to reign in your emotions and not succumb to your impulses. Exactly what Ron did when he left the tent (notice that he had drawn his wand, then he left before he could start hexing Harry), he left to calm himself down. Exactly what Hermione fails to do when Ron returns (she has the impulse to strike him and immediately succumbs to it, which proves to us that The Brightest Witch Of Her Age has all the maturity of a very small child).)

All of that, on top of the awful portrayal in the movies which removes all of Ron’s characteristics to stuff them into Hermione and turns her into some impossible epitome of perfection, eventually contributed to the portrayal of Hermione as the one who is always right and knows everything.

Add to it JKR’s own ridiculous bias (“Ron was quite emotionally immature compared to the other two”, yeah right I don’t see him trying to force freedom onto unwilling creatures or making Harry fly into an irrational rage with mere words but you do you, Jo) and the sexist misconception that “girls are innately more mature than boys”, and you get yourself this apparent behemoth of righteousness that was literally the sole reason why those two silly boys survived everything, and don’t you dare criticize this angel of perfection OR ELSE.

[dreadfutures]

WIP Wednesday at BTV: @kita-lavellan | @silvanils | @noire-pandora | @ellie-effie | @musetta3 | @jarakrisafis | @nivenor-krosis | @kittynomsdeplume | @inquisitoracorn | @ohhgren | @medlilove | @morganlefaye79 | @hollyand-writes

And @crackinglamb who also tagged me!

I’ve had a really awful week but I’ve been slowly chipping away at this very important conversation between Ixchel and Solas. And I’d actually appreciate thoughts on this. I’ll just listen to whatever anyone has to say. This is long though so I’m going to put it under the cut.

Question: Specifically, I'm trying to navigate this complicated cause/effect and question of autonomy and individuality in their relationship, which happens to hold the weight of the apocalypse over both their heads in different ways. It is important that they both can operate as they wish, without fearing they will misstep and drive the other away

Ixchel definitely is one of the reasons Solas ultimately confronts some of his stubbornness/willful blindness, as his friend and someone he respects--it’s the way she lives her life and the way she hopes and fights and the world she believes in that ultimately makes him see more paths available than his din’an’shiral. It's not that she loves him or he loves her.

And he's aware that because of so many complications and questions about her resurrection, that she constantly feels like it might indeed be her love--and lovability--that’s holding back the apocalypse. And their relationship will never be equal and truly healthy until she stops carrying that burden. Somehow she needs to learn to trust that he has made his decision and will continue to make decisions based off of himself, and not her.

But also at the same time, he loves her, and she loves him, and they do help each other with like, reinforcing each other's hope, and reminding each other what they're fighting for, that the fight is worth it, and when the other one is tired, being able to prop them up and help them keep going as equals. There are the shadows of her own anxieties and depression that aren't entirely based in reality, but there are also these fears that are so deeply founded in reality. idk.

The Excerpt:

Ixchel and Solas finished bathing and washed their clothes—smiling like the foolish da'lenala neither of them had ever had the luxury to be. She was full of wine and laughter, and she knew that there would only be more waiting back in the Hold.

But as they dried off in the warm evening sun and she thought about the celebration of Hakkon's rebirth, her mind strayed to the name the Spirits of the Basin had given her, and what she had done to earn it. The shock and gratitude she had felt upon hearing herself called 'God-Song' had faded some, and now the chill of anxiety returned to the pit of her stomach. She shivered despite the golden light that surrounded them, and she felt Solas's attention shift from the sky down to her again. He did not speak, but she felt the question in his eyes on her bare back. "Vhenan," she began in a low voice, "should I… The Spirits called to Mythal through me. Was it her power that they summoned with that song? Or my own? Or theirs?" His grip around her waist tightened. "Do not be afraid," he said, but of course that solidified the cold tendrils of anxiety into hard, heavy dread in her gut. "The Spirits here are older than many," Solas said haltingly, "but they are still young. They remember only echoes of…'elf songs,' they call them. The echoes by themselves have power, even if the subjects of the songs cannot hear. That is the power of a prayer, spoken where the Veil is thin." He took a deep breath, and after a moment of consideration he sat up beside her. He rested one arm across his knees and began to trace idle patterns across her cursed forearm with the other. "I do not think she heard you." She stared across at his tense jaw, though his eyes remained on the horizon. "We summoned Flemeth at Mythal's altar in the Arbor Wilds, with a song," she whispered. He tilted his head slightly. "Did you not have the Well of Sorrows in your company?" "Ah." She gave a shuddering laugh as something, not quite relief, swept through her. "That's true." Solas responded with a shallow nod, but then, for a moment, his chest seemed filled with words. She waited, but he did not speak them before sighing again. "What is it?" she asked, and bit her lip. Solas slipped his arm around her waist to shift her closer, and then he sought out the Anchor. He spread her palm open, and with deliberate slowness, he dipped the pads of his fingers into the shining tear of magic her skin. It was as though he might slip through her hand and into the Fade that way. A vicious shudder wracked her frame; the penetration itself felt strange and dull, like a cramp, and yet the magic in her hand came to life with a hot flare. She could see the spirals of his orb across her skin, as she often could if she examined her palm closely, but now she could see the green tendrils of green rift magic as they wound their way up her wrist and her forearm. To her horror, it was clear that the Anchor had embedded itself almost halfway up to her elbow. She could feel Solas draw upon it with his concentration, and yet the reaching veins of the Anchor did not retreat. The damage had been done. Her fingers had curled around his instinctively, until the bones in his hand seemed to creak in protest. "I will not let them have you," he said. The finality with which he spoke made her feel as though he were not quite answering her question. Some other conversation had played out in his mind, and he had come to this answer. She did not know exactly whether he spoke of Flemeth and Mythal, or even perhaps the all-consuming power of the Anchor. She stared down at their joined hands, eyes burning, which was likely a sign that she was too exhausted to handle these conversations. When she heard and saw the resolve in him, she should have been able to stifle the part of her that remembered how he spoke to her of the din'an'shiral he must walk alone. She should not have immediately been afraid that the calculation he had done in his head was about his loyalties. It should have been a settled matter, and yet, still, it was not. Ixchel took a deep breath and tried to swallow that part of her. "I am more concerned about what she might do with you, Solas," she said truthfully. "How did I end up with Old God's spent soul within me? How did he come to possess it, when Mythal had taken it? Was he moving to the beat of her drum—knowingly, or not?" She saw the slightest twitch of his ear and knew that she had touched on a raw topic there, too. But this was a better topic, and one that was just as important for her to know the answer to. "If I have enticed you from the path that she wanted you on… Should I not be afraid, to stand against Mythal?" He turned his head abruptly, and she met his piercing gray eyes dead-on. After a moment's consideration, he reached around her to stroke her cheek gently with the backs of his knuckles. And she knew immediately that he had heard, beneath this line of questioning, the doubt that still ate at her. There was no challenge in his gaze, but the look with which he pinned her was not soft, either. "My loyalty is to our People above all else," he said, to make her heart seize in her chest. He continued in a measured voice that was heavy with blood and wine. "In Wycome. In Halamshiral. In Serault, and Minrathous, in Skyhold, and across the Veil… If Mythal indeed remains, she would not keep me from such a duty. For all the fearsome tales of the Witch of the Wilds, I cannot believe the All-Mother, if she truly remains, would undercut that work." She gripped his hand ever tighter. "And you… You are not afraid of Mythal," he said, a bitter note coloring his words. "You are afraid of walking your path alone. You are afraid that you cannot hold the Dread Wolf at bay with the strength of your love. And you cannot. You have not." His breath was hot across her face as he drew closer—not to kiss her, of course not, but rather as though he might impress upon her the full weight of his words with the strength in his silver eyes. "You are the Champion of the People. You have sworn, and I have believed." He squeezed her hand back, to emphasize his point. "For as long as you hold true to your purpose, you are my Champion, 'ma'lath, 'ma'av'in. But as you insisted, you chose yourself first. You gave yourself a name, decided its meaning." He brushed her hair behind her ear and then settled his hand firmly at the back of her neck, fingers tangled in her hair to hold her, ground her. He gave her the smallest shake. "Let me do the same." Ixchel swallowed. "Hope is a choice," she murmured. "Yes," he replied, "it is. So is trust." He kissed her gently then, and she tried to lose herself to it. The hand at the back of her neck slipped back to her ribs, to pull her close against his chest. She could feel his heart beat steadily beneath their skin, a steady, certain rhythm. She sighed into his mouth, and he hummed in response. "Ir abelas," she whispered as she broke away. They rested their foreheads together, eyes closed. "Do not be," he said, more gently than before. He raised their joined hands between them and traced the scar that ran down her chest, over her heart. "For all your stalwart strength, Ixchel, for all that you have reforged yourself from ruin, you cannot be blamed for fearing the one who shattered you. Especially when you have given him the very tools with which to shatter you again." Ixchel lost her breath as his words impacted her physically, and she opened her eyes to see that he had, too. For a moment, they were no longer silver—but rather they burned with the blue light of a god's power. That terrible gaze was focused on something deep within her chest…something that responded, and reflected his power back at him in painful resonance. "If there is one burden you can put down," he said, voice falling to a lilting whisper, "it is that you still carry the responsibility of the death of a world in your heart. Please… You must know it was not your failure." The magic in his eyes faded, and his lashes flicked up as he caught her staring at him. There were creases of grief at the corners of his eyes. "My mistakes will always be my own." The grief in his face might have seemed incongruent with the hard and heavy weight of his words, but she could feel how they hurt him as much as they hurt her. "I have told you that you have changed everything, but it was not your love for me, nor even my love for you, that has changed my course. It is the harm I have done to the world, the harm I know I might yet do, that stays my hand. Ane mala vasreëm." Perhaps it was the tears he saw well up in her eyes, or maybe it was simply his anxious mind trying to cut off any possible way he could hurt her more than he had already, but his own face was suddenly torn with pain and apology. "In saying this, I might seem to take away from your perceived victory—" "No," she said suddenly. "Solas, I do not need to believe it a war between us." She freed her hands from his so she could brush briefly at her eyes. "Thank you. I have only ever cared for your path as a friend... I love you, but--" she could not stem the flow of her tears, and she laughed at herself.  She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. He obliged and held her tightly; warm, smooth skin pressed against her rough constellation of scars, and she was enveloped in his smell, his warmth, his magic. She knew that she was safe in his embrace. And she knew that he was right. Perhaps she could have thwarted the Dread Wolf's plans, had she not killed herself. But he had chosen his path, chosen to excise his heart and give it to her, and she had been right to think that to carry it—to redeem it, to return it—was a futile task. Solas had never betrayed her. He had never promised anything. Cole was right: Solas was only ever his own. It was Solas who had watched her walk her path. Solas had chosen to follow, open-eyed. And ultimately, it would be Solas who chose to stay. Life is a story written by two hands, after all.

[sachigram]

Truss

((click here to read on ao3!!))

When Shizuo was little, before he ever lost his temper at his brother and lifted the fridge, he learned about soulmates in school along with everyone else. He didn't have much interest in it— no one in his class really did. All of them were too young to understand, and romance in general was far less interesting than running around outside and skinning their knees up. Shizuo thought to himself, if soulmates were really something, and lots of people had one, then he wouldn't have to work too hard or think too much about it. Everything would work itself out in the end.

As he got older and his fuse got shorter and shorter, he realized how difficult soulmates actually were to come by. Most people never met their soulmates— Shinra would often babble about the actual statistics, but he'd shut up when he saw Shizuo getting pissed off about it. Probability aside, even if someone was fated to be with Shizuo, he knew they likely would never approach him even if they found each other. People avoided Shizuo, and as he grew into himself, he started avoiding them, too.

And then. Then, there was Izaya.

The day he met Orihara Izaya, Shizuo immediately got a headache just from looking at the guy. Izaya was ethereal looking, a mischievous smirk planted on his pretty face, his hair dark and messy, yet falling in artful waves like it was styled that way. His eyes seemed blood red in the orange light from the sunset, and Shizuo hated him instantly. It really was as simple as that.

They fought; Izaya slashed at Shizuo with a knife, and then Shizuo got hit by a car while chasing after him. Things only got worse as they got older, and to this day, Shizuo can't even look at Izaya without being filled with the need to chase him down and bash his pretty face in. Nothing else really ever seems to matter.

After a particularly bad fight of theirs, Shizuo ends up at Shinra's, blood soaking through his shirt. He's pissed off about it for multiple reasons: Izaya slashed him up again, his white shirt is completely ruined, and Izaya got away. Shizuo is chewing a hole in his cheek when he flops onto Shinra's couch and lets the doctor patch him up.

“Oh, wow,” Shinra says, dabbing at Shizuo's wounds with a little cotton ball. “It looks like he carved his name in you.”

“What?” Shizuo barks, looking down. Sure enough, the characters of Izaya's first name are slashed into Shizuo's chest, right across the first scar Izaya ever gave him. “What the fuck!”

“I'm surprised you didn't notice until now,” Shinra says.

“He did it so fast! I was too busy trying to hit him. Fucking flea!”

“Relax, it's not deep. I doubt it'll scar. He probably did it just to make you even madder.” Shinra dabs something that stings over the gashes, and Shizuo grumbles low in his throat, imagines going to Izaya's apartment and yanking his head off.

“He really is the worst.” Celty's PDA says exactly what Shizuo is thinking, and Shizuo nods in agreement. Shinra sighs.

“He goes all out for Shizuo-kun, that's for sure.” He applies an ointment before he digs around in his kit for some bandages. “You know... The way you guys are with each other... Have you considered you might be soulmates?”

Shizuo waits a moment before responding, because he's pretty sure Shinra might be making a shitty joke, but when Shinra just keeps right on working, Shizuo flicks him on his forehead.

“Ow! What the heck was that for?!” Shinra yelps, looking at Shizuo with teary eyes. “I'm patching you up, and this is the thanks I get?!”

“Don't pair me up with that rotten louse! I get enough of that from the girl who hangs out with Kadota!” Shizuo huffs before reclining back into the couch. “Izaya's just an insane little fucker who hates me. There's no romance involved.”

“Well, yeah, but...” Shinra frowns, rubs his forehead, and goes back to bandaging Shizuo. “He's literally all you think about. That's a sign.”

“He makes my life hell! Of course I think about him! If I stop paying attention to him, he'll do something even worse.”

“Hmm.” Shinra doesn't seem particularly convinced. “Well, there's nothing I can do about it if neither of you will listen to reason. I'm only saying, if it is that you're mated, letting it go to waste because of some rivalry is childish.”

“Rivalry?! He— You!”

“Just keep it in mind. It wouldn't be the weirdest thing to ever happen around here.”

Shizuo begs to differ. The thought alone of being Izaya's soulmate is strange enough that Shizuo feels a little nauseous. They can't be near each other without fighting. Shizuo thinks being alone is much better than being matched with someone who clearly wants him dead.

***

Shizuo doesn't see or hear from Izaya a few weeks after their fight.

At first, he revels in the quiet. He goes to work, hangs out with Tom and Vorona, sees his brother. Shinra has mentioned Izaya is busy with work or something, and that's why things have been running so smoothly.

After the first week, Shizuo begins to feel uneasy.

Izaya being quiet can't be a good thing, right? He's got to be involved in...something. He'd never allow Shizuo a moment's peace, and if he's letting it happen now, it means something worse is around the corner. Shizuo feels antsy and jittery, waiting for something he doesn't know for sure will happen.

By the second week, Shizuo is physically ill. He tries to carry on as usual. He's never been one to get sick, as his immune system is excellent, but he hasn't been sleeping much, and he thinks maybe he caught something because he hasn't been taking care of himself.

Tom takes one look at Shizuo and shakes his head, pointing to the door.

“No way, you look terrible. Vorona and I can handle things today. Go home and get some rest, man.”

“It's nothing,” Shizuo mutters, though he does feel terrible.

“You have plenty of sick days since you never use them. C'mon, go relax a little. I'll call and check in on you later,” Tom says, and Shizuo accepts defeat. Tom is hard to argue with, especially since he's never sent Shizuo home before. Shizuo must really look as bad as he feels.

“Would you like me to send you a list of remedies proven to alleviate cold symptoms?” Vorona asks.

“No, thanks though. I'll just try to sleep it off.”

He's lying on his couch later when his phone rings. He expects it to be Tom, but it's Shinra. Sighing, Shizuo answers, knowing Shinra will just keep calling.

“What?” he snaps.

“Shizuo-kun? You sound weird,” Shinra says.

“I'm sick.” Shizuo doesn't really want to tell Shinra that, as Shinra will likely use it as a reason to come bother him, but if he brings medicine along, Shizuo will tolerate it.

“Sick? You?” Shinra pauses. “You never get sick.”

“Yeah, I guess I'm due. I just feel shitty. I'm tired but I can't sleep and— ugh, my head is fucking throbbing.”

“Hmm. Did this just start today?”

“No, a few days ago. It's just been getting worse. Why? Is there something going around?” Shizuo asks. He hopes he didn't expose Tom and Vorona to the flu or something.

“You could say that!” Shinra laughs a bit, and Shizuo tenses up. He hates when Shinra does this, acts like he knows something no one else does, and then refuses to share. It reminds Shizuo too much of Izaya.

“Is there a reason you fucking called me? Your voice is making my head hurt worse,” Shizuo growls, and Shinra's laughing stops abruptly.

“Ah, sorry! Yes, Celty ran into Tom-san and Vorona-san today! She noticed you weren't there and asked me to call. I'll let her know you're fine.”

“I'm not fine. Do you have anything for headaches? All I have is ibuprofen and it's not doing shit.” Shizuo doesn't keep many pain remedies around. He's never really had a use for them.

“I don't think I have anything that'll help. Just get some rest and, uh. Let me know how you feel by Sunday.”

Shinra hangs up then, and Shizuo is left glaring at his phone. He's thankful it's the weekend. Hopefully, if he spends his off days lounging around and taking medicine, it'll pass by the time he's supposed to return to work.

Throughout the weekend, it only gets worse.

Saturday night, his head is pounding so bad he can't keep his eyes open. He tries to go to bed early and wakes an hour later feeling feverish. He gets out of bed to get some water, and then he winds up running to the bathroom to vomit. He's never gotten sick like this before. He calls Shinra, who promises to visit him in the morning.

Sunday morning, Shizuo is wrapped in two blankets on the couch. He's starving and exhausted, but he can't seem to eat or sleep. Even smoking isn't an option for him right now. He's miserable enough to relent to Shinra examining him. Shinra, of course, looks thrilled.

“So, you say it's been getting worse throughout the week?” Shinra asks as he takes Shizuo's vitals.

“Yeah. Every day it's just harder to deal with it,” Shizuo mutters. He's wearing his sunglasses inside because the lights are torturing him.

“I see,” Shinra says, and he studies the results he's written down. He frowns a bit, and then he pulls another chart from a file in his briefcase. He holds the two together in front of his face, and his face pales.

“What? What is it?” Shizuo asks, a little worried. He's been thinking this might be something bad, especially if his extremely powerful immune system can't fight it off.

“It's, uh. It's nothing,” Shinra squeaks, putting the papers away.

“You don't look like it's nothing,” Shizuo says. “What, am I dying or something? Aren't you legally obligated to tell me if I'm dying?”

“A simple check-up wouldn't tell me if you were dying,” Shinra says with a laugh, and then he's rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Look, I have an idea of what it is... But if I tell you now, you'll only get pissed off at me, and I don't want a fist in my face, especially if I'm wrong. I need to do something before I tell you for sure.”

“What the fuck?” Shizuo asks. “There's a test involved?”

“Yes! A test. We should know for sure by tomorrow!”

“I have to work tomorrow!” Shizuo protests.

“I'll give you some pills to take the edge off the headache. It won't get rid of it, but knowing you, you can power through.” Shinra packs up his things, and Shizuo scoffs at him.

“What incredible medical advice. You're telling me to deal with it.”

“I'm telling you it's nothing to worry over! Well...at least not at the moment. Worst case, you miss work tomorrow, too. Surely you have more than enough sick leave to use since you're never sick.” Shinra gives him a smile, and then he reaches in his pocket before tossing a pill bottle at Shizuo. “Take two of those. They might help you sleep, too.”

“Thanks,” Shizuo says dryly. “Do I need to do anything for this test of yours, or am I supposed to just wait around for you to get back to me?”

“Ah...” Shinra looks sheepish again. “I have to make another house call, and then... Well, if I survive, we'll figure it out from there!”

Shizuo doesn't bother asking for an explanation. Shinra never gives straight answers, especially if he's trying to avoid giving Shizuo bad news in person. Shizuo closes and locks the door behind Shinra when he leaves, and then Shizuo goes to the sink, puts two pills on his tongue, and chases them with water straight from the tap.

That night, Shizuo feels groggy and manages to sleep in waves, though it's always a fitful, shallow sleep. It's better than no sleep at all, and Shizuo feels well enough to heat up some canned soup and keep it down. He still feels feverish, so he's walking around his apartment with blankets draped over him. Tom calls a little after Shizuo washes his dinner dishes.

“Yo. Feeling any better?” Tom greets.

“Yeah, a little. Shinra came by and gave me some pills,” Shizuo says. He moves back towards the couch.

“If you need tomorrow off, just let me know,” Tom says. “We don't have any major targets anyway. Vorona can handle them.”

“I know. I'll wait till the morning to decide for sure. If I don't feel well, I'll give you a call.” Shizuo chats with Tom a little longer, and then he passes out in front of the TV.

Right after three in the morning, Shizuo wakes once more.

He feels terrible, but more than that, he feels ravenous, like he hasn't eaten in days. Technically, he hasn't, as soup doesn't count for much, nutrition wise. He groans and gets up from the couch, deciding to just walk to the convenience store down the street and find something to fill him up, as he doesn't have anything else to eat aside from rice.

There isn't anyone else on the street this early in the morning. Shizuo passes a few cabs, but he doesn't walk by anyone. It smells like rain, and the breeze feels good on his skin, though he shivers a bit as he walks. He's always enjoyed walking, especially when it's dark out. The way the lights illuminate everything around him make him feel relaxed, though his headache has him wearing his shades to keep the worst of the lights from exacerbating his already throbbing temples.

He grabs a few snacks and checks out with the clerk, who looks half-asleep and wary of Shizuo, who probably resembles a zombie at this point. Shizuo exits the store and lights a cigarette as he walks, knowing a good portion of his headache might be withdrawal. It drops from his lips and hits the ground when someone steps in front of him, the last person he'd like to see.

“Izayaaaaaaaa,” Shizuo hisses, tightening his hands into fists. He has to stop himself from throwing his snacks at Izaya, who doesn't seem well in the least.

“Shizu-chan,” Izaya lilts, waving his hand in greeting. He looks almost waifish, and the dark circles under his eyes make Shizuo wonder how bad his own must be. “You're up late.”

“I can't fucking sleep,” Shizuo says, and then he grumbles. “Why are you in Ikebukuro?”

“Oh, you know.” Izaya shrugs. “I can't sleep either, and it's been a while since I came this way.”

“You're too fucking close to my building,” Shizuo says, and Izaya feigns a surprised expression.

“You're right! I am awfully close to your hovel, aren't I? I must be delirious.”

“Are you sick? You look like shit.”

“So do you,” Izaya says, and then he crosses his arms. He sniffs a bit. “Are you going to break my arm if I go into the store? I was going to buy a bottle of tea.”

“They have tea in Shinjuku,” Shizuo says.

“Yes, but I'm already here!”

Shizuo expects his head to pound again, because out of everyone in his life, Izaya pisses him off the most. Weirdly enough, he feels...better? Maybe those pills Shinra gave him are starting to work.

“Whatever,” Shizuo mutters at last. “If you do anything, I'll kill you later. I'm too tired to deal with you right now.”

He walks towards Izaya, who stiffens a bit. He doesn't know why he does it, but Shizuo bumps shoulders with Izaya as he passes, and Izaya doesn't do anything in retaliation.

Both of them must really be sick and delusional.

***

When he wakes up again, Shizuo feels great, like he was never sick at all. He doesn't question it too much, since this is usually how colds work for him. He'll feel a little sluggish, and then perfectly normal again. Maybe this was just a bad flu or something. Either way, it's over now, so Shizuo goes to work as usual, and he doesn't think about it again until Shinra calls him a little after he gets back home.

“Did you see Izaya-kun last night?” Shinra asks as soon as Shizuo picks up the phone.

“What the... Yeah? I ran into him at fucking three in the morning.”

“Did you...interact with him?” Shinra asks.

“A little bit. We didn't fight. Is Izaya sick, too? He looked like a skeleton. I didn't feel right about attacking him.” Shizuo has a bad feeling in his stomach, and he doesn't know why.

“This might sound odd, but please don't get too angry,” Shinra says. “Did Izaya-kun touch you at all? Even in passing?”

Shizuo freezes in his tracks. He was going to his fridge to get a beer, but now his stomach is lurching uncomfortably.

“He... No. No, I brushed against him. I think I was threatening him, or... I mean, I didn't think about it.” Shizuo swallows. “Why?”

Shinra sighs, and Shizuo knows he isn't going to like what comes next.

“Your symptoms matched with Izaya-kun's. Everything on your chart, your heart-rate, your temperature, your maladies—everything matched. You both got sick at the same time, right when Izaya-kun was too busy with work to interact with you. It got worse and worse for the two of you until you saw Izaya-kun again, and as soon as you touched, even brushing past, both of your symptoms went away.”

“...huh?” Shizuo's voice sounds small even to him. Shinra clears his throat.

“Do you understand what it is I'm getting at? I know I...mentioned before about being mated to Izaya-kun. You refused to entertain the idea, and so did he. I couldn't do any tests without your consent. But now... Shizuo-kun, this is more than being mated. This is... Are you familiar with a soul bond?”

“A what? You're... Are you saying Izaya is my soulmate? This is— You're sure?” Shizuo wants to feel angry. He wants to refute this and prove Shinra wrong, but as it is, he just feels empty inside.

“I've told you before about the rarity of soulmates. Some people have marks, and every now and then, mated pairs will find each other. Neither you nor Izaya-kun have marks, so it was hard to tell, but when you both got sick from being apart... This is deeper than a normal soul-link, not that those are anything to take lightly. A bond is extremely, extremely rare. There's only been one case in the last year, and it's been over five years since any in Japan have been reported.”

“I don't... I don't get it. I have a soul bond with Izaya? What's that mean?”

“You and Izaya-kun are essentially two halves of one whole. You can't be apart from him without feeling the effects. As insane as it sounds, the two of you were able to keep yourselves sated by fighting—hitting each other, touching at all, even with ill-intent. The moment you met, this started, but it wasn't until you stopped seeing Izaya-kun that the withdrawal crept in.” There's the sound of shifting, fabric rustling. “I'm saying Izaya-kun is more than your soulmate, Shizuo-kun.”

“I don't believe you,” Shizuo says, though he does. He wondered, at least a little, why he felt better as soon as Izaya crossed his path. “You don't know for sure.”

“It's not one-hundred percent,” Shinra relents. “There are a few more tests I can do, if the two of you cooperate.”

“Fine, whatever, anything to prove you wrong!”

Shinra comes by the next day with a sheet of paper filled with questions. They're strange, it's by far the weirdest test Shizuo has ever taken. It asks about dreams, intrusive thoughts, sudden cravings he's had that he's never had before. He fills it out honestly, knowing that lying won't get him anywhere. When he's done, he looks expectantly at Shinra, who is reading them over.

“So?” he barks. “Do they match or whatever?”

“Izaya-kun hasn't taken his test yet,” Shinra says. “He's taking this much worse than you are.”

“Why?!” Shizuo growls. “He's the one who starts everything! He's the awful one! It should be me who refuses to cooperate!”

Shinra shrugs. “Tell him that.”

Five days go by, and Shizuo doesn't hear anything from Shinra. He also doesn't see or hear from Izaya, and by the sixth day, the headache is back. In a fit of rage, Shizuo finds himself opening Izaya's contact. He sends a text.

Does your head hurt?

An hour passes. Shizuo is about to stomp all the way to Shinjuku, but then his phone goes off.

Don't tell me you're actually entertaining this. Izaya sends.

What the fuck else am I supposed to do?

No response. Shizuo waits another fifteen minutes before sending another message.

What if he's right?

Izaya responds right away.

He's not right.

You must have thought he was a little since you came to see me at 3am.

No response. Shizuo roars in rage, which only makes his head hurt worse. He sends another texts, his thumbs pressing so hard against his phone screen, he worries he might crack it.

Take the fucking test or I'm going to tie you up and make you do it.

Kinky ;) Izaya sends.

TAKE THE GODDAMN TEST

Oh, fine. When he ends up being wrong, you can stop acting so pitiful.

The next day, Shizuo doesn't hear anything from Shinra or Izaya. Usually, he'd welcome the quiet, but at the moment, he wants to hear something, anything. His head is beginning to pound unbearably, and he has to take sleeping pills to even scrounge up a few hours of sleep. When he wakes, he has a missed call from Shinra, as well as a text message.

Izaya-kun's test matched yours exactly. I'm sorry.

Shizuo wants to throw his phone against the wall, but he doesn't. As angry as he is, he thinks he already knew. He knew as soon as Shinra mentioned it the first time, he just didn't want to accept it.

He lasts one more day before he's marching to Shinjuku. His head hurts, and he's feeling feverish, but he manages to make it through work. Tom asks where he's going in such a hurry.

“I'm going to kill Izaya,” Shizuo mutters, and he ignores the look Vorona and Tom give each other.

Shizuo bangs on Izaya's door until it opens, and an irritable woman looks back at him. His words die in his throat as she glares at him.

“He's in his room,” she tells him, opening the door. “It's right up the stairs.”

“Uh... Thanks?”

“Tell him I'm leaving for the day, please. I'm tired of dealing with him.” He watches as she gathers her things and leaves, and Shizuo waits only a few moments before he goes up the stairs.

Izaya is buried in blankets, looking as miserable as Shizuo feels. He glowers at Shizuo and rolls away, putting his back to Shizuo.

“Go away,” he moans.

“Izaya—“ Shizuo starts.

“No, I don't want to hear it. I don't want to talk about this.”

Shizuo growls. “Why are you being so shitty about this?! As if I'm happy about it! Aren't you supposed to be the smart one?”

“Shizu-chan, even if Shinra is right, what do you propose?” Izaya asks, and then he turns to look at Shizuo. “Do you know what soul bonds mean? You being here at all is going to make it worse.”

“What do you mean? I thought it would help?”

“It will, for a while. Every time we're in proximity, it's like a patch over the problem. It'll help a while, but the next time we feel this way, it'll be worse. We lose days every time.” Izaya rubs his hands over his face. “It's like it got even worse once Shinra opened his fat mouth. We were doing just fine before.”

“So what, then? You want to ignore it?” Shizuo asks.

“We can go on as normal, right? We can fight, and maybe if we draw out how often we see each other, we can lengthen the amount of time it takes before we have to see each other again. We'll...build a tolerance.”

“Fuck that! I feel like shit, and so do you! I'm not gonna just build a tolerance to feeling shitty! Who does that?!” Shizuo stomps towards the bed, and when Izaya meets his eyes, Shizuo freezes. Izaya looks scared. No. Izaya looks terrified.

“Don't touch me!” Izaya shouts, and Shizuo's entire body goes cold. “You idiot, just... Just leave, okay? You're making it worse.”

Shizuo runs his tongue along his teeth, counts to ten. He shakes his head.

“I'm not leaving. I'm not letting you ignore it.”

Izaya laughs, and it sounds completely hollow.

“Do you even understand what you're saying? It's not as if you want to be here. If you don't leave, and you insist on touching me, it's only going to get stronger.”

“Ignoring it isn't an option. It's gonna get worse even if we build a tolerance to it. So then what, it takes a month or so before we feel like this? We're gonna have to interact anyway.” Shizuo moves towards the bed, and Izaya watches him warily. “Might as well get it over with.”

Izaya rolls as far as he can when Shizuo sits on the edge of the bed. There's a large space between them, and Shizuo sighs before reaching out, his fingers skimming along Izaya's shoulder.

“I-za-ya,” Shizuo murmurs. “Come on. Meet me halfway here.”

“I hate you,” Izaya says, but he reaches his hand above the covers. Shizuo touches Izaya's hand timidly, and the instant their skin touches, their headaches vanish completely.

“Oh...” Shizuo breathes. He's close enough to watch Izaya's throat bob as he swallows, close enough to see Izaya's eyelashes. He traces his fingers along the soft skin of Izaya's knuckles, and they aren't holding hands, but Shizuo finds he wants to.

“You've only made it worse,” Izaya says. “The closer you get, the worse it'll be next time.”

“We aren't very close,” Shizuo says. “We don't have to get close. We can manage this much. Just...whenever it's bad, we can touch hands or something. It's not the end of the world.”

“You don't get it,” Izaya argues.

“So then tell me.”

Izaya just shakes his head, and then he pulls his hand away. Shizuo knows he isn't going to get anything else from Izaya, so he stands and leaves, the skin on his hand burning more and more with every step he takes away from Izaya.

***

It takes three days for Shizuo to understand what Izaya meant.

The next time the headache sets in, it's terrible. Shizuo's sunglasses do nothing to help his light sensitivity, and he winds up vomiting right in the middle of the sidewalk, Tom and Vorona on either side of him. They each take an arm and lead him to Shinra's, and the entire time, Shizuo is moaning in pain, trying to explain to them that it won't help.

They're at Shinra's for about fifteen minutes before Izaya stumbles in, looking haggard. Vorona and Tom stand instantly to defend Shizuo and tell Izaya Shizuo is in no shape to fight, but Shizuo shoves past them and hurries to Izaya, taking the informant into his arms like they're lovers.

“You fucking idiot,” Izaya murmurs, but he holds Shizuo just as tightly. “What have you done?”

“I'm sorry,” Shizuo says, and he presses his face into Izaya's hair. “I'm so fucking sorry.”

“Ah. Tom-san, Vorona-san, why don't you let me make you some tea?” Shinra asks, and the sound of footsteps leading from the door alerts Shizuo that he's alone with Izaya. He presses Izaya into the wall of the hallway, still hugging him tightly.

“I don't know what to do,” Shizuo admits. He's breathing Izaya in, and he wants to hate it, to feel as angry about Izaya's scent as usual, but he can't. He feels nothing but relief and comfort with every breath he takes. “Tell me what we can do.”

“There's nothing,” Izaya says, his voice muffled by Shizuo's shoulder. “You've doomed us both. It's only going to get worse.”

“Fuck,” Shizuo hisses. He nuzzles into Izaya's hair, can't think about why he's doing it. “Don't go away again. If it's worse every time, next time, I'm just gonna fucking pass out.”

“Shizu-chan...” Izaya's voice is small, unlike him. Shizuo offers a groan in response, letting Izaya know he understands completely. They don't let go of each other for quite a while.

“Man,” Tom says later when he and Vorona are walking Shizuo home. “Talk about a tough break. Being bonded to someone you hate? It's almost better not to be bound at all.”

“Statistically speaking, being bound at all—“ Vorona starts, and Shizuo grunts at her.

“I don't wanna hear the numbers. They only remind me how unlucky I am.” Shizuo is used to being an anomaly, but the universe really cursed him this time around. Vorona only shrugs, and Tom makes a face.

“Sorry, man. You wanna get drunk?” he asks.

“I'll just wake up hungover. Thanks, though. I'll keep it in mind,” Shizuo mumbles, and Tom and Vorona don't speak again.

The next day, it's all over the news that a couple in Japan are soul bound. Names aren't used, as neither Shizuo nor Izaya agreed to be named, but it seems like everyone is talking about it no matter where Shizuo goes. He wants to be pissed at Shinra for reporting it, but he knows why Shinra had to. If it's really so rare, it's kind of like some breakthrough case, and it gives other people hope. Shizuo is only glad his name wasn't used, and the only ones who know aren't blabbermouths, aside from Shinra, who fears Shizuo and Izaya both too much to say anything.

Part of Shizuo worries Izaya might try to work this to his own advantage, but Izaya seems every bit as displeased about it as Shizuo is, and Shizuo thinks Izaya won't want his name bound to someone's publicly either. They agree to meet the next day so they can fend off the sickness, and Shizuo goes to Izaya's place to make sure Izaya doesn't try to weasel his way out of it.

It isn't like the last time. Neither of them feel sick yet, so they're able to sit close to each other and touch hands while remaining far apart. Izaya scrolls his phone, not looking at Shizuo, and Shizuo tries to do the same, but it annoys him to be treated so impersonally.

“What are you doing anyway?” Shizuo snaps after a while, and Izaya turns to him with an eyebrow raised.

“Working,” Izaya says shortly.

“On what?”

“Sorry, I don't think that's your business?” Izaya says, smirking at Shizuo, and Shizuo tosses his hand away like it's diseased.

“God, I detest you. Whatever, I'm leaving.”

“Fine. Leave, then,” Izaya says, waving him away.

“I will!” Shizuo shouts back.

“I'm not stopping you! The door's right there,” Izaya says, and they glare at each other for a few moments before Shizuo stomps to the door and leaves, slamming it behind him.

They last one day.

Shizuo feels the headache settling in the second he arrives home from work. He vomits an hour later, and before he can even contact Izaya, Izaya is knocking on his door, a defeated look in his eyes.

Again, Shizuo takes Izaya into his arms. He doesn't think anything of it. The more he tries to rationalize it, the worse he feels about it, so he just listens to his body. He wants to be close to Izaya, wants to keep Izaya safe, wants to breathe Izaya in, so that's what he does. They stand at the door for a while, and then Shizuo carries Izaya to the couch, arranges them so Izaya is sitting on Shizuo's lap. If Izaya has any reservations, he doesn't voice them. He's silent as he hugs Shizuo around the neck, and Shizuo appreciates the lack of argument. They're stuck together in this, so he thinks the sooner they accept it, the better.

“Fuck,” Izaya says after a few minutes. He pulls away, and Shizuo makes a soft noise of protest before he pulls Izaya back. Their foreheads touch, and Shizuo closes his eyes, careful to swallow the moan that threatens to escape his lips. It feels so good to touch Izaya like this, to be this close. It's like a drug.

“I didn't mean to make it worse,” Shizuo says, his eyes still closed. He doesn't want to look at Izaya this close, worries he might try to kiss Izaya if he does. Izaya hums in response.

“You were right. It would've gotten worse no matter what we did,” Izaya says, and his hands settle on Shizuo's cheeks. Shizuo does moan then, can't help it. He feels Izaya go rigid against him.

“Did Shinra tell you the results of our test?” Shizuo asks. He has to say something to stop himself from opening his eyes. Izaya surely notices Shizuo is trying to distract him, but he goes along with it.

“He didn't tell you?” Izaya asks.

“Not about the test test, no. He told me our vitals were the same, but I didn't really understand the next part.”

“Mm. You described an odd dream I've been having. And you said you were craving ootoro despite not liking it much.”

“So?” Shizuo asks.

“That's my favorite food. As for the dream, it was about destroying some woman's shop. I had no idea who she was, but it was recurring.”

Shizuo inhales sharply, and then he laughs. He can't help it. His life is so incredibly odd.

“You really are my soulmate, aren't you? Fuck. This is insane. So we can share thoughts?”

“I think so. If we worked at it.” Izaya's nose presses against Shizuo's, and Shizuo opens his eyes, shivers at way Izaya is looking at him. “It's not uncommon for soul bonded pairs to be linked mentally, though I doubt either of us wants that.”

“Isn't it kind of inevitable at this point?” Shizuo asks, and Izaya laughs softly.

“Maybe. It's so rare that I don't know for sure.”

Eventually, Izaya untangles himself from Shizuo, and though Shizuo wants to yank Izaya back into his arms, he refrains. Izaya waves before ducking out of the apartment, and Shizuo just knows he isn't going to sleep well that night, whether their bond is satisfied or not.

He dreams of a big house, empty aside from himself and two babies. He's left to care for them, and he isn't good at it, but he has to be. He's all they have. He's cooking and then the smoke alarm goes off, and it wakes him up. He knows miles away, Izaya must be up, too.

Shizuo fights it as long as he can. He can feel Izaya fighting it, too. They last an entire two days before they wind up back together. Shizuo finds Izaya in a cafe, where he knows Izaya will be despite the fact they aren't talking. He takes one look at Izaya hunched in a chair, and then they're embracing, ignoring the looks of the other patrons.

“This place has excellent hot chocolate. Do you want some?” Izaya asks. Shizuo is entirely helpless to him, is resisting the urge to kiss Izaya silly.

“Yes. Fuck, whatever you want,” Shizuo murmurs, and Izaya trembles. He calls their order to the girl at the counter, and Shizuo takes Izaya's face in his hands, brushes his lips over Izaya's.

“Shizu...” Izaya breathes, and then their mouths are meeting. Shizuo groans against Izaya's lips, kisses him softly at first, and then brushes his tongue across Izaya's lips. Izaya resists, and Shizuo growls lowly in warning, and then their tongues are meeting, and Shizuo loses his mind at the taste of his mate. Izaya melts against him, and Shizuo's hands move under Izaya's shirt, span the soft skin of Izaya's back, and it takes the sound of the girl announcing the hot chocolate is ready for them to break apart. Shizuo tries to go retrieve it, but Izaya whines and pulls him closer, silently begging Shizuo not to let go of him. Shizuo carries Izaya to the counter, and then back to the table. He holds Izaya in his lap and lets the drink go cold in favor of tasting Izaya to his heart's content.

“Come over,” Shizuo pleads later. He's pressing Izaya to the wall outside. He knows they shouldn't make a spectacle of themselves like this, but he can't resist the call of Izaya's lips, and he knows Izaya feels the same.

“Shizu-chan... It's not a good idea,” Izaya says, trying to turn away from Shizuo's mouth. Shizuo yanks him back, licks inside Izaya's mouth with a low groan.

“I can't be without you anymore. I don't care what that makes us,” Shizuo says when they break apart again. “We can just sleep. I don't need anything but for you to be beside me.”

“Okay,” Izaya agrees at last, and he mewls enticingly when Shizuo licks at his neck. Shizuo doesn't know how he lived so long without the taste of Izaya on his tongue.

“Thank you,” Shizuo says, feeling pathetic. If Izaya tries to leave, he thinks he might go insane. He carries Izaya back to his apartment building, and he holds Izaya's hand while Izaya orders them takeout on his phone.

They wind up sharing lo-mein from the Chinese place nearby, Izaya feeding Shizuo a bite before taking his own. They pick at everything else, their eyes on each other as they try to eat, but eating isn't what their bodies are screaming for. Izaya just barely manages to set the takeout containers on the floor before Shizuo is pressing Izaya's body into the couch cushions, kissing him hungrily, desperately. Izaya wraps around Shizuo, kisses Shizuo back just as ravenously. Their bond sings between them, and when Shizuo grinds down against Izaya, Izaya gasps and rolls his hips up to meet him.

“Izaya... Izaya, fuck...” Shizuo manages, panting against Izaya's neck as they move together.

“Shizu-chan... We...nnn... We should stop...” Izaya breathes, and Shizuo whines in response.

“Do you want to...?”

“No,” Izaya says, and he looks up at Shizuo, his pupils blown wide. “What do you want?”

“I want you,” Shizuo says, and the second the words leave him, he feels the truth in them. Suddenly, the fact they've waited this long is ridiculous. They're mated. Mates can't be apart like this.

“Are you sure?” Izaya asks, and he runs his hands through Shizuo's hair. “If we do this, there's no going back. We'll never get away from each other.”

“So? I don't want to be away from you.” Shizuo turns his head, catches Izaya's wrist, and pulls Izaya's hand to himself, kissing the soft skin of Izaya's palm. “It's already too late for that, isn't it?”

Izaya breathes deeply, and then he shakes his head.

“It's not you talking. It's the bond. You need to think about this and what it means.”

“How am I supposed to think about it?” Shizuo asks. “If you go away again, I'm gonna lose my fucking mind. And when you're next to me, you're all I want.” Shizuo looks into Izaya's eyes. “What's left? What do I have to do to convince you that I need you?”

“I don't know,” Izaya says. He looks upset, and Shizuo hates it, wants to fight whatever is hurting Izaya like this, though he gets the feeling it's Izaya himself. “No one's ever... It doesn't make sense...”

“Izaya,” Shizuo says, and he hears the desire in his own voice.

“I'm supposed to go to America in a few days,” Izaya blurts suddenly, and Shizuo freezes above him. “I have a few clients there... I'm supposed to be gone for a month.”

“A month?” Shizuo asks, his mouth dry. “You can't. Izaya—we won't last a month.”

“I don't want this!” Izaya sits up, and Shizuo willingly backs away from him. “I don't want to be tied to you! You don't even fucking want me! You need me, and I don't...” Izaya pauses before looking down at the couch cushions. “It'd be different if it was anyone else, but you hate me. You've always hated me. We're only together because it stops you from feeling like shit.”

“That's the only reason you're here, too,” Shizuo says, and he can feel the despair coming from Izaya. It doesn't make any fucking sense. Neither of them want this... Izaya hates Shizuo just as much as Shizuo's always hated Izaya, right?

Izaya stands and hurries out the door. Shizuo feels the pull of their bond, but he doesn't chase after Izaya. He doesn't know what the fuck he's supposed to say.

***

Two days later, Shizuo is completely bed-bound.

Shinra comes by to give him painkillers and a lecture, but Shizuo shoves Shinra out the door before the doctor can say something too stupid. Celty stays behind, and Shizuo doesn't mind talking to her about it. She's his best friend, and she has his best interests at heart.

“So he's just going to go across the ocean for a month?” Celty asks. She fidgets. “I don't know much about soul bonds, but I don't think the two of you would survive that.”

“Izaya doesn't seem to care,” Shizuo mutters. He has his sunglasses on inside again. He knows Celty won't find it rude.

“Izaya knows he can't do it. No one could be away from their soulmate for that long.” Her shoulders sink with a sigh. “I love Shinra, but even we aren't soulmates. Shinra has a human lifespan, and... He'll die never finding his soulmate.”

“Does he have a mark?” Shizuo asks. He's often wondered this. It wouldn't make sense for Shinra, a human, to be bound to Celty.

“Yes. It's faded, grayed out on top. It means the person bound to him is already dead. He says he doesn't care, that he wouldn't love them anyway, because likely they'd have a head.” Celty doesn't have an expression to read, but Shizuo can read it all the same. She's looking at him imploringly, hopefully. She wants him to understand her meaning.

“What would you do, if you were me?” Shizuo asks. Celty has been around for a long time. More than that, he trusts her. She wouldn't lie to him.

“For starters, I wouldn't let him leave. It's basically a death wish for you both.” She pauses, her shadows swirling thoughtfully from her neck. “I don't know Izaya very well, but Shinra does. Shinra says Izaya is afraid of rejection, and that he's scared to be himself around anyone. I think Izaya just wants to know that you want him for him, and not because some otherworldly force is telling you to.”

“How am I supposed to convince him of that if I don't even know the answer for sure?” Shizuo asks, and he can tell she's sighing.

“How can you expect him to stay if he thinks you're doing it in spite of your hatred of him?”

“Fuck,” Shizuo murmurs, knowing she's right. “This is why I never talk to you about stuff like this. You're too smart.”

She whacks him on the shoulder, and he laughs, knowing she's laughing with him even if he can't hear it. When she leaves, he thinks about what she said, what Shinra said, and what Izaya said. He decides to go to Izaya's the next day. He'll make Izaya hear him.

In the morning, Shizuo wakes up to his alarm blaring, and he can barely move. Making it to Izaya's will be impossible, and he knows if he calls Izaya, Izaya won't answer. He considers calling Shinra and having Shinra intervene on his behalf, but there's no need. Shortly after noon, Shizuo hears clicking in the lock, and then the door is opening. Izaya stumbles inside, and Shizuo thinks that maybe Izaya was always the stronger of the two of them, because Izaya is still standing.

“I'm leaving later today,” Izaya says. He leans against the wall, his complexion slightly green.

“So why are you here?” Shizuo asks. “Even if you come over here with me, the effects won't last a month. You'll be overseas, and we'll both be too sick to function.”

“I'm here to tell you goodbye,” Izaya says, and he's inching closer, still tilting into the wall as he goes. “Maybe I'm here to take the edge off the pain until I'm too far for that to be an option anymore.”

“Izaya,” Shizuo says. He balances himself on his elbows as he lifts to look at Izaya. “Don't go.”

“Why not?” Izaya asks, halting in his tracks. “Why wouldn't I?”

“Because we need each other, because we're bound. Because every second you aren't around, I sense what you're thinking, have the same dreams as you, crave the same foods as you. Fuck, Izaya, I don't know. I love you, okay? Isn't that reason enough for you to stay?” Shizuo asks. He rolls off the couch, managing to stand on his knees.

“I've loved you since high school,” Izaya says, and Shizuo doesn't have to look for the truth in Izaya's words. He can tell they're honest. “I loved you before I knew of any bond. But you hated me. You hated me when we met, before I even did anything.”

“I was a pissed off teenager, and we both fought so much it never occurred to me I'd be bound to you. For fuck's sake, Izaya, have you ever considered I hated you because you were too fucking pretty to look at?” Shizuo asks, and Izaya's eyes widen.

“Is that a reason to hate someone?” Izaya asks, and Shizuo laughs bitterly.

“Yes. I hated myself and my strength, and you showed up next to Shinra, looking perfect. I didn't think I'd ever even deserve to be near you. And then you slashed me across the chest—“

“After you charged at me,” Izaya interjects.

“Yes. After that. I'm not denying my part in our feud, okay? I'm not denying any of it. I love you. I don't care what's making me love you, and I don't care if I need you, because I want you, too. I've wanted you longer than I've needed you. I've wanted you since we met.” Shizuo looks up, and Izaya is in front of him now, still standing. Shizuo wraps his arms around Izaya's waist and buries his face into Izaya's stomach.

“Shizu-chan,” Izaya says. His hands settle in Shizuo's hair.

“Izaya, please,” Shizuo breathes, and Izaya drops to his knees, his arms flying around Shizuo's neck before their lips meet. Shizuo pulls Izaya to him, kissing him as if his life depends on it, and with their bond satisfied, Shizuo is able to stand and pull Izaya along with him to the bed.

“I have lube in my pocket,” Izaya says, his eyes wide as he looks at Shizuo. “I just thought... I thought if it worked out, you wouldn't be prepared, so...”

“I don't need a condom, do I?” Shizuo asks, though he knows the answer already. Izaya is pressed against him from head to toe, and Shizuo can feel in their bond that Izaya has never been touched by anyone else.

“No,” Izaya says. “I... I've never wanted anyone but you.”

“Neither have I.”

It's not perfect. It's fast, clumsy. Izaya prepares himself because Shizuo is too afraid of hurting him, and once Shizuo is pushing himself into Izaya, neither of them lasts long enough for it to be thoroughly enjoyable. Shizuo thrusts once, twice, and comes inside Izaya with a whine. His hand circles Izaya's dick and barely pumps Izaya at all before Izaya joins him.

It's not great sex, but they both know as soon as it's over that they'll never be able to be apart again. Shizuo leans down and kisses Izaya's cheeks, his eyelids. He tastes tears on Izaya's face and feels in Izaya's feedback that Izaya is happy, comforted. Neither of them has to say anything at all.

They have each other a few more times that night, each time getting better. Izaya eventually cancels his flight, saying he knew all along that Shizuo wouldn't let him go. They fall asleep joined together, and they share the same dream, but in the morning, neither of them remembers it.

Shizuo wakes early and nuzzles into Izaya, who moans quietly before tugging Shizuo closer.

“Don't you have to work today?” Izaya asks, and Shizuo kisses him gently.

“I have a few sick days left.”

“Mmm,” Izaya hums, one of his hands moving over Shizuo's chest. He giggles suddenly and moves closer.

“What?” Shizuo asks sleepily.

“I'm tracing my name,” Izaya says, moving his fingers over where he carved his name in Shizuo before.

“Oh, fuck you,” Shizuo grumbles, but he doesn't really care much. He's far too pleased with their bond resonating between them, and he can feel Izaya is, too.

“You were always mine,” Izaya murmurs, and he kisses his name across Shizuo's chest, marks that won't scar, but are settled over a scar Izaya carved in the past, their first meeting, in fact.

“I was,” Shizuo says, and though he didn't always know it, he knows now that it's true all the same.

[dwaynepride]

fading light of the setting sun

summary: dwayne tries to be there for reader in the aftermath of douglas hamilton.

words: 3,421

warnings: spoilers for 4x08, 4x10, and 6x10, nsfw, female reader

tags: @stanathanxoox​​ @pageofultron​​ @6adb0y​​ @thegoodlonelydalek​​ @consultingdoctorwholock​​ @starryrevelations​​ @thebeckyjolene​​ @diaryofafan17​​ @specialagentlokitty​​  

a/n: this is part 2 of a 2-part fic. both parts are based off of ‘setting sun’ by lord huron

PART 1

Tell me, when did I lose your love?   Was it him you were thinking of     All those nights when you made me swoon       Making love beneath the moon?

Dwayne is certain that his blood must be on fire.

He can barely breathe. Lost the ability to think just as soon as your hands ran down the skin of his chest. They left behind such an impression that Dwayne knows he’ll feel your touch for days afterward. And your hands - they never left his body. Even now, he feels them; one on his shoulder for leverage, the other on his back, nails digging into his skin.

In all honesty, Dwayne is shocked he’s lasted this long already. Your first little moan of his name realistically should’ve made him cum alone. That look in your eye after he’d gone down on you should’ve put him out of commission. You’re dangerous and you don’t even know it.

And yet, Dwayne is still rocking against you. A hand gripping his backboard while the other is tangled in the sheets. He might’ve been able to keep his own orgasm back before, but it’s getting so much harder now. Every deep thrust, every single time you cry out, every wriggle of your hips - it’s starting to become too much. Dwayne’s face is buried in your neck, eyes screwed shut, focused on keeping himself at bay until you cum. Just one more time.

“You’re so fucking good, sweetheart. So good for me. Wanna hear you cum again,” he mumbles in your ear. Honestly, it took all his brainpower to even speak.

But he’s a quick learner. He’s picked up how your legs tighten around his waist whenever he starts goading you on. Dwayne notices it even now - the nails in his back scouring even deeper. Your moans getting higher. A growing tenseness in your body that tells him you’re getting closer for the second time tonight.

He bets that Hamilton could never have made you cum twice in a row.

So he picks up the pace. Goes even deeper and Dwayne knows he hit a fucking perfect spot by the way you suddenly cry out. It nearly sends a shiver down his spine, but he pulls his focus back in. “You close, honey? Gonna cum for me again?” He pants out. God, it’s getting hard to talk....

Your head bobs in a desperate nod. And it only takes two more thrusts of his hips before you’re cumming around him. Clinging to him just as tightly as Dwayne clings to you. Reveling in the feel of his body moving against yours, and this time, he really does shiver when you start moaning out loud.

“Fuck, fuck- god,” you’re choking out the words. It only serves as initiative for Dwayne to keep going. “Fuck- Douglas! Oh my god...”

He was on the very edge. About to follow you over and cum with a groan of your name and it would’ve been about as close to heaven as Dwayne could be. He could almost taste it.

But he stopped. He had to. It was a raw, sudden shock that made Dwayne stop moving his hips. And when he pulled his face away from your neck, eyes coming up to see your face, your eyes weren’t even open. Clearly still lost in your own pleasure, but Dwayne doesn’t look away. His limbs are trembling from the sudden halt of his orgasm - or maybe it’s because you’d just cried out Hamilton’s name.

Slowly, your eyes blink open with tiny smile gracing your lips. A sight that surely would’ve warmed him before. You see his face, outlined with the moonlight that filters in through the window.

And instantly, you realize why Dwayne looks like you’d just shot his dog.

He lets out a shaky exhale, and finally moves away. Pulls out and climbs off, tugging the sheets to wrap around his waist. Dwayne not even sure what to say. What can he say?

So you’re the one who speaks, instantly sitting up and leaning toward him. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” you tell him. Voice tight and keening and not something Dwayne likes to hear. “I just- it just came out. I didn’t mean it, Dwayne. I’m so, so sorry.”

For a moment, he doesn’t look at you. It would hurt a little too much to see you, right now. His chest feels like its been cracked open, and Dwayne finds that his limbs are still shaking slightly. He feels like he might just start screaming. And maybe he should have; maybe it would’ve made him feel better. But when Dwayne finally looks over to you - sees your sad and torn up expression - he knows he’d be physically incapable of shouting at you. Doesn’t want to make you feel worse.

Dwayne knows you’ve gone through a lot with Douglas. Gone through a terrible heartache. Maybe it’s unfair to expect you to be able to completely drop all your feelings for Hamilton - as much as Dwayne thinks it should be easy.

You’re still adjusting, he tells himself.

It’s difficult, but he offers a tight smile. Raises a hand to rest along your cheek. And when Dwayne leans in, you follow his lead, and he kisses you softly. “It’s alright. I’m not mad,” he says lowly.

Now, it’s your turn to be speechless. Perhaps you were expecting Dwayne to be furious with you. But honestly, he can’t just force you to stop loving Douglas. He’ll just have to work harder to help you get past him.

Your own hand comes up, curling around the back of Dwayne’s neck and tugging him closer. Prompting him to lie down, and he follows you readily. Settling in beside you, Dwayne presses a small kiss on your shoulder. A little peace offering, despite his churning stomach.

Slowly, your hand runs back down the length of his body. Fingers following every curve and line over his chest and stomach, and it isn’t until you reach his happy trail does Dwayne catch on to your plan.

You knew he hadn’t cum yet. You’re trying to make things even.

But he’s just not in the mood.

His hand catches yours before you can reach him, and to keep from hurting you further, Dwayne brings it up to press a kiss against your wrist. “Actually, I just wanna get to sleep - if that’s alright with you.”

Your eyes flash with surprise in the lowlight, but you don’t argue.

And that night, Dwayne falls asleep wrapped around you, chest to back, with his face hiding against the back of your neck. Wishing he could get the sound of your voice out of his head.

-

Were you dreaming of his touch?   When you couldn't get enough     Was there truth in the songs you sung?       Little girl, you're not so young.

There’s no real attempt in trying to play any semblance of a song. Dwayne doesn’t even try - he simply lets his fingers trail over the keys in any way they want. He’s much too preoccupied to think about playing anything.

Danny was safe. He knew that. The young man was home with Loretta and Dwayne fulfilled his promise to find and save him.

Shockingly, none of that makes him feel any better.

Dwayne hears the doors open, but he doesn’t look up to greet whoever came in. Can’t be bothered. His gaze sits on the piano keys, his mind going over the events of the day.

Though, your voice helps ground him - just a little. “I know you guys finished up early today, but I wasn’t expecting anybody to come over yet,” you speak up. Voice bright and chipper and everything Dwayne is not.

You don’t know about what happened to Danny. Unaware of the lines Dwayne had just crossed so readily.

He can’t find the words to respond with, and that’s what prompts you closer. This time, when you speak, there’s a careful concern in your tone. “Is everything okay, Dwayne?”

This time, he shrugs. And usually, Dwayne might’ve brushed off your question. This was not your burden to carry. He knows you’ve been going through a lot - he shouldn’t just dump it all on you. And yet, the weight of it is too much. He sighs. “I did something today,” he says lowly. “Something I shouldn’t have done. It was for a good reason, I guess, but it scares me that I did it.”

You’re quiet, but eventually, he hears your footfalls come toward him until your sitting beside him on the piano bench. And as your hand comes to settle on his shoulder, Dwayne reflexively exhales. Truly, it’s amazing what your touch does to him.

“I know you’ve had a hard few months. With your job and the bar and...” you trail off. And Dwayne nearly flinches when you finally say his name, “and Douglas. But you’re one of the best people I know. You’re a good man, and I care a lot about you. I wanna be here for you, if you need me.”

Immediately, his head swivels around to look at you. Meeting his eyes, you offer a smile. Hoping it would lighten his mood, a little.

Dwayne is not so naive, though - not naive enough to think that perhaps, your words went deeper than how they sounded. That maybe, despite the scars that Douglas left behind, you’d feel for him even a fraction of what he feels for you.

Dwayne knows you care about him, but not in the way he wants.

Still, this day wore him down. His heart is heavy, soul tapped dry, and you’re right there. It’s natural to lean in, loop his arms around your waist and push his face into the crook of your neck. Your arms come around his shoulders, hands running up and down his back. Despite everything, Dwayne feels a bit more at ease. More at home, even if he knows it’s not really his.

His eyes fall shut, exhaling against your skin, and he just lets go. “I love you,” Dwayne mumbles. Barely audible to himself.

“What’d you say?” You ask him.

“...Nothing.”

-

Well, I could never betray your love   You had me, heart and soul     You might never have known it, girl,       But I was all yours.

Sometimes, the universe loved to test Dwayne Pride.

He knew this, of course. It feels like his entire life has been a test. An experiment of how much he can take, how he handles it all, and what happens after.

But even the universe goes too far, sometimes.

Dwayne rubs his hands over his face, leaning back in his chair for just a moment. After everything he’s done and sacrificed and risked to put Douglas Hamilton in jail, he might be going free. The team has been scrambling to try and figure out who his partner could be, but there may not be enough time. His trial is only in a couple days.

Talking to him with Gregorio resulted in nothing but a screaming match. It seems Dwayne hasn’t been able to quite stifle his burning hatred of the man.

His attention breaks from his thoughts, however, when Dwayne hears your voice calls his name. Hands falling away, he looks up to see you marching right into the office with a perplexed Roy peeking in from outside. You looked very worked up. Dwayne stands to come around his desk.

“When were you going to tell me?”

He blinks in surprise at your harsh tone. “Tell you what?”

“About Douglas. That he’s appealing his trial? He might get out of prison?” You shoot off each word like a bullet as you walk up to him. Your eyes are wide and angry and searching for answers and Dwayne can barely meet them.

He knew he probably should’ve told you before. Sat you down and explained it before you heard from the media. But it was too hard a conversation to have. Thinking about it made his blood boil, and Dwayne was aware of your lingering feelings. Honestly, he didn’t know how you’d take it.

He scrambles for an answer. “I’ve been busy, sweetheart-”

“Busy trying to keep him in jail, you mean.”

Your words throw him back, a little. Dwayne’s eyebrows knit together in a frown as he nods. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” He asks.

“Dwayne, if he’s trying to appeal his case, then that means he’s innocent,” you tell him. He can hardly believe what he’s hearing. “That you made a mistake.”

It’s difficult to nail down a singular emotion that he’s feeling. Confusion, mostly, of why you’d think Douglas was innocent. Maybe a little hurt that you’d be so quick to turn on him. And there’s anger in his stomach, too. That you’d believe Hamilton over him.

“I didn’t make a mistake,” Dwayne says with a shake of his head, his tone growing a bit harder. “Douglas is guilty, sweetheart - he’s making a deal-”

“Don’t call me that.” You’re looking real angry, right now. Mimicking Dwayne’s hard frown. Though, he suspects he can’t begin to match that hot look in your eye; it almost makes him look away. “You hate him so much, you’ll let him rot in jail for the rest of his life. Do you know what I’ve been through? Trying to come to terms that Douglas might not have been who I thought he was?”

You’re almost yelling, now. Dwayne’s shifts his weight, and he wants to cut in to try and calm you down. But you’re not stopping. “I’ve been trying to push down my feelings because every time I look at you, I just think about Douglas and I feel so damn guilty about what happened. And you won’t even admit that you could’ve gotten it all wrong!”

By now, his anger had deflated. And he’s just watching you with sad, cautious eyes. All these months, Dwayne had just hoped that maybe, if he’d been there for you, those feelings might start to fade. That you’d move on, eventually.

But now, learning that those feelings only brought you guilt and shame....

Dwayne felt like he might throw up.

He steps closer, reaching out and putting a hand on your arm. But you pull away from him. It’s like a punch to the gut. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I truly am. I never wanted you to feel guilty, and I’d never do anything to hurt you. But believe me when I say that Douglas Hamilton is guilty. I’m completely sure of that.”

Your eyes fall shut and you step away from him with a shake of your head. Dwayne watches the tears well up in your eyes. How you’re starting to slip away from him, and he starts getting desperate. Grasping at anything that will keep you here. He could pull you to his desk; show you the evidence he has against the former Mayor. But he can’t move. He can only speak from the heart.

“I love you.”

Within a second, your eyes connect with his. Wide, pink with tears. A breath caught in your lungs, but he keeps going. “I have for a long time now. I love you so damn much, and it never mattered to me that you weren’t ever really over him. Because I wanted to be there for you. And I needed you with me. I love you, and that’s why I’ve always tried to protect you.”

He can’t breathe. Can’t move. His hands tremble slightly as you take in his words. And for a moment, Dwayne feels hope rise in his chest. Maybe you’ll believe him finally. Maybe you’ll see that your love for Hamilton has been blinding you, and that Dwayne was right. Maybe you’ll hold him and kiss him and apologize for things that you really don’t need to apologize for because Dwayne has already forgiven you.

But then you take a step away from him. Your head shakes, eyes falling away, and Dwayne feels like his chest has just been cracked open. “I can’t do this, Dwayne. I can’t. Not anymore.”

His body is numb. Mouth dry. Mind blank.

“Maybe there was a time where I felt- thought I felt something for you. But it’s too much. Every time I look at you, I just see the person who took Douglas away from me.”

You say nothing else, because everything’s been said already. A tear falls down your cheek as you finally turn away from him and walk out.

The last Dwayne sees is you wiping away a tear. A tear he caused.

-

I know I’ll never reclaim your love   And that’s just how it goes     I ain’t the person I was this morning       When the sun rose

“428 West 27th. New York, New York. 10012.”

Hearing Eddie Barrett recite that address felt like being dipped in ice cold water. Dwayne barely had time to listen to it - understand it - before Eddie speaks up again. “Laurel, right? That’s where your daughter lives?” He asks. A rhetorical question.

Dwayne doesn’t respond. Doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. He just keeps the barrel of his gun pointed at the other man, daring him to try something. And Dwayne still had hopes that he’ll be able to take him in. That his team will show up.

But the son of a bitch keeps talking. “4702 Perrier Street. New Orleans, Louisiana. 70115.”

And instantly, Dwayne gets nauseous. His gun suddenly weighs about thirty pounds heavier and he has to lower it. Has to grip it tight to hide the light tremble of his hands.

“That’s Y/N’s address, if I’m not mistaken,” Barrett tells him calmly. A light smirk comes to his face and Dwayne wants to beat it off of him. “Though, I don’t think she stays there, too often.”

“Stop,” Dwayne finally utters out.

“From what I’m told, she’s takes a lot of visits to the State Penitentiary. Visits a man - what’s his name?” Eddie pauses, as if feigning to remember.

Dwayne has to remind himself to breathe. To think past the slow boil of his blood and the sickening churn of his stomach. He won’t give Eddie Barrett what he wants. “I said stop.”

“Oh, that’s right. It’s Douglas Hamilton.” Dwayne grits his teeth at the mention of that name. “But I’m sure she comes around her apartment sometimes.”

It’s a reflex to stop closer to Barrett. Raise his gun just slightly. Stare into the eyes of the man who’s staring right back, so confident in his control. ���You think I can’t get to them? No matter where you put me? You think I don’t still have people willing to do anything I ask?”

Problem is, Dwayne doesn’t doubt that. Not for a second. Maybe Laurel might be safe. Maybe she could be a little too far out of Eddie’s grasp for him to reach and maybe her boyfriend can protect her. But you? Well, you’ve already made it clear to Dwayne that you wanted nothing to do with him. That likely means his protection, as well.

He couldn’t let Eddie play him like this. Dwayne raises the gun to point at him once again. “I’m bringing you in,” he forces out. Hoping his voice sounds solid and confident - anything other than how he feels.

“Christopher LaSalle and his brother were just a small taste of what I’m capable of,” Eddie muses out.

Dwayne shakes his head fervently. “I’m not one of your followers.”

“No. Worse. You’re someone who actually believes he’s in control. But I will drag you into the chaos and this will never end.”

All his crazy, pretentious words start to become white noise. Something Dwayne can’t fully focus on, because he’s not naive. He knows Eddie isn’t just bluffing. He knows the power he has and Dwayne may not be able to stop him, even in jail. But then Eddie says something that snaps something inside of Dwayne. Says something that he can’t block out, even if he tried.

“And I’ll start with that woman you love so much. Her blood will be splattered all over the walls, and it’ll be your fault-”

Three gunshots fill the air, one after another. They silence the white noise.

Seems like protecting you is just gut instinct.

-

I know I’ll never replace your love   And that’s as hard as it gets     So I’ll be taking a life this evening       When the sun sets

[ivegotthefanficinme]

Freedom Part 11 Mandalorian X Reader

Summary: An escaped slave owned by the Hutt clan, with the knowledge of dark clan secrets.  A bounty is set and the best hunter in the parsec is hired, The Mandalorian. Two vastly different paths cross. Both are scarred physically and mentally by their past. Can they ever truly be free? *SLOW BURN*

Word Count: 1.6K

Warnings: Blood, Mentions of slavery, PTSD, Rape implications, FLUFF, Language

***This chapter is mainly fluff... much needed after the last few...

Parts: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11 (You are here)

You woke up wrapped in Din’s arms in the same way you were after the first night you spent together. The only difference was that this time you were on the small cot where you had patched Din up numerous times now and the child was curled up against your stomach.

You stirred slightly, hissing in pain as Din’s hand moved to rest on your bruised hip. 

“Are you all right?” Din asks, his voice still thick with sleep.

“I’m okay,” you mumble, “It’s just some bruises.”

“I’m sorry,” Din whispers, brushing his lips against the back of your neck. 

You curl up against him as the kid starts to wiggle, trying to push himself upright.

“I thought he would sleep longer. He normally does after doing things like that,” Din sighs, referring to how the child had miraculously healed his back shredded from the lashes. 

“Maybe he is getting stronger,” you breath, running your fingertips along the child’s long green ear. 

You jump when a sudden light rap on the outside of the ship startles you.

“That’s probably Karga and Cara. You stay there, I’ll let them in,” Din says.

He groans as he rolls over and rises to his feet, still sore from recent events. Grabbing his helmet, he slips it on as he presses the button to lower the ramp of the ship.

You sit up, aware of how much of a mess you must look as you nod to Karga and Cara in greeting. 

“You both look like shit…” Cara says as she leans against the wall of the Crest. 

Din just sighs in response, shaking his helmeted head. 

“So what the hell was all that? I had Cara burst into my cantina on Navaro and demand my help because you and your women, who I didn’t even know about, got yourselves into some deep shit,” asks Karga.

Din looks down, resting his hand on the back of his neck covered in fabric as he contemplates his answer. 

“Well… its a bit of a long story…”

“He saved me,” You answer, looking back to your two saviors, “About a cycle ago I escaped from that place. They placed a bounty on me and Mando hunted me down… but he chose not to return me. They found us though, even though we ran and tried to stay low. They took me back… and I guess he… he came to save me.”

“So you were… are… a….” Karga trails off.

“A slave? Yes. A sex slave? Yes. Assaulted on multiple occasions? Yes. Just about all of the terrible things you can think of have been done to me,” you finish for Karga. 

You wrap your arms around your knees, bringing them up to your chest. 

“You are one strong woman,” Cara says, “You got yourself a hell of a catch there Mando.”

You sweep the little on up into your arms, holding him close to you as his little hands grab at Din’s cloak that is still wrapped around you. 

“Thank you,” Din nods to Cara and Karga, “Thank you for everything.”

“Where are you two heading to next?” asks Cara.

“Back to Navaro, I have some business to attend to,” Din replies.

“Well, then I guess we will see you there.” Cara turns to Karga and motions for him to follow her off of the Crest. 

“Hey…” I blurt, Cara turns to look at me before she steps off of the ramp, “Thank you.”

She just nods and keeps walking. Din closes up the ship and turns back to you. 

He sits down next to you on the edge of the cot, brushing a few stray strands of hair from your face. “I’m going to take off. You should get out of those scraps and put on something you feel more comfortable in.”

You lean into his touch, pressing a light kiss to the palm of his hand. Giving him a small smile, you respond, “Alright.”

He stands and heads up the ladder to take off. You are happy to be leaving Tayips, happy to never have to come back here, never have to go back to Limax’ palace, and never having to see Gravix ever again. 

You stand from the cot as you feel Din lift the ship off the ground. You dig through the trunk Din had given you ages ago to keep your belongings and pull out a comfortable pair of black leggings and a black T-shirt, items of clothing that you had bought with the credits Din always gave you after he collected a bounty. At first, you didn’t want to accept the money from him but he insisted that you should be able to save up for something if you wanted or buy things that catch your eye in the markets you visit on various planets. 

After you change, you place what are no more than scraps of fabric that you were wearing into the trunk, along with Din’s cloak. Then you go over to his trunk, pulling out a clean and slightly less tattered cloak for Din. You throw it over your shoulder and then head up the ladder to join Din.

“I brought you something,” You say as you stand next to him sitting in the pilot’s chair.

“Hm?” He asks through the modulator. 

“A fresh cloak?”

He switches the ship over to autopilot and then stands turning to face you. You bring the cloak around him, your arms wrapping around his neck as you lift it up over his shoulders. His arm wraps around your waist bringing you closer as tuck the ends into the upper corners of his chest plate. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

You smile at him as he tips his helmet down, the metal where his forehead would be meets yours. The beskar is cool against your skin as he holds you close. 

You both savor this tender moment, a moment you both deserved after the hardships you had both been through.

***

After landing on Navaro Din left the Crest in order to attend to his business, leaving you and the child safely on the ship. 

You assumed that he would be meeting with Karga to see what jobs he had so they could get back to normal, but after Din was gone for several hours you began to worry. It never took him this long to meet with Karga and collect a few supplies from the market.

It was nearly dark when he finally returned carrying several parcels tied with twine. You had been rocking the child, trying to get him to sleep as Din stepped up the ramp of the Razor Crest. You placed the baby down in his cradle, pressing the button to close the lid and then turned to Din.

“You were out an awfully long time. I was starting to get worried,” You say as Din sets down the packages.

“Sorry, Y/N. Things took a little longer than I had expected.”

“Why is that?”

“Well… I had to have this made…” He reaches into the pouch at his hip and pulls out what looks to be a necklace. He holds it in his gloved hand for a moment before he drops to his knees in front of you. Holding out his other hand, he invites you to kneel before him. 

You lower yourself down to your knees, “Din, what is this?”

“Y/N,” he starts, the leather cord of the necklace dangling from this hand, “We have both been through so much. But now, now I think the Maker smiles favorably down upon us. I want you to be part of my life until the end. I want you to be part of my clan, I want you to be my wife.”

Din holds out the necklace to you, the metal of the pendant shining in his palm. 

“That’s your mudhorn signet…” You gasp, “Is it… is it beskar? Din, I can’t take the precious metal of your people…”

“It’s some that I had saved in case I needed to repair my armor, and there is still plenty left for repairs. Besides, if you agree, it will be the precious metal of your people too,” Din replies.

Tears threaten to spill over onto your cheeks, “Din, it’s beautiful.” 

“Before… before you decide, there is one thing you should know.”

Your eyes raise to meet his through the visor. 

“The clan I was raised with has very specific customs when it comes to marrying outside of the clan,” he says.

“Alright…”

“After you put this signet on you must wear a veil to hide your face until we are alone after we are wed. We cannot see each other’s faces until then. I-I got one for you, it’s in one of those packages.”

You look at Din for a moment, the customs of his people are important to him, you know that. 

“If that is what it takes to marry you, then yes, whatever I must do.”

Din seems to breathe a sigh of relief, the tension he was holding in his body melting away. He was scared you would way no.

He gently brings the necklace over your head and lowers it down around your neck.

The weight of the pendant against your chest is comforting.

Din then opens one of the packages and unfolds a simple white veil. After setting the headpiece of heavy leather on the crown of your head to hold the veil in place your hands catch his.

It is strange for him to not be able to see your eyes as the veil falls into place, obscuring his view of your face.

He lowers his forehead to meet yours, as both of you smile at each other, hidden from view.

“I love you,” he breaths.

“I love you too, Din,” you reply.

To Be Continued.....

A/N: Sorry it took so long for the update ya’ll, but I figured I would gift you with some fluff, especially after how intense the last were chapters were!

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Just let me know in the comments if you want to be added to that tag list!

[agentargus]

So this was in my drafts and I figured I’d finish it up. @thatdamnokie and I had talked about the possibility of Seraphim interacting with more of my characters and this was the result. It’s intended as a sequel to Morgan’s Drabble about Seraphim’s first mission with Nova.

Loath as Dante was to doubt Caroline’s judgement, especially in matters of their shared trade, he could hardly pretend that he didn’t have questions. Exorcists were Repubblica’s bread and butter—or rather, bread and wine. What could possibly be so special about this one’s injuries for Caroline to suggest such desperate measures? He found cold comfort in the fact that she trusted him with a task like this, but he only hoped that this whole trip would prove to be unnecessary.

“Agent Seraphim?” Dante poked his head into the examination lab, scratching at the sigil at the back of his neck absentmindedly at the sight of her, “or would you prefer ‘Morgan?’”

“Morgan’s fine, thanks,” she replied You must be Dr. Argenti.”

Oh no, darling,” Dante laughed, “I’m barely a soccorritore* Dr. Argenti is my mother,” already finished established in her field at his age, in fact. The unwelcome reminder unfurled itself from the corners of his mind like the first clouds of a storm. Swallowing hard, he busied himself with washing his hands to keep the thunder of his thoughts at bay. Remember your training, as much a prayer as it was a constant reminder within the Societies. “Looks like you’ve got your shoe off and your foot propped up already. Sei propiro in gamba...”**

“What?”

“That was supposed to be a pun, but it doesn’t make sense in English. Anyway, let’s sneaker a peak at that foot of yours.“ She did not laugh, but he’d hardly expected her to, not if she was in pain, anyway. “Beautiful work,” he studied the tiny spiral of scar tissue with consideration, “no less than I’d expect from Cara. You could say she toes the line—toes, as in feet? Never mind. But it’s still hurting you?”

Morgan turned away from him at this “It’s not that bad. I’m only here because Caroline insisted...”

“You flatter me, but just because you made your hospital bed, that doesn’t mean I’ll let you lie in it.”

“What?”

“You’re lying,” Dante could only hope that his squint would mask the crimson glaze that always seemed to fall over his eyes at the realization of a hidden sin, “about how bad the pain is, I mean. I’m a fool, not an idiot. If it wasn’t crippling, Cara would have given you something for the pain and sent you on your way. Perhaps she already did, but you’re still hurting enough to have come back to her. She flew me out from the Vatican, darling—and boy, are her little cherub wings tired. If the pain wasn’t serious, I wouldn’t be here.”

I...” Morgan’s eyes narrowed slightly and she pursued her lips for a moment before finally sighing, “...okay fine. My fiancé insisted I go back to medical. It doesn’t hurt all the time, but I get these really awful flare-ups...”

“When you feel particularly guilty, yes? Or when you’re attacked during an exorcism.” When she didn’t respond, suggesting to him that he was right, he continued, “you blame yourself for Agent Nova’s injuries too, and the fact that she had to remove the needle, though all of that was hardly your fault.”

Morgan raised an inquisitive eyebrow, “how did you..?

“You didn’t read the release form that Cara gave to you for to sign? For sign? To sign?” English, always a welcome distraction with its many idiosyncrasies, “To sign! That’s it. But you did sign it...” again, no response. As silent as a priest upon hearing a particularly scandalous confession. Fitting for an exorcist, really. “You know,” he continued, “it was very tempting to pretend that I was reading your mind, but I’m beginning to think that the joke would be as lost on you as...well, as lost as an angel in hell.”

Morgan flinched slightly, steadying herself with almost indecent haste “...Sorry.”

“Marone! I’ve gone and made you feel guilty,” then more to himself than to Morgan, “I just make things worse! This is why I can’t get into med school...”

“Don’t worry, it’s fine...”

Not so much a traditional confession, Dante realized. Rather, it was as though the confessional vestibule stretched between them like a volleyball net, guilt and forgiveness bouncing from one side to the other...Well, it was an amusing visual at least. “I expected you to say that. You knew it would hurt you more if you projected it outward, because the ultimate guilt is that anyone else should hurt the way you do, which makes the guilt worse. A...circolo vizioso...a vicious circle?”

“You mean a vicious cycle? Yeah, I guess?”

“I see. Well, it isn’t infected, the scans in your file don’t suggest any traces of the poison left inside. Cara is beyond compare when it comes to these things. The bulk of the damage that remains is spiritual, rather than physical in nature. Then again, we could simply amputate your foot; it could give you a leg up...”

“Now I know you’re joking.”

“Only partially,” he forced a smile, hoping to God she didn’t suspect that he was stalling, “anyway, I’m imagining you’ve already been to see a therapist—and that gorgeous priest of yours, Agent Exorcist. Incidentally, have you heard the one about how a priest is like a Christmas tree? The balls are only for decoration!”

Finally, a good solid laugh from Agent Seraphim. Maybe this would be alright after all. Agent Cherub wouldn’t have brought him here if she didn’t trust him, and who was he to question her taste?

“The very business of hell is the separation of guilt from pain, yes?” Dante continued, “for what are true sinners but people who feel no guilt from the pain they inflict? Your guilt isn’t going anywhere anytime soon, but we might be able to separate it from the pain. I suspect a summoner might transfer the pain into their own body when the demon left them, so that eliminates the average magic-user. Sending you back through the hellgate is out of the question, of course...” this new boost of confidence was more fleeting than he’d realized, draining with the reasons he could muster to keep stalling. His heart raced in his throat and he took several deep breaths before conceding, “there really isn’t a better option, is there..?”

“A better option than what?”

Just blurt it out, he told himself, don’t think it through, don’t dance around the truth anymore. Then, deciding himself better off throughly ignoring his own advice, he replied as carefully as he could, “I’m a terrible liar so I’m not even going to try: I’m afraid. Why do you think I haven’t stopped talking the entire time you’ve been here? You’re an exorcist. Once you stop hearing me, you’ll feel me. You’ll know what I am and what I’m made of and you’ll understand why Cara thinks I can help you. She thinks that this...this part of me can do something other than punish people, other than hurt people, scare people into running—thank God I didn’t wear eye makeup today, because that would be running too if I had.”

He hadn’t expected her to take his hand, much less that her grip would be so firm. “Wait...just let me...” Morgan’s voice was soft, more gentle than authoritative. Her gaze, by contrast, rippled through him, awakening the dormant forces beneath his skin now struggling against their tattooed restraints. An anxious lurching, like the flutter of wings, pulsed within his stomach. He could see her lips purse and her shoulders tense in pain, but she never turned from him, not once.

“I’m sorry, Morgan...” never enough. Eventually, the realization always came.

“Hey, like you said, I was going to find out anyway,” Morgan’s forced smile was a mirror of Dante’s own, “it’s alright. I know how to handle demons...”

“But if we both doubt ourselves...”

“We have to believe in each other instead,” she finished for him, “I’m an exorcist. Literally been through hell. I’ve got this.”

Dante heaved a deep sigh, pulling up a stool to the examination bed, “alright. How did you want to do this?”

“Close your eyes. Let your heart rate slow. Relax your shoulders and think of something calming. Let go of your inhibitions. I’ve got you. You’re safe... Vefa mena Murmux ayer...”

His mind filled with memories of home. Far away, among the souls of the dead, towering and sequestered in blue—was it sky or water? Heaven or Poveglia? Did it even matter?

“Vefa mena Murmux ayer...”

Home that was not home, that place where he could not be what his creator intended, never quite fit, so he couldn’t stay.

“Vefa mena Murmux ayer...”

Too much for heaven to contain, too much trapped within a prison of flesh frozen in time. He’d broken through the shell of his cosmic egg, transformed, a baptism of fire, of his own destruction and rebirth. Graying plaster dust and fallen stars, fraying straps on a white straightjacket, an angel’s robes singed...and smoke. So much smoke...

“Duke Murmur?”

Fluorescent light swam around her with an angel’s glow. A little star bereft of the warmth her light might have exuded long ago. Now she sat before him, cold and small and fragile as all humans were. “Pretty little seraph,” he hummed, “fell and hurt yourself, did you?”

“I was injured restoring Prince Krueger to his position. The court of the Fallen owes me a debt. Will you pay it for me?”

He reached his neck as long as it would go, lips stretched white in semblance of a smile...“I was a throne, once, I think; if memory serves, I would have served you.”

Unflappable, she was. “And will you serve me now?”

“I live to serve,” this abject truth should have come up bitter. Perhaps it would have, when he was young and falling, drowning—sky or water, toward Hell or the bottom of Venice Lagoon? He couldn’t remember—all for a creator who would sooner let him fall than accept failure. But now, now he found himself in service to a trade to which he was uniquely suited—and in service to humanity.

He struggled against the shackles tattooed upon his human body’s flesh, trying in vain to grow. Such tiny hands to carry so heavy a burden...but perhaps, just this once, he could be enough.

Slowly, he caressed the seraph’s wound with one of those tiny human hands. She tensed beneath his touch as he found the throbbing agony within her, drawing it out like a splinter until it became indistinguishable from his own. “The debt has been paid.”

“Thank you, your grace,” she hummed, lowering her head in what seemed to be more relief than reverence.

Then, his chest tightened; pang of fear, a sinking doubt. Human insecurity or fear of God, he could not tell, “are you going to try where the others have failed, little seraph, going to send me away, little exorcist? You wouldn’t be the first to waste the effort.”

“That depends entirely on what you do to me.”

He could see her, really see her, even with just two eyes, perhaps with greater clarity than either one of them could see themselves, “I remain here because humans wished to be more than they were. You remain here because humans feared that they couldn’t be more than they were. A fallen angel is her own inner demon. The only thing I can do to you that you’ve not already done to yourself is ease the pain of the fall. I revel in the knowledge that we’re more alike than could ever be entirely comfortable...and that, little seraph, is why we’re both here...”

It was closeness that the both of them desired, warmer, like Icarus to the sun. Was it the sadism and masochism equally present within the fallen that relishes the suffering he shared with her? Or was it the desperation of his humanity that valued what companionship might arise from that suffering? Perhaps both.

Perhaps not comfortable, but fitting. Doubt and guilt and pain, suffering for something distant and divine. Perhaps there was solace in the bonding, mutual discomforts canceling each other out, community among the outcasts for whom the binaries of heaven and hell had been shattered into the sands of the earth. Demons and angels and humans.

After all, he was human, wasn’t he? He was small and fleshy and hungered for Morgan’s friendship, or at least her approval. One bleeding into the other, the separation imposed only by the limits of the human body. Slowly, the star’s glow faded, Morgan coming into back into focus.

“D-did it work?” Dante asked apprehensively

“I think so. My foot feels better, anyway. Do you remember anything?”

Dante pursed his lips “I... I think so. Sort of...should I be worried if I remembered?”

“Why would you be?”

“Because it would mean that Murmur isn’t as separate from me as I’ve been trying to convince myself. Demons, they’re supposed to possess you completely, but I am still myself when I’m him, in a way. Does that make me evil?”

“I don’t know as much about this stuff as you give me credit for...” Morgan signed, humbling herself as usual.

“You are an exorcist. You see me. You see him. When you look, where does he end and I begin?”

“Honestly, I can’t tell. More importantly, I’m not sure it matters. It’s what you do that’s important, not who you are.”

“I don’t think I did anything I wasn’t supposed to...Did I hurt you? I don’t remember hurting you...”

“You didn’t hurt me, I promise.”

“A miracle from heaven, then. Gloria patri!” It was as though a weight had been lifted. No longer drowning, floating to the surface, as close to heaven as a demon reborn human could manage... “And now, lunch! Carter—Agent Thorn— and I were going to get Chinese food when I was finished working on you. You should come. It’ll be...”

“Let me guess, chow-fun.”

Dante beamed “I was actually going to say the ‘mein event’ of my trip, but ‘chow-fun’ is much better.”

“Chinese food sounds great. Thanks—for everything.”

“Well, I had a bit of divine intervention.”

——

*An emergency medic who works in a specific kind of ambulance. The closest English equivalent would be an EMT or a paramedic.

**”in gamba” literally means “on leg,” but is an idiom meaning that someone knows what they’re doing.