#i feel like i should make a tag for like navigating my notion

[willbyersbookshelf]

ok y'all i added a new system!! so every time ive added something new i felt like it was getting a little lost in the sauce, as it were. so ive decided to implement a new system. every time i add something new i will add it to the "New Arrivals" section.

but instead of just adding a new link to a page, it will be a link to the block Where i already linked the page so, for example, i just read Perfect Match Inc. and wanted to give it some love but, ive also read some other things by the same author so i added that author to the authors section as well and put Perfect Match Inc under that author. when you click the link in the New Arrivals section it will highlight and bring you to where that author's little section is located so that if you end up reading that fic and enjoying it, you now have other recs by the same author right there for you!! (can you tell i haven't had two days off with nothing to do for months?)

[hostilecandle]

This Truth Is So Well Fixed

Pairing: John Price X M! Reader

Word Count: 2.5k

Summary: Gentleman Price and Male Reader in a Regency AU

Tags/Warnings: Mildly Suggestive, Age Gap, Light Angst, Time Period Accurate Internalized Homophobia, Miscommunication, VERY light religious symbolism/imagery (mentioned like once), Fluff

A/N: I wrote this with the reader being in his Mid 20s while Price is a little older than his reboot version and its in his Early to Mid 40s. Cross posted to my Ao3 Here. Fic below the cut! Enjoy <3

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” -Jane Austen

It’s late, no one knows you’re out here. You shouldn't be out here. The stars shine overhead and the whisper of the wind whisking through the trees sends a chill down your spine. You should be in bed, resting like the rest of the world. But your home itself haunts you, every time you step foot inside you think of your last encounter with the gentleman Mr. Price. A tall, wealthy, handsome man and friend of your late father’s.

You’ve known Mr. Price since you were quite young, a consistent presence in your life as you grew from a boy into the man you are today. A steady figure that has helped you navigate all this callous world has to offer. You’ve always held a great admiration for the man, he had an air of strength and dignity that rivaled no other. It was intoxicating to be around, to stand in his presence as he commands the attention of a room as naturally as breathing. Mr. Price had never married in his youth and while the notion had always intrigued you, you pushed the thought from your mind long ago out of respect for the man��s privacy. 

That respect and admiration you held for the older man had shifted over the years into something you’d never speak aloud. That didn't stop the thoughts that ran wild whenever he came near. Every visit was something you cherished, you coveted every gruff word spoken between you two, and replayed every brief touch made in passing.

Long past have the days of boyish naivety and now that admiration has turned into a man’s wanting. In the aftermath of those visits, the sound of his voice keeps you company in the lonely dark of your bedroom. In your privacy, you hold yourself in a firm grip as you imagine those hands that gripped your shoulder in the midst of laughter to be the very hands that touch you now. And when you are finished, you sit in your shame promising every time will be the last. And then like clockwork, Mr. Price will call for a visit and the cycle repeats.

For years this has been how it has worked. But a fortnight ago the two of you had shared a night of spirits and laughter. However, as the night wore on and the conversation shifted to more deep and intimate topics, the prospect of you marrying soon came about. Now, you have not set eyes upon any woman, too busy looking at the man across from you for several years. But you're aware what is expected of you, and naturally you looked to the older man for guidance.

Mr. Price seemed to have stiffened at the topic, looking off to the side, avoiding eye contact. Something that is very unusual for him. With the courage of alcohol and familiarity running through your veins, you confess you've never met a woman who has caught your eye. This catches his attention and he turns back to face you, this time making direct eye contact with you as you speak. Feeling anxious under his gaze you stand to pace the room, his eyes following you as you continue to air your fears of finding a lady suited to you. At some point he rises as well, coming to stand behind you, a solid presence at your back.

He places a firm and steady hand on your shoulder and you relax in the familiar gesture. After a moment of silence, his grip tightens and he turns you around before 

Gently pushing you against the wall to your back. He steps into your space, a leg pressed between yours and he looks into your eyes before glancing down at your lips. Your heart feels like it's about to beat out of your chest, you have spent years imagining this, and now here it is and you find yourself at a loss for words. 

He dips his head down and you lean in, smelling the scent of tobacco and the drinks you've shared tonight. He looks back at your eyes one last time before closing the distance. You can't help the small groan that escapes your lips and in return feel his hand grip the side of your neck and face like a man possessed. He kisses you like he’s dying of thirst and your lips are the only thing that can quench his ache. As the kiss deepens you roll your hips against the leg he’s had pinned between yours, and suddenly it all stops.

Price steps back, his eyes wide with horror. The coolness of the air in his absence raises bumps along your skin and you reach to pull him back, still confused as to why he disappeared. He takes another step back before turning sharply on his heel. Grabbing his jacket and hastily putting it on. 

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn't have done that. If you’ll excuse me.” 

“Mr. Price wait-” you begin but he is already brushing past you and walking towards the front door. The sound of the door closing echoes down the hall and you can feel the dread seep into your bones at the finality of it. ‘What have I done?’

Shaking yourself from the memory, you find the night has grown colder still while you were lost in thought. Deciding enough is enough and clearly the night air isn't helping you clear your head any, you head back inside. After sneaking in quietly so as not to disturb anyone else in the residence, you begin to head towards your room.

Suddenly there comes a loud knock at the door, practically making you jump from your skin. Who could be calling so late at night? The knock sounds again and you rush back to the door before whoever it was woke everyone up and you’ll also have questions as to why you’re up so late. Opening the door, a tall man stood disheveled and shrouded in moonlight, hand raised as if to knock again. You’d know that silhouette anywhere, it's been haunting your mind for years. Once the shock wears off you begin to speak in a raised whisper.

“Mr. Price! What are you doing h-”

“John. Please, call me John.” He interrupts, uncharacteristically.

“John.” You whisper softly. “What are you doing here at this hour? People will most certainly talk. Come inside.”

You usher him inside and offer to take his jacket. Holding a finger to your lips, an indicator for silence, you motion for him to follow you to your private bedroom, away from any listening ears.

He follows closely, slipping in behind you, avoiding eye contact as you shut the door behind him.

Turning, you finally get a good look at him. He looks unkempt, bags under his eyes, and certainly not fit to be seen in any form of polite society and you begin to worry. Silence stretches between the two of you as he shifts his weight uncharacteristically from foot to foot. Deciding to break the silence first, “Mr. Price, what are you doing here? Is everything alright?”

He looks at you then and you remember his request at the door. “John.” You begin again and he snaps to attention as though you had burned him. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

He opens his mouth to say something and then closes it. This happens several times before he seems to lose his nerve. “I’m sorry.” He croaks out. “This- this was a bad idea. I shouldn't have bothered you.”

You reach out and grab his arm before he can walk out the door again. “John… talk to me. Please. If it’s about the last time you were here, Im sorry-”

This time, it's him that turns to you, his eyes incredulous. “Now why are you apologizing? That should be me. I should be begging you not to tell anyone, practically groveling for betraying you in the way I have. I should offer you anything you’d like and walk away so you never see my face again. Why are you apologizing to me?” He sounds confused and wrecked and this time you join in the confusion reverting back to the comfort of formality. 

“Mr. Price, I thought you were simply giving me what I have desired for so long now. Offering yourself to comfort me as I have longed you would, and I am so sorry to have tempted you so.”

As you’re speaking he runs a hand through his hair and barks out a laugh, almost self deprecating, before he speaks again. “You? You think you have tempted me? I am almost twice your age and you truly believe that you have wronged me, regardless of the fact that I forced myself upon you while you were in a state of distress and have betrayed any trust you may have once had in me?”  

“I'm sorry, Mr. Price. I’m afraid I’m not understanding. Were you not acting on my poorly hidden desires?”

This seems to level him in some way. His shifting has stopped and now he stands, back straight with leveled shoulders as he stares into your eyes. “Your desires?” He whispers before taking a step forward. Confused, you take a step back and feel the hard plane of the door against you. Taking another step forward he asks, “Am I to understand that you have desires for me?” 

You look away as your face floods with embarrassment. He takes a final step, this time crowding against you, pressing you against the door to your back. “I'm sorry.” You whisper as shame flows through you.

He shushes you as he leans down to whisper in your ear. “You haunt me.” He leans in close, your faces are almost touching and he grabs your chin. Running his thumb along your bottom lip and feeling your breath tremble beneath his touch. He forces you to make eye contact as his lips graze against yours, the touch but a whisper.

"I want to hear your voice catch in ecstasy, my love. Wanna hear you moan in my ear the way you did when I first kissed you. In my dreams whimpers fall from your lips, wet and hot. I want to catch your breath in mine and devour your sounds. I want to hold them between my teeth. I’ve wanted you for the better of five years now. From the moment I realized you’d grown to become a man I haven't been able to breathe right around you."

You can't believe what you are hearing. It seems too good to be true. He leans back to look you in the eye, you can see the seriousness and truth in the words he speaks. He means every word he’s spoken. "Do you understand what I'm saying, my dear? What I'm asking, no, what I’m begging for? Can you hear the pleas that fall off my tongue for your ears alone? Will you allow me to satiate the hunger that burns within me for you? Will you let me have you?"

You find yourself nodding under his intensity, trapped between his arm by your head and the hand holding your face a small “Yes, please” falls from your lips before he’s kissing you breathless, stealing the air from your lungs. Once he's had his fill of your lips, his mouth travels the column of your throat, across your shoulders and down your arm kisses every inch of exposed skin he can find.. He grabs your wrist and pulls back the sleeve that covers it as he presses his devotion against your knuckles and across your fingers. You're leaning against the door, still caged in by his arm and out of breath, light headed from the feeling of all his attention on you by the time he flips your wrist over to press kisses to your palm.

He pauses his ministrations, breath hot against your hand as he looks back up at you. “Have you ever kissed someone's hands?” He asks. Have you felt your very breath echo against their palm? Traced your lips along fingers and felt every divot and ridge that makes it so explicitly them? There is something so sensual about one's mouth meeting another's hand, of bowing your head and offering yourself, don’t you think?” He moves his mouth down to your wrist, placing a soft kiss at your pulse point, feeling the racing beat against his lips.

“Have you experienced the euphoric rush of your teeth grazing against the veins in a wrist, life-force itself flowing millimeters beneath your teeth? The knowledge you could bite down and fill yourself with them? ” He lightly nips before soothing it with his tongue and you have to place your other hand against your mouth to muffle the sound that is aching to come out.

He releases your wrist and stands back upright, towering over you as you now lean against the door for support. He reaches a hand out to you to help you up, and you reach out to grab it, a bastardization of The Creation of Adam. You find yourself laughing as he pulls you up and leads you over to the bed.

This night began the start of years of love and strife. A constant battle for secrecy and peace from the prying eyes of society. Several years later, late at night, John asks why you put up with it. You could've had anything you wanted and still you chose him. It was simple you told him, you love him. You could tell this wasn't good enough to sate him so you grab his hand and lead him to the window. 

“We are made of love, John. We are made to love. To love deeply, love passionately. We are made to love so intently it hurts and and love so softly there's no sweeter experience on this Earth. We are created to fall in love John, just a little, with every single person we come across.”

He huffs a bit at that and you smile turning to him as you place a hand on his cheek, “After all, how can one not fall in love with a masterpiece, every one of us handcrafted and designed with the utmost care and patience. We desire love so we make our own gods to devote ourselves to and ask they adore us in return. We seek love in friends and family and strangers.” 

You look back out the window to the stars that fill the sky. “We seek love in the oceans and stars, pleading with them to love us back. Staring at their seemingly infinite vastness, begging them to bare themselves to us the way we do to them. It's the same way with you, John. I would have given anything because I love you.” 

He places a hand against your cheek and turns your head to face him again. He kisses you softly and then pulls you away from the window and back to bed. As you lay back down, he pulls you against him as he kisses the top of your head. “I love you too” He whispers and you smile before drifting off, happy and content in the life you built together.

[Dividers by the-aesthetic-shop and firefly-graphics]

[adorerbati]

From: 'Orbital Mechanics', the Steve Rogers/Alpha point of view of the Omegaverse fic 'Celestial Navigation'.

This part breaks my heart, causes a deep drop somewhere, in chasms, in bellies and nerve-wracken stomachs.

"This was crazy.  He had to stop this.  It wasn’t healthy.  He knew that.  Telling himself again as he stood here halfway between the cabin’s living area and the kitchen with the clock ticking the seconds off worked about as well as it had the past couple of weeks, when his mind would conjure the image of Anthony from his picture, dangling his visage in the forefront of Steve’s mind like bait on a hook.  Steve knew the hook was there, all sharp-pointed teeth, but he couldn’t quite make himself look away.  He should, though.  God knew, he should look away.  It wasn’t about what he wanted.  It was about doing what was right, and bringing some Omega into this shell of a life he had carefully carved out for himself was the height of selfishness and probably a recipe for disaster, no matter what SHIELD said.  

He ran his hand over his mouth, cupping his chin as if he could draw the lump out of his throat, but it held there, bobbing up and down as he blinked back a sudden burning sting at the corners of his eyes.  He had to stop this. Stop thinking about this.  About him.  Anthony.  Anthony, who was proud and defiant and brave and who was going to be Bonded to someone who would break him in.  Steve could feel his hands balling into fists at his sides, the sudden straining of muscles that came with ready alertness, and the surge of…something…that seemed to happen whenever he thought about that eventuality.  

It wasn’t his concern. Some strange Omega he’d seen a picture of in a stack of files…the boy’s fate wasn’t in Steve’s hands.  It belonged to his parents, who would surely find a suitable match for him.  Someone who would take care of him, the way he should be cared for, not someone who could barely manage to get through a day without retreating to some half-baked fantasy life.  It wasn’t his concern.  It wasn’t, and if it was, he would be better than the type of person who pulled someone into whatever this life was only in the hopes of pulling himself out of it.  That wasn’t fair or right or anything other than self-serving, Steve told himself firmly, failing, again, to quite make the admonition stick.  "

And this part builds me back up. Slowly, tentatively, out of frightened notions and reverie:

“Tony,” Steve began, “if you don’t want…to, ah, to do this…” he trailed off, letting the words hang there between them for a long moment.  It hurt. It physically hurt, like a slow punch to the gut that just kept going deeper and deeper, leaving a gaping wound in its wake.

Tony stared at him, eyes wide, almost wild.  Cornered, Steve thought, brow drawing together.  He opened his mouth to say something else, but no words came.

“I said I’d be honored, Captain,” Tony said in a slow, clipped tone, his eyes narrowing on Steve.

“But…is it what you want?” Steve asked, feeling a heavy blanket of weariness sink into his bones.  

“Do you really want an answer to that?” Tony asked, voice sharp now, barbs hiding in the words.

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t,” Steve said.  He wasn’t sure if that was true or not, but he supposed it was the only answer to give.

Tony stared at Steve for a long time, jaw working, throat bobbing, his whole body taut, like finding the answer took every ounce of energy inside him.  One hand reached up to fiddle with the dog tags again, before he seemed to catch himself and realize what he was doing. He smoothed the flat of his hand down his chest instead, trying to make the action look deliberate.  His eyes were flying around the room, landing for fleeting seconds on Steve, then blinking away, eyes bright.

“Yes.  Since you asked.  Yes,” Tony said finally.  Even as warmth burst in his chest, Steve could hear the tension in Tony’s voice, the way it quaked just a little with some emotion he was trying hard to keep at bay.  

“Thank you,” Steve replied.  Relief swept through him, pushing away everything else.  Tony said yes. Tony was his. Mine, Steve thought with a sort of almost vicious triumph.  Mine. Tony would be his, and all of this—this strange meeting where everything seemed off kilter, everything Steve had done wrong, all the ways he wasn’t what Tony wanted—it didn’t matter for now.  Tony was his. He would do better next time. They had their whole lives, after all. He could be better for Tony. Wasn’t that what everyone said would happen? Bond, and he would be better. Different.  This would all be easier.

“You’re getting a shit deal,” Tony muttered, mouth twisting into a grimace.  “Just…I didn’t ask for any of this, you know? Don’t blame me when you figure that out.”

“What are you talk—” Steve began, then broke off with a wince.  I didn’t ask for this. The words rang in Steve’s head. I didn’t ask for this.  I didn’t want this. All other ways of saying that he didn’t want Steve, not really, not the way Steve wanted him.  He wanted something, though. Something that was enough to get him to agree, and whatever that was, it would have to be enough.   Steve knew he wasn’t strong enough to do the right thing here and let Tony go. Find someone else. Someone better. Someone who could give him whatever it was that he so desperately wanted.

Break him in.

I think he may already be broken, Steve thought suddenly.  Something else we have in common, then, Steve thought with a sigh."

[anisaanisa]

Limerence: The Masterpost ☆

I couldn't miss the opportunity for another canon-flavoured masterpost, so here I go again with Limerence. This collection is a prequel to Homecoming, so if you're not ready to say goodbye, by all means, carry on! The structure remains: above the cut lies links, and below lurks a prompt breakdown where I attempt to justify everything that just happened. Onward!

Tumblr: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Read it on AO3 ▶ Previous Masterposts: Homecoming〡Evermore

This is your rest stop. Beyond the Keep Reading banner are many words and manga caps for those with a vested interest in Inuyasha headcanons/meta/anecdotes. Snacks applicable!

The Personal Bit ☆

ALRIGHT, masks off besties. Are they your OTP? Cause they’re my OTP too, and we should consider bursting into flames about it together (ɔ◔‿◔)ɔ ♥

I didn't think I’d participate with writing this year, until about a week before the event, when I was frying-panned with some notions. As a fellow bearer of the curse, it started with a seedling of Kagome looking out for Inuyasha in the modern era, whether she realised it or not and even if, logically, she knew better, and snowballed from there. So, I blasted through each prompt with the intention of keeping them short, and after a survey back, each chapter grew deceptively longer, and I thought: why not add a stair [100 words] to Kagome's case for each day?

This particular canon universe is approached thusly: the prompt is the starting point, and the characters do the rest. I don't control the narrative, the narrative controls me, type thing. Hence, chapters are plot-negative, and times skips are abundant. Anyway. Enough waxing!

Note: I am working with the Viz English translation of the Inuyasha manga with some anime filler for seasoning, and the timeframe for the 3-year separation falls loosely between 1998-2001.

Final Note: Limerence spoilers start here.

Prompt Breakdown ☆

Day 1: Love Language(s)

Summary: Kagome's been distracted. Or, I hc that Kagome spent a good amount of time away with the fairies (and trying to catch up with school) when she first got back. Thoughts and Feels:

Love Language(s) were coined in 1992; the likelihood of them being such a commonly adopted phrase/ideology was as slim as Kagome knowing what her friends were going on about. They're a relatively new conception of navigating romance, but that doesn't mean buzzwords didn't make it into those teen mags we remember so well, though! Point for fuck it we ball!

For better or worse, friends are gonna be a tad nosy, and Kagome’s definitely were. Consistently and without fail:

Chapter 23, Volume 3, Mask of Flesh ☆

—and how else to feel her “snapping back into the room” in 100 words, if not when confronted with mathematics?

Chapter 411, Volume 42, The Kind One ☆

Fun Fact: There is a small high chance I spent the most time on this one overall because trying to spin a tale in 100 words is wild.

Day 2: Possession

Summary: Kagome acts on impulse. Or, I hc that uncanny resemblances might ruin a girl's day out. Thoughts and Feels:

Okay, yeah, okay, technically the baseball cap didn't happen in the manga. But this is why filler episodes are good for the ecosystem, or something.

Shock can have a lot of side effects. Confusion, agitation, complete and utter lack of personal or road safety (to name a few), and in Kagome's case here, shoving Inuyasha-shaped familiarity under her nose when she least expected it had her acting up, because not only has the well been sealed off for X time, she was used to him acting up whenever he stepped foot in the modern era:

Chapter 392, Volume 40, A Peaceful Meal ☆

Her friends still care, though! Cause that's what friends are for! As wild of a creature as Kagome can be, they're aware of her “struggles” with her health, and are oddly used to her odd ways:

Chapter 35, Volume 4, A Little Imp ☆

Fun Fact: I rewrote that last line, like, 7 times. The free writing tag is actually fake news.

Day 3: Safe

Summary: Kagome's has a nightmare. Or, I hc that a brave face doesn't do much when she's at her most vulnerable. Thoughts and Feels:

If you've ever had nightmares/night terrors/sleep paralysis, you'll know how, well, terrifying they can be. Lucid states between sleep and wakefulness has a nasty way of warping perceptions, and with everything Kagome witnessed, her dreamscapes had to be vivid, especially after her stint in the jewel, where reality and fantasy blurred real bad, and what's worse, it taunted her about it:

Chapter 554, Volume 56, High School Life ☆

To further that point, Inuyasha gets brutal - beheadings, graphic slaughterings (sometimes at the hands of an MC eheh), you know, justgirlythings - and therefore toned down for television, as anime adaptations often are. Kagome was 15, and while she did that, it would leave a mark. Trauma, guys. We're talking about trauma now.

If the reference was caught during her tiny tale: the scene with Mama H being shook to fuck over her baby glowing is anime-only, but I really dig the idea that she knew something was up with Kagome from Day 0, really aided in reasoning why she was so okay with her daughter doing all that, thank you for understanding. Another point for filler!

Fun Fact: I…barely remember writing this one, actually, truly, read it back a week later like: don't know her. I love her like any proud mother, though!

Day 4: Modern

Summary: Kagome asks a question she doesn’t like the answer to. Or, I hc that curiosity killed the cat. Thoughts and Feels:

The trickiest one, in terms of setting. I spent too much time looking into the availability and flavours of historical records in Tokyo (particularly 2000ish, bc digital archives weren't that hot then) and came to the conclusion that while yes, it was possible for her to gain access to [something], no, it wasn't very likely she'd come across any death records, (specifically Koseki) for her friends, with the added bonus that family names are notably lacking until 1868. But take Kagome's resourcefulness + Japan's love for paperwork, and it led me here – to some kinda fake archive with fake books and fake names that could potentially be somebody that she used to know. And while I try my best to be respectful of the people and the setting I'm writing within, I asked myself bluntly, if I really gave a fuck about being accurate in this regard/fictional setting, and the answer was also: no. There isn't a Sunset Shrine either, so a fictional National Archives with The Right Documents there shall be.

Of all the Fuedal-Inuyasha characters, I feel like Sango is the one that would have Done Something to leave a mark, somewhere written on paper. You know...Badass Women For Agriculture Union [codeword for demon slaying], something. Yeah, Miroku was a holy man, but we're not talking about history right now, we're talking about Herstory.

And finally, that moment. The one where Kagome almost cracked and unleashed self-inflicted rage on some guy, cause time didn't cease to exist for them. The thing about Kagome, apart from her being an all round great character, is that she isn't tame, nor timid, and certainly no shrinking violet. But where she's brash and loud and (sometimes) quick to anger, she's also kind. And reasonable, and at the core, a wonderful person, and that duality is what makes her so lovable, relatable, and fun to write. Lookit her:

Chapter 175, Volume 185, Where They First Met ☆

Fun Fact: I really wanted to point out that Kagome was supposed to be in her high school uniform, but writing restriction said naur. Irrelevant. Also, this is my favourite chapter. Weird, right? Haha?

Day 5: Heat

Summary: Kagome hears a bump in the night. Or, I hc that stranger things have occurred than a random bout of sleepwalking while living with PTID (Post Traumatic Isekai Disorder). Thoughts and Feels:

There was a small blip in time where this chapter skewed Mature. Explicit, even. Something about imagining a certain someone in a compromising position, but then the wind changed direction, and I went for literal heat. Japanese summers are stifling, and heat...is hot. Ace card, go!

Lunar charts and such: they don't add up when you compare two points in time, 500 years apart. But there could still be some peculiar celestial moon stuff that led a sleep-deprived Kagome to have a gander at the moon, especially when it's new.

Chapter 140, Volume 15, The Other Side of the Well ☆

Inuyasha had a brilliant way of turning up when she least expected him, or staying away when she wanted to see him the most. There are little things that happen, like an open window or remnants of a dream that might stay with her upon waking, to lead her to think-maybe it was him?

Chapter 287, Volume 29, Mimisenri ☆

BEHIND THE SCENES REVEAL: Kagome was the one who opened her door and tried to feed the cat, but it didn't work, because sleepwalkers are silly. Easter Eggy Subtext: Buyo is the catalyst, but Kagome is the key. Think about it.

Chapter 494, Volume 50, Two Worlds ☆

Day 6: Courting

Summary: Kagome tries her best. Or, I hc that Kagome gives it the old college effort, a la jewel illusion. Thoughts and Feels:

Kagome's family want the best for her. Kagome's friends are boy-crazy hen-peckers. Hojo is cute, and has always shown an interest in Kagome. Therefore: it would be wild to assume she didn't at least say yes, once, to going out with him, even if she knew it really wasn't going to go anywhere:

Chapter 140, Volume 15, The Other Side of the Well ☆

Sometimes you have to do things to understand how much you don't want to do that thing. At this point in time, Kagome's coming up for graduation, she's spent almost 3 years dealing with everything that happened to her, and she's not a complete tool. However, the mind wanders, especially when you'd rather someone else's company:

Chapter 69, Volume 8, Sensing Presences ☆

She's going to give the modern era one last shot – because while romance isn't everything, it can be part of something – before throwing in the towel and saying fuck it, I tried. And as Kagome's will Kagome, she'd want to make an effort for the sake of others:

Chapter 35, Volume 4, A Little Imp ☆

Fun Fact: This chapter (and the next) ended up floating around 1.5K at first draft. I'd like to formally apologise to the words lost in transit, you will be missed.

Day 7: Smile

Summary: Kagome comes home. Or, I hc that Kagome finally puts her wants, needs and feelings first, and those might suspiciously man-shaped. Thoughts and Feels:

Yeahyeah, the “I never thought I'd write this”, we've all seen it. But it's true! Never thought I'd write a chapter retelling, and this one is that fact's poster child. They aren't my bag (to read or to write) but the ending was there all along, obviously:

Chapter 494, Volume 50, Two Worlds ☆

The right wish, the wrong wish, a selfish wish, a selfless wish – as many Isekai's go, wish fulfilment is a huge part of the narrative (not just for Kagome, but so many of the characters) but she, unlike others, had a huge weight on her shoulders about making the right one that I wanted to tease out that moment where she gets it:

Awfully familiar cap is familiar, Chapter 558, Volume 56, Tomorrow ☆

Are you sure you're supposed to be there, Miss Thing? Life doesn't end just because you finished a job, or have to feel beholden to a sense of home. Home can be anywhere! Home can be a person! You can do it, bestie. Do it for her! Her is you! Go Kagome!

Chapter 79, The Fruits of Evil ☆

She made her dreams – from acing school, to making her family proud, to seeing Inuyasha again – a reality. There's really nothing more I can say about that, it's all there. She chose herself! And that included him! Ain't that neat!

Fun Fact: In Japanese, Inuyasha calls her a baka. In the scanlation, he calls her an idiot. In the English sub/dub, he calls her an idiot. In the Viz translation (the one I refer to most) he calls her a fool. Imho, in English, he says idiot, cause Inuyasha has zero respect and carries that no-finesse kind of rizz. Bless him.

Bonus Fun Fact: Chapters like this are why I'm such a flaming monster about writing advice being a tool, not a rule. Those last two lines, without the use of But and And at the beginning, would not carry the same weight and timing I wanted to achieve, therefore, you can pry them as sentence starters out of my cold, dead hands.

The End.

Weehee! This could have been way longer (you're thinking how, I'm thinking I'm proud of how restrained I was) but alas, we've reached the end. Thanks again to @inukag-week for hosting the event of all time! I love them sooo much. Sososo much, they're the best little guys 🎉

If you have any questions, comments or concerns, click here to send me an ask! I love not shutting up about them 🛸

ttyl bbs 🤸

[chaiinscribes]

Hi!

This is Chai's P5R/shuakeshu sideblog. My main is @xachyn. I'm also on AO3 and twitter.

I'll post writings/WIPs/links to my AO3 works here. Shorts (<1K) will be posted here exclusively, while anything longer will be on AO3. Summative tags will be added, but check the link for the full list. Spoilers for P5 Vanilla & P5R should be assumed.

NSFW is usually tagged, but minors and antis DNI. Just block me, I'm not bothered :)

Fic Masterlist (under cut)

Future Tense Rated G / 2k words Post Canon, Established relationship, Moving in together, Akechi & Morgana bonding hours.

“You know, contrary to what others may think,” Morgana chirped, “I’m not at all opposed to your relationship.”

“I didn’t realise I had to seek your approval,” Goro said dryly, and tossed the more expensive option into his basket. He didn’t need to ask who hated his presence around Ren either, but he’s at a point where he wasn’t particularly interested in the validation of others.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Morgana said, tail flicking against Goro’s ear impatiently, “It just means that I actually want this to go well.”

---

Paper Tiger Rated T / 3.5k words Post Canon, Pre-relationship, Discussions on existentialism and love

"Love is not some wondrous spider silk. The only thing that proves we are alive is the pain we feel, the blood we bleed when we are cut.” Goro exhaled, the weight of old irritation laden in each word. Silence reigned in the car, interrupted only by the navigation’s cool reminder to keep right for the next fork.

“Have you changed your mind on that?” Ren’s voice was so soft Goro almost missed it at first.

The problem was this: even with the weeks he had spent parsing through everything that had happened in the last few months, in the aftermath of Maruki’s reality, Goro was still unsure of what to make of things. Like waking up from a heady, dizzy dream whose vestiges still lingered on the edge of his mind like fog.

---

Redamancy Rated T / 8k words Post Canon, Pre-relationship, Road trip, Ensemble Cast: PT, Existential Ennui, Homesickness, One Bed

[Joker Lover Week 2023: One Bed]

It struck him then, how much more aware he had become of the unfathomable depth of his own loneliness. Ren had thought he understood it before, in the quiet silence of sleepy Inaba growing up, in the days after his assault sentencing when people stopped acknowledging him on the streets. But this? This was more akin to the early days of Maruki’s reality, the realisation that he will soon be not just left alone, but left behind.

He didn’t really want to be on this boat anymore.

-- In which Ren angsts about having to return to Inaba, his friends shower him with love, and Goro is Goro.

---

memento mori Rated T / 6k Slight canon-divergence, Shido Palace Arc, Angst with Optimistic Ending, Outsider POV (Sojiro Sakura), Akechi & Sojiro bonding hours, Akechi & Sae bonding hours

Sojiro resisted the instinctive urge to start brewing a cup of coffee for him, shaking his head to clear it of the myriad thoughts seeking to creep in, “so what is this, then? You’re looking for penance?”

“I am not interested in such mundane notions.” Akechi scoffed, folding his hands before him on the counter neatly. “Consider this testimony to be my insurance. My last will and testament, so to speak.”

-- In considering the prospect that he might die before his revenge was complete, Akechi decides to implement a back-up plan.

---

Caramel Rated T / 17k Mostly canon compliant, Slow-burn, Food as a metaphor for love, Getting Together, Emotional Hurt and Comfort

Behind the counter, Amamiya Ren looked up to greet him as he entered, his gaze softening the moment their eyes met. The smell of fresh coffee and curry permeated the air, a warm blanket that repulsed and comforted him both at once.

“Hey,” Amamiya said, his voice just barely perceptible above the white noise of the television, “welcome back.”

Goro smiled in greeting, hopeful that the involuntary relief he felt wasn’t immediately obvious. He hated this - hated the easy comfort of the space, hated the way it was so easy for him to forget the simmering anger inside him, hated the way the mental weight of his life’s work slipped off his shoulders, forgotten at the cafe’s doorstep the moment he stepped through the threshold.

-- In which Ren is insistent on feeding Goro, and Goro (eventually) learns to receive love.

---

ad idem Rated E / 3k Somnophilia, PWP

“Are you fucking sleeping?” Goro whispered incredulously, feeling the soft rumble of a snore reverberating into him, “are you fucking molesting me in your sleep?”

---

Oh, Summer Child Rated T / 4.5k Post canon, humour, getting together, akechi's birthday fic

“Akechi,” Kitagawa started, heralding the beginning of the end, “I would like to paint you.”

-- In which Goro receives the love that he doesn’t expect, and one that he does.

---

The Graveyard Draws the Living Still Rated T / 7k Canon compliant, angst, unreliable narrator, character-study, pre-relationship, eventual happy ending

Every morning, Akechi Goro is killed.

No, that's imprecise. He doesn't like the passive tone, doesn't appreciate the implication of murder as something merely occurring to him, so he tries again.

Every morning, he kills Akechi Goro.

---

[wwilloww]

sh. | ot7 | chapter five

PAIRING ot7 x reader

RATING Explicit.

GENRE smut. fluff. angst. nonidol au. wildnerness au. roommates au. friends to lovers.

SUMMARY Six months of quarantine have kept you apart. Somehow the distance sparks something new in each of you: questions, unfinished conversations, threads once chased now left cold. So when your roommate invites you to come with him to a mysterious house in the mountains with your friends, how could you even think of saying no?

WC 8k

WARNINGS AND TAGS protected sex. friends with benefits relationship. dirty talk. power play dynamics. angst. semi-public nudity. mentions of open relationship. sexting. reckoning with feelings. talk of alcohol use. 

AN: One million bazillion thanks to the best beta and geologist out there, @hesperantha. Everyday I think to myself, how the fuck would this series exist without this magical lady? And every day I am thankful for her beautiful existence. 

Also, if you haven’t seen /the trailer, you might wanna check it out. Just because I had a lot of fun making it and it was super fun to visualize the characters and their tiny little world. 

Going forward, you can read with they/them pronouns by navigating to the series m.list and reading from there. 

That said, LETS JUMP IN!

← || series m.list || →

©️ wwilloww do not repost, translate, or use my stories without my permission.  

chapter five

January 2020

What is left when you’re not sure where to turn?

You know there’s Yoongi. Dependable, familiar, predictable Yoongi. Predictable in the sense that you know, unabashedly, that no matter what, you can always count on him to draw a short term — but important — curtain over whatever notion, anxiety, or complication that happens to be singing in your mind that day. Erase it, temporarily, with those long fingers, gliding over your skin in expert patterns, drawing you and your pleasure exactly where he wants it to be.

And predictable in the sense that you know you will be perfectly and endlessly satisfied at the end of the night, no matter what.

See, Yoongi doesn’t mess around. He doesn’t tease you. Doesn’t draw you out and dangle you over your own pleasure. He gives it to you. Over and over and over and over again. Extends his palm and pulls as many orgasms from you as you can physically muster and then lets you collapse in his arms. Dependable, see? Dependable, always.

Once you’re settled in his lap, Yoongi lets you grind on him for a bit as he undresses you expertly, long fingers slipping under the fabric of your clothes before tugging them off gracefully and tossing them across the room. This, this he did love to do. Loved to scatter your clothes around and then watch you from the bed as you tried to piece some semblance of an outfit back together after he fucked you senseless.

“Don’t throw my bra behind the furniture again,” you murmur as you kiss down his neck. “I know you thought it was a great tactic to get me to rearrange your room the last time — but I’m not moving a hundred pound dresser to get my very expensive bra back again.”

He chuckles. Murmurs, “As you wish.” And then throws your bra someplace you can’t see.

Now that you’re topless, he lets his long fingers skate up the skin of your back, tracing the flesh of your hips and with such delicacy it almost tickles. That is, delicate until his hand weaves itself up your neck. His grip tightens at the root of your hair, tugging your head back in a swift motion and exposing your neck to him.

“How do you want me to fuck you tonight?” His voice is deep and it raises goosebumps on your skin. He lets his teeth trace a line up the sensitive skin of your neck until he reaches your ear and bites down hard.

“Fuck,” you breathe as a shiver runs through your body. Yoongi always took particular care to curate a library of knowledge about your ticks, turn ons, and vices. And then he played them out for you in an expertly coordinated hand.

“Yes, that’s in the cards. But tell me specifically how you want it.”

Behind him, the large bedroom is equipped with enough musical equipment to run a fully functioning studio. Instruments hang on the walls and a large black bed rests in the center of the room. The dark tones of the wood and sheets make the otherwise sparse room feel warm and dark. Compared to the shabby little apartment that you share with Namjoon, this is luxury. Your gaze rests on the large wall of glass that looks out over the city.

“The window,” you say.

He grins.

The glass is cold against your bare skin when he presses you to it. The difference in temperature between the fired heat of your skin and the iced window slices right through you, makes you gasp as his hands run over your body, taking you in as you are: bare and ready for him.

You watch as he strips off his clothes, gracefully and swiftly. First the shirt, then his pants. It’s no surprise to you that he’s not wearing any undergarments at all. Delight lights in his eye when he notices how greedily you watch him.

“Do you want me to—” He begins to lean down, but you stop him and pull him up.

“Just fuck me.”

He turns you around in one movement, your hands flying up to stop the impact, your chest — and your nipples — pressing to the glass. The sensation overwhelms you as he slides two fingers between your folds, collecting the slickness that has gathered there.

“You’re already so wet for me.”

A smile spreads across your face as you hear the condom packet rip and he slots his cock against your cunt, coating himself in your arousal.

“Don’t tease me,” you say, a hint of a whine slipping into your voice.

“Don’t worry. I have no patience for that tonight.” And he pushes in. “How’s that?” he says, the lilting tease in his tone cutting sharp against your ear as his dick sinks into you, inch by delightful inch.  

It feels like you have to catch your breath to speak. “Is it always this good?”

“Baby, if it isn’t, you should ask for a refund.” He punctuates the last word of his sentence with a harsh thrust that rams your chest up against the glass.

“Fuck—” you hiss.

Memory whitens like it’s been covered in a blanket of snow as he begins a punishing pace, hips rutting up into you before drawing almost all the way back, tip barely inside of you before thrusting back into you, all the way to the hilt. Sensation overtakes thought. The slicing coldness of the glass against your nipples paints a stark contrast to the softness of lips pressed to yours, softness of a hand cupping your cheek—

You should be thinking of anything but that.

And it’s easy to do, in this moment. To focus on Yoongi, his commanding presence, the way he plays your body like one of the carefully polished instruments that hangs on his wall.

You cry out when he hits a particularly soft spot within you, and he pauses his movements, drinking in the sound of you.

“God, you sound so fucking good.”

He pulls out of you, turns you around, and pushes your back against the glass.

“Hop up,” he says, and you frown in confusion before realizing what he’s referring to. You wrap your arms around his neck and with a jump, wrap your legs around his waist.

“Fuck—” With a grunt of effort, he holds you up while slotting himself against your folds and pushing inside again.

The most you can do in this position is tilt your pelvis and grind down on him — while holding onto dear life — and you do, rotating it against his waist, drawing the most delicious sounds from his lips. Your hips begin to move in tandem, each pushing closer to the pleasure that you both so desperately desire.

This is better. This is worse.

See, the two of you have fallen into patterns in your hookups. Rules, even, although no one but you thought of them as such. But the habit — and therefore the lines — were clear to you:

You didn’t kiss. You didn’t confess your love. Hookups only, and breakfast together the morning after. Usually he takes you from behind, because, as he once commented to you, “the ass cheeks are the eyes of the heart.” Which to you, made no sense at all, but you still obliged him. Plus, at the end of the day it was all a little more impersonal that way, anyways. Easier to separate from the rest of your relationship.

But looking into his face, pressed so close — there’s something there. A warmth. An understanding. Too much.  

Your head falls to his shoulder and his grip tightens on your thighs as he fucks up into you. Several heavy breaths before you bite gently at the sensitive skin of his neck and he hisses.

“You’re too sensitive,” you chide, although the teasing lilt of your tone is broken up by him fucking into your body — and you both know you love the way he lets you know he likes things done.

“And you’re too shy,” he cuts back. “Why don’t you look at me when I fuck you?” It’s posed as a question but you know it’s a command.

Slowly, you draw your head back and look at him. His eyes are deep and dark, his hair tousled and face lined with pleasure.

“That’s a good little pet,” he whispers. It falls too softly.

It makes you want to kiss him. All you want to do is —

You press your lips to his. Just a peck — the smallest, lightest of pecks.

But the plush of his lips, the way they part so slightly when your lips meet... it leaves you wanting more. So you kiss him again, pressing yourself to him, chasing the feeling of his softness.

He responds, opening his mouth to yours, his tongue darting out to meet yours. His pace doesn’t falter as he continues to fuck up into you. His lips move against yours, fierce, needy, demanding. And it’s then that your stomach drops. It’s as if the winter chill that lays just beyond the door at your back slices through your veins.

You pull back.

“No,” he says, and pulls you back to him. “Stop running.” He brings your face close enough to yours but doesn’t kiss you, just waits.

And you meet him in the middle, kissing him again, afraid of losing the warmth you sparked between you. He groans against you as your hips swivel around his cock, and bites down on your lip.

“Fuck,” you hiss.

With one arm wrapped around his shoulders, you let your other hand press against the nape of his neck, nails digging in just the way you know he likes it. You both have always been in rhythm, in tune with one another, but now with him kissing you — something new sparks between you. Something new, something terrifyingly warm.

When you pull back he smiles.

“Shit,” you whisper, your eyes widening. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Yoongi says, an edge in his voice, his hips still circling against yours as he presses your back to the window. “You have nothing to apologize for.

“I shouldn’t have—”

“Shh... stop. It’s okay. It was good.” He punctuates his meaning with a thrust, a small groan slipping from his throat. You want to swallow the sound of his pleasure whole, but still. You let the guilt in your chest rise to your throat.

“No, no, it’s not,” you say, though the coil that’s winding tighter and tighter in your belly makes it difficult to speak. You take a shuddering breath in as he hits your g-spot, your eyes fluttering closed.

“Yes. It is,” he grunts, and you can tell he’s close too. “You fuck better when you kiss. You feel it. You get into it.” Your brow purses at his words. “Now be good for me, forget it, and cum on this cock.”

You nod.

“Tell me what you’re going to do.”

“I’ll forget it, be good for you, and cum on your cock.”

“Good,” he smiles.

Each thrust brings you a step closer. He kisses you, again waiting for you to meet his lips, and together you move like dancing partners closer and closer to the edge.

You cum, clenching around his cock and crying his name into his mouth.

The two of you breathe heavily, foreheads resting together for a moment that stretches long enough for you to call it a distance.

“Fuck—” Yoongi says, pulling out of you and smiling gently as he lets you down. “I’ve never heard you come like that before.”

Heat rises to your cheeks.

“Hold on, let me get you a towel or something,” Yoongi says, pressing his thumb to your forehead and wiping away a bead of sweat. You watch as he shuffles about his room, looking for anything to give you. “One second, I think there’s clean ones in the dryer.”

He wanders out of the room wearing absolutely nothing at all.

When you turn back to the outside world, the glass is fogged and the world feels a million miles away. The tension that rises up in your chest feels like a wrought iron ball and you need out, out, now.

There’s a fuzzy blanket on the dresser next to you and you snatch it, wrap yourself up tightly and push open the glass door to the tiny balcony. With a held breath, you step out. The cold concrete sends a chill through your body as you step out. Blue washes through you, shocking the pleasure-numbed nerves in your body back to life.

When you suck in a deep breath of snow-cold air, it feels as if clarity settles into you. You take a second, but shuddering, breath as you realize with a lucid sharp pain the reality of your situation.

Yoongi didn’t erase tonight from your mind. Sex didn’t remove Hobi’s kiss from your lips. An orgasm didn’t ease the unnamable want in your chest. If anything, it all just burns a little brighter.

This thing with Yoongi — it’s not supposed to be a distraction for you, or a means to make you feel something else. It’s supposed to be its own thing, a compartmentalized friends with benefits situation that has always been clear and defined between the two of you. But as soon as you showed up on his door with an ulterior motive other than sex, it became something else. As soon as you kissed him, you made it something else.

Fuck.

Around you, fat flurries drift down from the dark sky. They melt as they land on your bare skin. There’s no escaping this thing inside you. But the intensity of the cold seems like it keeps you here, grounded, in Yoongi’s home and facing actuality. As if any form of warmth would leave you wandering into the sickly sweet honeytrap of the what if’s that already threaten on the edge of your mind.

“Come to bed,” Yoongi calls from inside. When you don’t, he comes out onto the tiny balcony and wraps himself around you from behind, his head notching on your shoulder. “Christ, you’re freezing.”

“It feels good,” you say, nuzzing your body back against his.

“I know I didn’t work you up that much that you need to stand in the snow to cool down. Come to bed.”

Still wrapped around you, he waddles you inside, earning a giggle from you as you tumble into bed and he slams the door closed with a bit of a shiver.

“Here,” he says softly, wrapping you in a blanket before settling beside you.

He’s close. Wildly close. His breath brushes softly against your face as you look at each other. You take in the flushed pink of his face, the way his hair is tousled into a gorgeous mess from the effort of your intimacy.

You could kiss him again, you think and a shock runs through your body at the thought. Christ, his cock’s been inside you a million times and yet you balk at the thought of kissing him, of pulling him right where you want him, where he fits so perfectly, where he feels so warm —

“What are you thinking?” Yoongi says softly.

“What are you thinking?” you cut back, just a little too quickly.

Yoongi chuckles. “I’m thinking that you keep yourself so tightly together.”

You smile tightly. “I don’t know what that means.”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

You bite down on your lip.

“You’re thinking so loud I can almost hear it,” Yoongi says. “Just tell me. You know there’s nothing you could say that would upset me.” When you don’t say anything, he continues. “For god’s sake, I’ve seen your asshole. It doesn’t get much more personal than that.”

“Fine,” you say.

“Fine,” he grins.

“Maybe we should…” You trail off and bite the inside of your cheek.

Yoongi rolls onto his side, propping his head up with one hand.

“Maybe we should…?” He prompts. “Join a sex dungeon?”

You laugh, the thought of going to one with Yoongi is one that sends a thrill through you. “That sounds like a wonderful idea, but that’s not what I was going to say.”

“What were you going to say?”

You take a deep breath. “That maybe we should… stop. This.”

He doesn’t ask what you mean. He knows. “That, my dear, sounds like quite the antithesis to going to a sex dungeon with me.”

You laugh. “I can’t believe you’re making jokes when I am friends with benefits breaking up with you.”

“What? Were you expecting me to be angry?”

“I mean I expected a little bit of a fight. Or at least… I don’t know. Questions.”

“Do you want questions?”

You look at him.

“I don’t know.”

“Okay. Well. Why are you ending things.”

You flop onto your back. Look at the ceiling. The way the lights of the city reflect paley onto the white surface. They look like ghosts.

“I don’t really know.”

He pulls you to him, rolling you onto your side and tangling your hands together. “Okay.”

And then the two of you just lie there, staring at the ceiling in silence, the weight of your decision, of this ending, settling over you with a concrete taste. There’s something uncomfortable in this kind of silence. But it’s not him, it’s not an awkwardness, or the building of tension or resentment. None of that lies between you. It’s the fact that within the silence the answers rise up in you, and you find the words spilling from your mouth.

“I don’t want it to be complicated, Yoongi.”

He waits a moment before responding. “Is it complicated?”

“Well.” You sigh. “No. Not with us. Us is easy. I feel like I can tell you what I need or what I want and I trust you to be able to either give me that or set a boundary.”

Yoongi hums. “I feel the same. So then if it’s not us...?”

“I made a mistake tonight. Crossed a line I shouldn’t have crossed.”

His brow furrows. “Not with me you didn’t. I don’t underst—”

“Not you. It’s me. It’s — it’s always me. I don’t want things to spin out of control. And I feel like they’re about to.”

Yoongi is silent for a long moment.

“I don’t want you to feel that way.” He pulls you closer to him, his grip tightening on your hip. “Really.” You stare down at your intertwined hands. “Look at me.” He waits until you do, summoning an inner strength you didn’t know you needed to look at your friend. “There’s a part of me that wonders how much of this is you punishing yourself for something that you don’t have any reason to be punishing yourself for.”

You can’t help the nervous laugh that shoots from your chest.

“What!? Are you laughing at me!?”

“No, no,” you shake your head. “Just… I don’t know what it is, but if anyone were to look right through me and see everything that’s going on, it’s you.”

He smiles softly.

“Do you want to stay tonight?”

Do you want your friend to wrap himself around you? Pull you in tight to his warm chest? Remind you of the summer that lies on the other side of this long, long winter?

“No,” you say slowly. “I think I need some space. To… process.”

He nods. “Well, as my newest friends with benefits ex, I agree, you should probably leave. You know. So it doesn’t get awkward.” He grins.

“Yeesh, you’re so quick to kick me out.”

“I know. I guess I just need some space. You know. To process, too. Grieve.”  He paints a fake frown on his face and does a dramatic rendition of a very gross sniffle.

You giggle.

“Yeah, yeah, sure.”

Together you get out of bed, Yoongi — for once — rifling through his room in search of your clothes. With every piece of clothing you put on, you feel like you take another step backwards. Away from Yoongi, away from the vulnerability in you that feels like it tears open everytime he looks at you. His comfort. Each new piece of fabric is another wall resurrected. But when you go to hook your bra behind your back, he steps behind you, taking the straps from your hands and gently hooking the clips together.

“Here.”

When he’s done, his fingers linger on your skin just a moment too long.

“Thanks,” you say softly, turning back to him.

His eyes are still blown wide, his hair perfectly disastrous. There’s something so deadly soft about him. He looks just as he did when you marched into his bedroom earlier in the night. And yet, on the other side of this night, you feel like a totally different person. As if the stranger inside of you has finally stepped forward and introduced herself.

You turn away hastily, heading to the living room. He follows and pulls your jacket from the couch and helps you into it.

Shoes on, jacket on, you’re all ready to walk out the door. And still you linger. Yoongi glances at his watch.

“Well, I’d say six hours is a proper mourning period. Breakfast tomorrow?”

“How about brunch? I’m not getting up at 9am for eggs.”

“Oh and I’m the one who needs space huh?” He smiles softly. “11am. You’ll get up at 11am and I’ll buy you a breakup brunch.”

“Yeah,” you smile up at him. Even as you taste the edge of fear — of anxiety — on your tongue, there is still a kind of undeniable warmth that blossoms in your chest every single time you look at him.

You broaden your smile. Push it down.

There’s one last thing.

“And—”

But he already knows what you’re asking. He steps forward, taking your head between his hands and pressing a kiss to your forehead. The shock that runs through you is quick and cold.

“I know,” he says. “This’ll still be our little secret.”

When he steps back, there’s something soft in his gaze — too soft, you can’t help but think. Tenderness, surrounded by acceptance and strength. All the things that make Yoongi, well, Yoongi. And yet it feels like too much to handle. Too much to be looked at, to be seen, to be understood when you can barely wrap your mind around what’s going on.

“Sleep well, buttercup.”

Different taxi, different driver, different route.

“Home,” you tell the woman at the wheel when you give her your address, her over-bleached and curly hair forming a kind of halo around her in the seat.

“You got it,” she says smacking her gum and throwing you a wayward smile.

As the car pulls away from the curb and picks up speed, you feel a kind of numbness wash over you.

It was the right decision to end things with Yoongi, you remind yourself, even as you feel a kind of twinge in your chest. You haven’t lost a friend. In fact, you’ve probably preserved your friendship. Saved it from wandering into the brambly bushes of complication and ultimate destruction. Even if it means the loss of killer sex.

You phone dings, and you instinctively brush a hand over your body to make sure you left with all the clothes you arrived in.

When you look at your phone, it’s not who you imagine. It’s not what you imagine.

tae: I forgot how loud you are when you orgasm.

You choke, hand snapping up quickly to cover your mouth.

“You alright, hun?” the driver asks.

“Yeah, yeah, just fine,” you say, but your voice is strained. You immediately type out your response.

you: fuck. i’m so sorry. you: it won’t happen again.

Your heart is pounding in your chest, embarrassment and confusion tightening around your throat. How much more can you really take tonight? Hobi, then Yoongi — now this? You tap your foot as you wait for the response, which takes just a minute to pop up on your phone.

tae: oh… well that’s too bad. I actually didn’t mind it all that much.

Oh.

Oh.

Before you know what you’re doing, you’re typing out your response — and turning down the brightness as if it will hide the loudness of your message from the world.

you: is that right?

tae: i said it didn’t i? ive always been a man of my word. brings me back to the old days, in a way.

you: oh?

tae: you know…

you: do i?

tae: you do.

you: it’s been a while. why don’t you remind me?

tae: you’re playing coy tonight. two very loud orgasms and you’re still not done playing?

you: i’d send that shrugging emoji but i can’t find it you: what can i say? I can be needy

tae: should i remind you tae: when we used to park behind the grocery store tae: there was never anyone around but you’d still get so shy and embarrassed tae: and try to cum without a sound tae: but i didn’t hear a single note of shame or restraint tonight tae: shamelessness looks good on you tae: **sounds good on you

you: you were always quite shameless yourself

tae: it gets me far in life

You blink down at your phone, not really sure what to say. Taehyung’s hearty banter is something you’re used to. Even after all these years, your quick back and forth was still twinged with the smallest teasing edge of sexual interest. But you had always kept it within strict boundaries, never returning to your previous relationship, never suggesting—  

tae: but my question is how far will it get me with you?

Your breath freezes in your throat. Never suggesting that you return to anything of the past.

tae: jk tae: unless…?

Taehyung’s sexually laced messages have your head spinning round and round on its pedestal. It’s not as if you had never thought about it, never considered it. But there was a line there, was there not? A line you shouldn’t cross, shouldn’t even think of crossing, no matter how you wanted to. With a deep breath, you respond.

you: i don’t know if we should be having this conversation right now?

tae: why? because you’re my ex? or because of Jin?

Before you can even manage to type out the long list of reasons why you shouldn’t be dipping your toes into the perilous waters of sexting your very happily taken ex, the screen is lighting up again.

tae: if it’s the latter, don’t worry. he’s here too. tae: he says to tell u you’re hot   tae: which is news to me tae: not that you’re not hot, but that he thinks that tae: and he says hes “sorry he missed the show earlier”

you: tbh that was NOT the response i was expecting to get.

tae: we’re very open about these things. he’s quite… encouraging actually

As if this is the opening, you walk through it.

you: in what way?

tae: he likes visibility in a specific way. he likes to watch. likes to be watched and… the attention, especially when its directed at me, especially when he knows that at the end of the day i’m crawling back into his bed

Your heart races in your chest.

tae: sorry, maybe that’s tmi.

you: don’t apologize. i don’t mind tmi

tae: then i won’t apologize.

you: good.

tae: good 😂 tae: you know, i liked it.

you: sorry, liked what?

tae: hearing it tae: hearing you cum

you: did you?

tae: more than i expected

you: more than you should?

tae: that’s not what i said

you: well, like i mentioned, it won’t happen again

tae: why not? You finally get me to admit i didn’t mind it and now you’re telling me i won’t get more? :(

You chew on your bottom lip before responding.

you: it’s complicated.

tae: an orgasm is never complicated.

you: …

tae: but you know what is complicated? tae: feelings. tae: you’re having feelings. tae: oh my god you’re in love with yoongi

you: i am nOT in love with yoongi you: surprisingly it has very little to do with yoongi

Even as you send the text, you know that’s not entirely true.

tae: okay, then what’s going on??? pls don’t play cryptic with me, it’s too late for that shit

you: i don’t even know what’s going on.

tae: oh. tae: so we’re talking big boy emotions

you: i don’t have *emotions*

tae: you’re a fucking liar

you: hey you: language

tae: alright then let me rephrase it tae: what are you so afraid of will happen if you let yourself feel?

Your heart catches in your throat. Oh.

“We’re here,” the taxi driver says, and your head snaps up from the light of your phone to see your apartment complex towering high and familiar above you.

“Oh!” You blink yourself from your reverie and hand the woman the cash for the ride. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks,” she says, twisting around to look at you as you skootch across the backseat. “Hey—” You pause, looking at her. The orange glow of the streetlights rings like a halo around her head. “You take care of yourself, alright?”

“Alright,” you smile and nod.

A haze settles around your body as you climb out of the taxi. The hard edge of soberness and the sharpness of the winter air mixes and shocks life back into you as his question rings around your head. What are you so afraid of will happen if you let yourself feel?

Your breath feels strained as you climb the echoing stairs to your home. The sound of the key fitting into the lock rings with a harsh click, but it brings you back into your body, to the little marks where Yoongi’s hands dug into you, to the confusion that rattles around your mind, and finally, and most devastatingly, the warmth that has sunk deep and inextricably into your heart.

The apartment is dark when you enter.

“Namjoon?” you call out.

No one answers. You don’t bother to flick on the lights as you feel your way blindly through the darkness, hand brushing against the soft fabric of your sofa, the bumpy texture of the wall, and finally the cold knob of your door. Instead of pushing the door open though, you lean against it, taking what feels like the first full breath of the night.

You look at the screen of your phone, Tae’s question, his voice, spiraling around your head. With a shaky breath you respond, fingers flying across the blue light of the screen.

you: something feels off. I don’t… i don’t want to mess anything up. I feel like the only way to keep things in order is to keep myself out of it all.

tae: can i call you?

you: yeah. Joon’s not home.

You finally press into your room. All that silver light from the city reflects off of the white flakes that flutter softly down from the sky. It spills onto your bed like a pool of molten silver, waiting, chilled and cold for you. You flop down onto it, your breath coming out in a long huff.

When your phone rings, there’s a second of hesitation before you hit the answer button.

“Hello?” your voice is shakier than you expected.

“One second.”

You hear the rustling sound of Tae getting out of bed and the door shutting.

“If I can hear you orgasming, Yoongi sure as hell can hear a phone call,” Tae whispers, a slight chuckle to his voice. “Unless you’re just always unreasonably loud.” You can imagine the sly smile that plays across his lips right now. Another door opened and shut and he sighs. “There. Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay,” you say. “I…”

You trail off. You don’t know what to say. Don’t know what there is to say.

He says your name softly into the phone, the syllables forming such a familiar shape on his tongue. “Are you okay?”

“I...I don’t think so. I don’t feel great.”

“You’re home? Safe?”

“Yeah. I’m home.” You look around your room. Art on the walls, your little desk the messiest place in the room, stacked high with papers and photos and plants.

“Good.” Taehyung takes a long breath. “So. Tell me what’s going on.”

You want to. But your voice freezes in your throat and you can feel the way your silence falls around him.

After breaking up at nineteen, you and Taehyung had always remained friends. The truth was that even though you loved each other, you were so caught up in the physicality of it all that the rest of your relationship — and your relationships outside of that — began to deteriorate. No more sex, you both had decided. And at the time, that meant no more romance. There weren’t lingering feelings of resentment, but you did know — because you both talked about it — that you were both plagued with the lingering question of what if. What if…. But the answer was simple. You both needed more than what the other could offer.

Best friend turned lover turned best friend. If the lingering sexual tension was the only consequence of that, you could handle that. And if you were honest with yourself, you enjoyed it, in a safe, flattering kind of way.

But the reality was that the consequence of your relationship wasn’t limited to just a couple of sex dreams here and there or comments about your former sex life thrown about as jokes. The truth was that there was a permafrost of cautiousness that sat like a layer of ice beneath all of your interactions; one that only thawed away after midnight or a second drink.

Right now, the clock on the wall reads: 3:12am.

“You don’t have to tell me—”

“No — I want to.” You shake your head. “I should… I should talk to someone about this.” You take a deep breath as the sharp images of tonight’s events spiral around your mind. When you speak, it comes out a whisper. “I kissed Hobi tonight.”

“Oh. Shit.”

“Or he kissed me. I don’t really — don’t really understand what happened, we were just standing there and had both had some drinks and suddenly it was happening and I should have kept everything within the normal boundaries, I shouldn’t have done it, shouldn’t have overstepped our friendship, but we kissed and I…” Your voice trails off.

“And you liked it,” Taehyung finishes for you.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I did.”

“And it scared you.”

“Yeah.”

“And then you both ran away from it.”

“Yeah.”

“And your way of running away from it was to go fuck Yoongi again, huh.”

“Goddamnit, Tae,” you huff, annoyed by how right he is.

Taehyung chuckles. “Babe, I’ve known you way too long for me to not pick up on these kinds of things. These kinds of patterns.”

“Patterns?”

Taehyung sighs through the phone. “I love you, dude, but… yeah. Yeah. It’s a pattern.”

As you let his words sink into you, you realize. It is a pattern.

“Can I be honest with you?” he asks. “Do you really want to know what’s going on here?”

You laugh softly, even as fear nibbles at your heart. There’s a part of you that wants to turn into blindness. That wants to shield your heart from the reality of the situation. From the reality of yourself.

But there’s also something about facing into the truth — clear and cold like the night waiting just beyond your window. You want the shock of truth through your body, glaring and sharpened like ice. Because at the end of the day, you’ve had enough of this numbed ignorance.

“Yeah. Go for it.”  

“This might be out of the blue. And you might not want to hear it. I could be totally off—”

“Tae, it’s okay. I want to hear it.”

He takes a deep breath. “But maybe… just maybe, it’s time to think about the way you push people away.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” you whisper, although the reality of what he’s saying is already dawning on you, even if it’s at a glacial pace.

“How you let people in just long enough, just far enough, to let them see something authentic of you. But you don’t really let them take any real stake in your life.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“And that’s okay!” He adds quickly. “At least, it has been okay. We do what we need to do to keep ourselves safe, but… I think you’re past that all now.” You take a shuddering breath and he pauses. “That place in your life where you need to keep the walls and the rules so strict for fear of falling. You’re not there anymore, babe. Maybe it’s time to start looking at the wall that you’ve built and considering letting yourself tear it apart.” And then, so softly you think his voice might be made of something as delicate as a flower petal: “You know, maybe it’s time to think about how you want to start letting love in again. Because you deserve it.”

It’s not until you brush your hand against your cheeks that you realize they’re wet. You look down at your fingertips, glistening with fallen tears, shining silver in the snowlight.

“Fuck, Tae.”

Taehyung lets loose a light, but pained, chuckle.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You sniffle. “Goddamn it.”

Silence settles between the two of you. Tears slip silently down your face as you hold the phone to your ear. You can hear him breathing softly on the other end, but Taehyung doesn’t say anything. It’s as if he knows you need a minute to process.

His words slide right under your skin. Directed straight at the thing that has felt so heavy in your chest all night now, it’s as if the whole thing has been broken open within you. Suddenly, you can see it all.

The past years, this game of cat and mouse with your own vulnerability. This façade of carefully curated openness and faux vulnerability. All of the things that you kept as reminders of your freeness, your unlocked heart — the hookups, the fast and furious romances that ended in nothing but silence, the friendships you kept so carefully defined — were actually all just markers of the opposite:

A deep and abiding fear that if you let someone love you, a fear that if you let them close enough to really, truly see you, they might see something they won’t like.

Better to keep things clearly organized. Clearly marked and known and understood. That way you’d know exactly when things were spinning out of control and when someone was just about to get too close.

“You know, there are so many ways to love,” Taehyung says. “It doesn’t just have to be in that one way of fucking and falling in love and then a big white marriage, tada! the end. And, uh, it’s okay to want love. It’s really, really okay, actually. In whatever weird way love shows up for you, even if it’s not the traditional way. It’s even more okay to let yourself have that love, even if you don’t know what it is — don’t know what to call it.”

When your breath comes out shaky and ridden with tears, you can hear a soft oh echo through the phone.

“Hey,” Taehyung says with all the love in the world laced so delicately through his voice. “It’s okay. It might not feel like that right now. But opening up again — if, you know, if that’s what you want — that’s something you can do. It can be done.”

“I-I do, Tae. I don’t want this anymore. I don’t want to keep fighting this.”

It’s as if you can hear his smile through the receiver.

“That makes me really happy to hear,” he says.

“Where do I even begin?” It comes out a whisper, your voice cracked from the tears that have begun to slow. You’re half afraid to even hear the answer. Half afraid to walk down the path riddled with your greatest fear.

“I think you begin by going to sleep. And in the morning I’ll call you. And I’ll keep calling you. And we’ll work through this together. You know, this isn’t something that you have to do alone.”

You’re silent.

“You’re in bed?” crackles through the phone.

“Yeah?”

“Go put on some pjs and go to sleep. You don’t have to do this all in one night.”

You nod, wiping the rest of the tears from your face and sniffling. “Yeah.”

“Alright. I love you to the moon and back, no matter what. You know that. Right?”

You close your eyes. For a second you imagine accepting that it’s true. It fills your chest with a new kind of warmth. One you want to sink into.

“Yes,” you say. “I love you too, Tae.”

“Get some rest then. Goodnight.”

“G’night.”

The dial tone clicks and the room falls into complete silence. Only the sound of your breath breaks through, too loud and uncomfortable amidst the darkness. But still, you climb out of bed, dump some water on a towel and wipe at your face, and change into the largest t-shirt you can find in your drawer.

Tonight, you dream the first dream of many in a line that will haunt you — and spark you back to life. It’s Yoongi, his body pushing you up against the ice cold glass, his hands in your hair, his lips whispering, over and over and over again: Is it complicated?

In the morning, you lay awake, just feeling the way your breath falls heavily in your chest. You text Yoongi to tell him you can’t meet up. You look outside.

The world is covered in a blanket of snow. Unrecognizable. Beautiful. Washed clean.

Something hopeful flutters in your chest.

When you look down, your hands are clutching the collar of your sleep shirt. With a deep breath, you wrap your arms around your torso in a hug.

“I don’t really know how to do anything else other than this,” you admit to Tae one day over the phone, flourishing a hand you know he can’t see to emphasize the point you know he already understands.

“Well. I don’t know how much of it is really choosing to be different. Instead, maybe you ought to try looking at it like an undoing. Whenever you match up against that impulse to run, think about sitting with it. Feeling it. And then choosing to move in another direction. Yeah,” he says, and you can tell he’s nodding on the other end of the phone. “An undoing.”

What does this kind of undoing look like? you wonder.

When the world comes to a screeching halt around you, you don’t expect to find your answer. The reality of the pandemic and quarantine — the emptiness of it, the long, drawn out days that feel long and drawn out when you’re in them but that then seem to blend together into one long, monotonous, anxiety riddled day and leave you wondering and wishing for the end — it’s hard. It’s hard in that quiet way that’s easy to ignore and push off, and hard in the way that there’s a big ache in your chest every time you go to sleep, one that crawls straight into your throat and sits there until the morning. It’s hard, and you learn to live with it. It’s hard, but somehow it brings you what you need. When distance seems to be the defining feature of your life, you don’t expect to find clarity. But you do. As you sink into the new routine of quarantine and pandemic life, and as life begins in a new rhythm with new rules and new realities — slowly and wildly new and sometimes horrific — it becomes clear to you.

What does this kind of undoing look like?

It looks a lot like feeling the emptiness in your home when Namjoon is away. Silence louder, space smaller. You find yourself reflected back to yourself, as if you are staring in a mirror.

It looks a lot like distraction. Emotional exhaustion turning into physical. You do distract — and it’s good — with a new drama or a new hobby. Exercising in your room until your cheeks are flushed. Cooking something new and delicious every night. Or sometimes just letting the small rectangle of light in your hand absorb you until the lingering discomfort is numbed, until you’re ready to fall asleep.

It looks like listening to your thoughts, really, truly listening, for the first time. Hearing the stories that you’ve built up in your head over the ears and how deeply they’ve sunk into your reality. It looks like noticing them, and wanting them to change. It looks like standing in the empty hallway of your apartment, feeling it all, and deciding to do something about it.

It looks like weird-ass sex dreams. Once dreamless nights are repopulated with strange and specific sexual fantasies featuring none other than your seven gorgeous friends in various states of undress and revelry.

It looks like letting people in again. Laughing on the phone until tears well up in your eyes. Building up the courage to tell Jimin about your vivid, even pornographic dreams. Writing letters when facetime just doesn’t do it anymore. Telling your friends just how much they mean to you, even when that voice warns you that you ought to keep your feelings held tight to your chest.

It looks like falling asleep one night, the traffic of the city now quieted by reduced travel, and the silence offering you a new kind of truth:

Love can be without limitation.

Love can be without limitation. It is allowed to flow from you without doubt or embarrassment. It is allowed to exist in the world — and in you — without needing to be reciprocated or validated. And you are allowed to ask for it. To demand it from life, even if, at times, it feels like the only place it pours forth from is from that great gaping space in your chest.  

The phone rings a couple of times before it’s cut off in the middle of a digital brrng. You’re ready to hear the familiar buzz of a robotic voice reading: the caller you are trying to reach is not available—

But instead, the deep, heady voice you’re so familiar with comes over the speaker.

“Hello?”

“Hoseok?” His name feels foreign on your tongue. After all this time, pushing it away, pushing him away, welcoming his name back into your body feels almost like a fresh rain, washing away the dust on your skin.

“The one and only,” he chuckles. “What’s up?”

A ball of emotion wells up in your throat and the phone line hangs in silence as you try to glue together what you want to say, what you had practiced to say, what you should say. But it feels as if it’s all disappeared. 

“I thought—”

“Did I mess up?” he blurts.

You blink in confusion. “What? No, I—”

“That night, I had so much to drink, I’m worried that… I messed up, that— ”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Hoseok.”

You can hear the breath release from his lungs and shudder through the phone. “Oh.” It’s silent for a moment. “Oh. Okay.”

“I just…” You close your eyes. Take a deep breath. “I just miss you.”

“I miss you like there’s an ocean between us,” he says, laughter mixed with sincerity threading through his voice.

“It feels like there’s ocean between us,” you sigh.

“I know,” he says, too quickly for him to realize the meaning behind your words. “But I promise this will all be over soon, babe. How long can something like this really last? In no time it’ll all be done with and I’ll be right back beside you. Right?”

You smile. “Right.”

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[littlemisspascal]

Death and an Angel part 3

Death!Din and Cupid F!Reader

Summary: You and Din have an unexpected heart-to-heart about what it means to be Death and a Cupid on route to a planet where Din’s potential soulmate lives.

Rating: G

Word Count: 1,500

Warnings: Pining, smidge of angst, more plot development, Razor Crest (RIP I miss you darling!), a made-up home world for the reader (yes, yes, there’s like a million I could have picked but my brain said NOPE)

Author Note: Ahhhh, the comments are so amazing from you all! Thank you everyone out there sparing time to check out my little universe, it makes me sooo happy you have no idea! As always, I hope you enjoy this new segment as I try to plot this story out and get these two idiots to acknowledge there just might be something between them. 

Also special thanks to @codenamewitcher​​ for including the first two parts on Weekly Fanfic Recs. Be sure to go check out the list for a whole bunch of fantastic stories!

Links to Part 1, Part 2 and Part 4

Photo Inspiration: (What I imagine is beneath the armor in this scene...*dreamy sigh*)

There is a distinct silence that can only be found in hyperspace when the stars outside resemble sparkling streaks of silver tinsel and your breath is trapped within your lungs as you’re awestruck by the sheer beauty of it all. You experience this silence aboard the Razor Crest, sitting in the cockpit behind Din as he pilots his beloved gunship. It isn’t the first time you’ve been a passenger, having traveled with Din on two previous ventures where your Cupid services were required on planets far away from your home on Umbriel.

Off-world assignments for you were generally rare since your bosses were more inclined to choose Cupids of higher ranking to handle those clients, but sometimes you were the only available option left. Which, come to think of it, is exactly how you became the one roped into meeting with Death every full moon. Your bosses decided someone needed to check up on him to make sure he wasn’t reaping anyone before their fated time and thus messing with the natural order of things. You privately have reached the conclusion it was a decision made during a fit of paranoia as you had yet to find any evidence suggesting Din ever broke a single one of the universe’s rules, let alone even considered the mere possibility.

When you did travel for assignments, you never stopped feeling like a goldfish being dumped out of your familiar little bowl and into a massive ocean full of strange oddities. You would often find yourself wasting time trying to successfully navigate the unknown world when you should have been focused on tracking down your client’s soulmate.

That’s why Din had offered to start traveling with you. Actually, in his own words it was because, “You think about love so much you don’t see trouble until it’s an inch in front of you. Someone’s got to be there to look after you.”

You’d tried to argue, told him you had never experienced trouble and that if you did then you could handle it with your bow. All Cupid’s were required to master archery for self-defense purposes, though Din’s responding snort of derision made you suspect he wasn’t convinced of your skills. You wondered if he thought, just as humans incorrectly did, a Cupid only used their bow to spread love and lust. Or maybe he just thought you weren’t capable of such finesse. It was an insulting assumption, fueling you with the burning desire to prove him wrong. One day, you keep telling yourself, a repetitive chant. One day you’ll show him just how capable you are with your weapon and you imagine his look of shock, whether worn openly on his face or hidden beneath the visor of his helmet, will be utterly priceless.

But in the meantime, you’re in no hurry to encounter trouble. Finding enjoyment in taking these trips with him on his ship instead.

The Razor Crest had actually been a complete surprise to you when Din first welcomed you on it; primarily because the notion of him using such a primitive form of transportation despite the powers he possessed as Death was too outrageous to wrap your head around. However, it took less than ten minutes soaring through space for you to discover just how many details of the universe you were missing by relying on your Cupid abilities to teleport yourself between locations. Never would you have imagined Death to be the one to teach you to love the slowness of travel, to let your eyes linger on all the beautiful wonders along the way. But that’s exactly what happened.

You turn your head away from the window to look at Din. From your angle, all you glimpse is the back of his helmet, reflecting the passing starlight. Soon you’ll be introducing Din to the first immortal on your list of potential soulmates.

Death, you quickly correct yourself. He’s only Din when he’s around you.

You initially thought he elected to wear his armor because you told him he could to ease his comfort, but now you think it’s because this is him meeting his potential soulmate as himself. It is easy to forget sometimes this is the image of Death—a warrior enshrouded in beskar, cunning and ruthless—that is recognized throughout the universe. And feared.

If the handsome face he concealed was known instead, you wonder if mortals would readily choose to embrace the ending of their lifetime, rather than foolishly seek to run from its inevitability.

“What is it?” Din’s baritone voice startles you as it shatters the quietness. The modulator within his helmet gives his tone a low raspiness that never fails to send a chill down your spine when you hear it.

“Huh?” You respond ineloquently.

“You’ve been staring at the back of my head for the last five minutes, angel. I figured you had something worth saying.”

“Oh, no. I was just thinking about you.”

Immediately you wish a meteor would collide with the ship, providing you with the necessary distraction to escape and find somewhere you can hide until the end of time.

“...What about me were you thinking?” Din wonders after a solid thirty seconds of pure silence, voice somehow conveying an equally blended mixture of intrigue and wariness. He flips on the ship’s autopilot and turns in his seat to pin you with his gaze, apparently unwilling to let you try and weasel yourself out of the conversation.

You roll the question around in your mind, wanting to give an answer that satisfies him without it also embarrassing yourself further.

“I was thinking how much of an enigma you are,” you murmur at last, leaning back in the chair with your arms crossing over your stomach. “You wield such incredible powers and yet you choose to wear a human face, to call this man-made ship your home and to also spend your spare time living amongst those you will eventually reap. Why are these your choices?”

He tilts his head, and you just know there is a little crease of bewilderment appearing between his eyebrows right now even if you can’t see it. For as much as he is a puzzle you can’t put together, he is also at times an open book that you will never tire of reading.

“I would think you, more than most beings, would understand the discomfort that stems from loneliness and the lengths one will go to ease it,” he says, not unkindly. He mirrors your position, maneuvering himself until he’s comfortable in his seat and totally oblivious to the dilating of your pupils as you observe every subtle shift of his armor-clad body. “Isn’t that the true purpose of Cupids? To spare individuals the ache of living a life of solitude by introducing them to someone to love so they no longer feel it.”

“That’s a poetic way of putting it,” you answer, smiling softly and shrugging your shoulders. “My superiors would just quote our mantra back at me when I used to ask. Amor vincit omnia.”

“Love conquers all.”

You shouldn’t be surprised he’s able to translate such an ancient and obscure language, but your eyes widen regardless. “That’s right.”

His voice is unusually soft when he asks, “Do you like being a Cupid?”

You stare at him, caught off guard by how easily he’s changed the topic of the conversation from himself to you. You’re used to taking orders and being thanked for your services, but no one has ever asked you if you liked doing any of it.

“I’m good at it,” you finally say, even though it’s not really an answer.

He nods his head still, as if he understands. A part of you thinks he actually does.

You lick your lips, eyeing him hesitantly. “Do you...like being Death?”

“I’m good at it,” he echoes, but your words sound somber coming from his lips.

The cockpit fills with hushed silence again, but there’s a unique tenderness unlike ever before. Minutes seem to stretch on for entire seasons as you watch one another, content to simply coexist and revel in each other’s presences.

It would be so easy to slip off his helmet and kiss him right now.

You stiffen, stunned at your own thought, but you aren’t given the chance to analyze it further as an alarm on the ship’s control panel announces with a resounding beep you’ve reached your destination.

Din spins in his seat, reclaiming control of the steering to begin the ship’s landing process. You look out the front window at the large green-blue planet drawing nearer with every anxious tick of your heartbeat.

“We’re here,” you say needlessly, forcing excitement into your voice. Fake it till you make it, isn’t that the human expression?

“Who is it we’re meeting on this backwater skug hole?” Din asks, pressing a series of buttons above his head.

You kick the back of his seat. “Be nice,” you scold when he shoots you a look. He mutters something unintelligible under his breath as he turns back around, prompting you to roll your eyes. “She’s a goddess of springtime and motherhood. The locals call her Omera.”

Tag List: @leilei-draws​, @theocatkov​, @becauseican2, @vintagesaph​, @stardust-and-starlight​, @kay2304, @odelia-d32, @adrieunor​, @remmyswritings​, @gallowsjoker​, @rhiannon-russo​, @randomness501​, @eleine-t1d​, @nicotinebirds, @sylphene​, @softly-sad​, @maytheglitter​, @melobee​

[jadelynlace]

Ink Drinker / Modern Vikings AU [Ivar x F!Reader], Chapter 5

catch up here!

synopsis: Ivar was only meant to be a friend with benefits, but he caught feelings for his older brother’s best friend, and co-worker: you.

pairing: Ivar x F!Reader

***content warning [PLEASE READ]: this chapter is quite gruesome, please read at your own risk. yes this is based off of a trauma call I actually went to, and yes I am sparing some of the sicker details because it truly was one of the worst calls I had ever walked in on. and yes, it actually happened this way and yes, this helps me heal from it. ok, that is all.

author’s note: I’m so sorry.

✎

A sinful noise comes from Ivar’s mouth in the exact moment you entered in through the threshold. Truthfully, the sound sent a shiver down your spine, worrisome as the twenty four hour shift ended and Ivar had chosen to go to your flat last night, not his own. 

“Why are you in my house, Ivar?” You say to him, eyes scanning over his half naked body as it tangled throughout the sheets, biceps set to curling around the rather feminine color of your duvet.

“Good morning to you too,” Ivar says back with a yawn that croaks from his mouth as he pulls the covers back. “Come lay with me,” Your mind rolls ideas between your ears, behind your eyes as you calculate why Ivar willingly came to your empty place the night prior, when he knew you were working yourself to death on the back of a never ending ambulance.

“That didn’t answer my question, Ivar,” Your voices teases him as you walk about the small space, pulling pins from your collar. He goes silent after your statement, moving the blankets to cover his face out of a twinge of embarrassment, not sure how you would take to learning that he felt better here. Felt happier, even when you weren’t home it gave him that sense that he wasn’t alone. You peek your head back to make out the large mound under the duvet, Ivar rolling under it and flopping on to his stomach. Tossing the discarded blues into your hamper, the tags, keys, pins and your tactical belt are all put away neatly in their homes as you pull on a shirt that no longer has a real shape to it. Ivar’s eyes peel open when you creep the covers off of his face, the cold air rushing against his skin and you’re in his vision—not as blurry to his glasses-less eyes as you make way to snuggle into him.

“Don’t want to creep you out,” Ivar says to you lowly, voice hoarse like sandpaper, scratching in its new use and you only turn your head to give him a sideways look. “It makes me feel better to be here,” He finally admits, fingers busying themselves with the loose hem on your shirt as he still won’t look at you. “Makes me feel less alone even if you’re not here,” You want to sigh, you want to cup his cheeks and push them together like he’s a toddler who’s being too damn adorable for your undertaking, but you can’t. These are words that took him a while to finally speak, progress for what darkness seems to leech in his mind at all hours, and now only a sliver of light comes through because he’s telling you how he feels. The reasoning behind it all, the baring of his soul on the bedsheets and stark naked with his emotions.

“You can come here whenever you want Ivar, you know that.” You say back, eyes searching his and they close briefly, sighing in a moment of relief because you’re not throwing him out on to the street for his choice. “Anything that makes you feel better, you should do,” You tell him, a peck to the corner of his mouth as you settle against him. “As long as it’s legal,” You add quickly, picking your head up in haste to move your point across and Ivar only chuckles as you do.

“You know what makes me feel better?” Ivar whispers and he’s climbs over you, pressing a weight to rein over you and you giggle. Sluggish as he moves with his hair tickling your face and he’s finally made the leeway with his figure, bending his forearms to catch his weight.

“What makes you feel better?” You ask him, looking up at this man who is so hopelessly in love with you he doesn’t even care to hide it on his face.

“You make me feel better,” Ivar tells you and the words hardly escape before his lips are against yours. Languid and soft, relishing in how your nails scratch up his back, humming as they press along his skin like keys on a piano and he finally drops his weight. Laying over you as his lips find their place on your pulse point, grazing the skin like thousands of little needles and you let a breathless moan pass from your tongue. Ivar only hums in response as his mouth stays busy, splotching you and navigating the skin to make sure more of the dots will stay hidden when you put your blues back on. His forehead rests on the length of your collarbone, his hand moving around the mattress to find yours. “I’ve never been in love until I met you,” Ivar whispers against you skin, sinking the praise into your pores and it shatters your heart but repairs it just as quickly. Resting his cheek he finally looks up at you, dragging his fingertips down your nose and there’s a low light that’s dancing off of his features, paling his blue eyes as he gazes at you.

“I love you, too Ivar,” You say softly and you mean the sentence with every single fiber in your body. You’d say it until you were blue in the face if it helped to heal every demon in his mind. He smiles as you say it, like he still can’t believe his luck.

“Want you—but I know you’re tired,” He mumbles and his lips take back to the game against your skin and you know he doesn’t mean to try to turn you in his favor. But you tell him about the coffee you had—more than you should have had if you planned to sleep some of the day away and he’s moving back over you again. Worshipping you with each press of his lips, each roll of his hips as he grinds down against your spread legs. He’s not rushed with how he feels you, how he only kicks his pants off and pulls your bottoms off as you undress fully for him, his eyes just watching your skin as he kisses each knee cap and then he’s back over you. Mouth against yours as the tip of his cock brushes against your opening, how that small notion is already so heavenly and when he’s finally pushing into you, you’re holding back on to him. Letting him know you’re there as he moves slowly in the morning light. Heavy breathing and soft mews between the both of you while Ivar brings you to your peek with the rolls of his hips and his tongue on yours. And he falls with you, panting and coating your walls and humming in pure contentment because this is a sensation he never wants to forget, never lose, as long as he lives, sleeping the morning away tangled between you and the sheets.

*

It had rolled into another slow morning left with nothing other to do than mop the bay’s floors and terrorize Hvitserk with unruly sprays from the soap gun. Laughing as he flinched, all but made inhuman noises whenever your aim got closer to his pristine blues. You two had gone on coffee runs, stopping to grab lunch and snacking away with boots up on the benches as another unrealistic drama show flashes from the screen. It was a bright change for the days that you two had spent together, but the quietness was never welcomed completely without the slow thoughts of what was to come lingering behind it. A car into a semi-truck. Hvitserk tipped his head back and groaned so loudly he nearly fell backwards from his chair. At least you were just able to blaze through the streets of town with loud horns and bright sirens and command the authority to have everyone bow to your right of way. 

It was warm, growing increasingly so in the last few hours and the sun hung well above the road. Scattered with the remains of scrap metal, tangled mess of a car and the comically unbent eighteen wheeler. The fire engine met you on the scene, already blinking with two police cars and in your maneuvering to park the rig close, you caught more of the vehicle wreck. A tangled mess of a black mustang and you could feel the blood drain from your face as your heart stopped.

“Hvitserk,” You whine and that snaps his attention from the back the rig as he’s pulling gloves for both of you. “Oh my god Hvitserk it’s Ivar,” You all but yell and he bolts from the back of the double doors to round the ambulance. And then he sees it. And you see it. Your partner takes off, no protective gear as a shield and you grab him, locking an arm to pull him back as a look of panic crosses him like a field. “Focus,” You hiss at him. “Do your job and fucking focus—you’re the best medic on the god damn team and you need to prove that right now,” But you could say the speech until you’re blue in the face, gasping as the words fall with no meaning because Hvitserk is out of control for the first time ever on a call.

“He’s awake in there,” A voice calls from the other side of the car.

“Get the trauma bag.” You call to your partner and then you take off, steel toes rounding the car and there’s no door to open anymore. Just a blown out rear view window that’s already been cut by those jaws. You see Ivar blink and your mind shuts off completely. 

“Hey baby,” His voice rasps when he sees you in his sight, picking his head up while the crushed front end of the car covers his legs like a blanket. Your heart is stabbed with a knife and you can’t worry about that right now, you can’t worry about how you feel because your uniform is telling you that you’re the only hope for the man you so deeply love.

“Ivar keep your head down please, I need you to stay as still as possible.” You tell him and Hvitserk makes his way behind you. 

“We need the take this side off!” Hvitserk’s voice calls to the fire department. The noise of his voice floats behind you and he pulls another fire fighter to aid him in the collection of equipment he’s sending to you.

“What’s that?” Ivar asks you and you’re reaching behind you for the c-collar. 

“This keeps your neck straight, Ivar, it’s very important that you don’t move. How else are you feeling?”

“My legs feel funny,” Ivar mumbles to you as you lock the device around his neck. At his words you peek down for the first time and your stomach rolls. Churning like a great open sea as you see the mess that is before the two of you. There is no clear cut determining factor of where his legs start and the car ends. 

“Ivar can you feel my hand right here?” You ask him as you have it on his thigh.

“I like it when you touch me there baby,” Ivar slurs and it’s a twist of his words drooling from his mouth as he’s trying to stay awake. Even as his body shuts down. Even with the same bastard smirk. You back out slowly and Hvitserk replaces your spot as quickly as he’ll allow; tunneled vision as he asses Ivar’s closest vein and through a shake in his fingers, hooks him up to a line. “What are you doing brother?” He asks and his voice is smaller now, like a child and Hvitserk only sadly smiles.

“This is pain medicine Ivar, so we can get you out of the car. You’re going to get really tired and I don’t want you to fight it, alright? I’ll see you when you wake up.” Are the last words Ivar registers and his world becomes dark.

The hiss of the saw catches your attention as you watch the sparks sizzle on the heated asphalt. Linens down on the stretcher and reflective gear covering you but your body is so cold, chilled and down right hypothermic as the car groans lowly once it is peeled apart. Like bark from a tree as it curls into scrap metal and Hvitserk cranks two tourniquets on each of Ivar’s legs. 

“Helicopter?” You call to him and he shakes his head.

“It’ll be faster if you drive him down to the trauma center. They won’t fly—it’s too cloudy today,” He calls back and you can’t help but think of the ever going joke about how the pilots don’t fly, even with only one cloud in the whole sky. There’s yelling, screams, the buzz of machines and too much noise but Ivar is still asleep, and you find comfort in the fact that he’s not seeing what you are. Your reflective vest catches the sunlight and it bounces into your face, mixes with your tear filled eyes and you wipe them along your sleeve to smear mascara and sweat. As soon as the command comes from around you that it’s safe, the car is stable and you can reach your patient, you waste no time.

It takes you, Hvitserk and two of the largest firemen on the team to pull Ivar from the wreck. Hooking around his arms and you can still smell his cologne over the burnt rubber that takes up home in your nostrils. His legs are crushed, obliterated and shattered and you’re queasy for the first time ever on a call. They drag behind him like dead limbs as he’s sliding up the back board. Hvitserk tears what was left of his jeans in adrenaline as he tries to wrap what he can to stay sterile but the injuries are far too extreme for you two alone to treat. The mess of mangled flesh and your heart breaks even farther as you see the art work on his skin now a waste because you know how Ivar loves his tattoos. They’re smashed and bent and somehow still there and if it were any other call there would be pictures being taken and you would be exchanging glances with your partner. Treating the rest of what he can and Hvitserk pales, because you both know Ivar may never walk again. 

From above his belt, Ivar looks normal—he looks like the man you saw this morning—your Ivar. Obvious contusions from the seat belt and the airbag, torn shirt cut right up the middle as you attach the stickers to his chest. The Like Pak squeezes an already bulged bicep for his blood pressure and it’s dropping quickly. The non-rebreather mask’s reservoir fills with oxygen and you watch the plastic palpate, the fingers in his left hand twitch like they do when he’s asleep. It feels like a nightmare, loud noises and beating sun with clouds that pass and every time shade greats you, you find another injury on his body. The motions come so simply because your mind has gone, sucked out the window and on a vacation because you need to focus on what you’re doing, now more than ever.

Protruding tibia bones look back at you, knee caps that are now mere powder mock you. You see his bones, you see his muscles, you see every inner part of both of his legs stabbed with shrapnel and the glass, raw and cherry colored, and you think you’re going to pass out as you pull the gurney to the machine that grabs it, sucking into the back of the ambulance. Hvitserk jumps back there you slam the doors so quickly, trying to shut that world out to focus on this one. And then you pull the ambulance around and gun it, sandwiching the peddle between your blood covered boot and the ambulance’s floor. Even over the sirens, the blare of the horn you can hear your partner praying. Praying to a God he doesn’t believe in for his brother to live through this as the monitor sings a tune that Ivar is crashing.

“Come on brother—don’t do this to me,” He curses and pulls another vile, cranks the oxygen flow and sends more fluid into his body. “Don’t do this to me Ivar. Not today. Not today, Ivar,” And the tears finally start again in your eyes as you curse the vehicle for not going any faster. For its limit of one hundred and twenty miles per hour on the open lane of the freeway because cars have spread. They’ve parted as this creature screams for them to obey and you see the cop cars ahead of you, trying to pave the way and then the flight car. Your section chief right on your front bumper and you know he can tell its you driving the ambulance. You’re the fastest driver he’s ever employed and now is the time to remember that—and your job as you all carry Ivar’s body from this battle, into a much worse one.

Ink Drinker Tags:

@smileysam13579 @dreamtherapy @heisentwerk  @angelofthenightposts @ill-skillsgard @youaremyfamiliar @unbetaedimagines @kathryn-jane @readsalot73 @skrsgardspam @lihikainanea @queen-sarang   @anastasiaskarsgard @andmyannabellee @walkxthexmoon  @flowers-in-your-hayr @peachyboneless @heavenly1927 @istorkyou @victoria-styles @quantumlocked310 @xbellaxcarolinax @mighty-ragnarssons @alexhandersen-marcoilsoe-fandom @queen-of-upshur @nanahachikyuu @fandomlifeandeverythingelse @ivarhoegh @a5hl3y5ibley  @apenas-mais-uma-pessoa  @youbloodymadgenius @love-all-things-writing  @theanxietyqueen17 @trip2themoon @tgrrose @synnersaint 

*please message me to let me know if you would like to be added or removed from my tag list. specifications for series/etc. are also welcomed, as well as feedback.*

full masterlist can be found here.

[kelchase]

RNM Create 2021 | Day 2:  AU

I have been thinking about posting a rec list since June but, for some reason, I felt overwhelmed every time I wanted to sit down to put one together.  A friend of mine finally convinced me to submit one for @roswellnewmexicocreate so here I am.  Doing the thing. (Hopefully correctly - I’ve never created a rec list or participated in an event 😂 - please be kind) I don’t know that I will participate any other days but I do love to escape into a good AU so I think this was the right day to contribute.  If you haven’t checked out any of these stories I hope you will or revisit them if you haven’t read them in awhile.  Happy reading! :)

Send Me Home by @litwitlady (69,108 - completed)

Michael Guerin is the star first baseman for the Atlanta Braves. Alex Manes is a Nashville superstar. They meet at an after-game concert one cool September night, instantly connecting and unable to stay apart from one another. As Michael battles loneliness and a desire to embrace his various identities, he and Alex grow closer despite the many obstacles standing in their way.

Why I love it:  

1.  Aliens...but make it baseball. 😂  With that being said, the baseball is really secondary in this story. 

2. Honestly, Michael’s character growth throughout this story - *chef’s kiss*.  At the beginning of the story he thinks he is so alone with his secret & that he can’t trust anyone with it.  He eventually trusts his secret to Alex and Danny (aka one of the most wonderful OCs to ever exist) and they accept him for who he is.  Between Alex, and Danny and his family, he finds the home and family that he always longed for, realizing he is not as alone as he originally thought.  I hope we will eventually get to see this kind of love and support on the actual show.

3. You never doubt Michael and Alex’s love/attraction for each other.  Michael was all in right away to the point of making me giggle in delight as I followed along. 

4. The smut is 🔥 & I’ll leave it at that. 😉

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Hold Onto This Lullaby by southern_stars

After moving in with Alex, Michael starts to adopt some of his habits.

Why I love it:  I often think while watching RNM “just let Malex be happy!”  This story delivers the every day domestic fluff that I dream of.

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Heartbeat series by @adiwriting (133,057 - WIP)

During the lost decade, Alex gets Michael pregnant and Michael doesn't see or hear from him again for the next four and a half years. When Alex comes back to town, he discovers he has a daughter with Michael and they all have to figure out how to be a family.

Why I love it:

1.  I’ll be very upfront with you.  Mpreg is not my thing - no disrespect to anyone who enjoys it; it’s just not my usual cup of tea.  I truly almost did not read this story because of it and, let me tell you, my life would be lacking if I had not decided to give it a chance.  I will also mention that you see very little of Michael’s pregnancy in this series thus far.  I would say that there are less than a handful of flashback stories where you get a glimpse.

2. NOVA MAE.  @adiwriting has dreamed up the most wonderful little mixture of Michael and Alex.  She is smart and strong and sassy and I just love that Michael and his support system cultivated these characteristics in this vibrant little 4 year old.  I honestly just want to be Nova Mae when I grow up.

3. The fatherhood.  It melts me.  I have this secret notion of Isobel being a surrogate for Michael & Alex on the show.  I know that it is wishful thinking & highly doubt it will ever come to fruition so I’m happy to live in the world of Nova Mae and pretend. I also enjoy seeing the growth of Alex & Michael coming back together in their relationship while navigating fatherhood & parenting.

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See Something You Like? by @prouvaireafterdark (14067 - completed)

Monday afternoons at Pandora's Box are the best. They’re notoriously slow so Michael gets to work his shift alone, which gives him ample time to grade the engineering assignments he procrastinated on all weekend while he sits behind the counter.

It’s a Monday afternoon, in fact, about a year and a half later, when Michael hears the bell above the door chime softly to announce the arrival of a customer who would change his life forever.

***

The Malex Sex Shop AU™️

Why I love it:  Sometimes you just need some filthy smut in your life and this story delivers. 🔥 Author does a great job with her tags if you want to see if it’s something that would float your boat. 😉

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*Special mention: 

My Crown is in My Heart series by @litwitlady

This was an arranged marriage fic between Michael & Alex that was a work in progress. I was unable to track it down on AO3 so I assume the author has since removed it but I still think about this story so often that I had to mention it.  I hope she doesn’t mind.

Why I loved it:

1. All I want from RNM is some alien soulmate bullshit & I think this story was headed in that direction.

2. I rarely care about political side stories in my fic but I was honestly intrigued by the world that was being built around the truce between humans and the alien race.  

3.  If I’m recalling correctly, Michael was an alien king (albeit somewhat reluctantly) & I enjoy anytime that Michael gets to be the focal point over Max.

@litwitlady should you ever decide to revisit this universe, you will have at least one very loyal reader. Also, if I totally missed the story on AO3, please feel free to reach out & I will edit my post.

[roguestarsailor]

my hot take on mal and why hes wonderful and why malina is the proper coupling (and im gonna shit on darkling/darklina for a bit)

*these might not be new thoughts but i want to express my love for mal and malina (and i just finished the books like a few hours ago so my brain is on fire) there was so much mal slander on the malina tags and i wanted to throw in my 2 cents!!*

- mal literally had nobody. this kid is a literal orphan! i love that he figured out what to fight for and kept his head in the game. i am a sucker for characters who needs to fight to get anywhere in life. he was gifted the tracking skill and befriending alina and thats it. characters like him have grit and a personality that makes them tough and fearless and i am always going to root for their happy endings

- this poor man has to face these super powerful beings without powers. its hella intimidating to be just regular while being surrounded by folks who can blast light, manipulate winds and waters and fabricate things from nothing. he worked with what he got and that was tracking and being physically fit to fight and i fucken applaud that!!!

- he never got in alina's way. i think whats tragic is that he internalized how much of a "low born"/"nobody" he was and saw that alina was destined for so much more and he made sure he was useful at all times. at the beginning of seige and storm, it felt like mal was hindering alina because she couldnt use her powers and that made her feel like complete shit (i wasn't team mal at that moment but what else were they suppose to do. darkling was worse tbh!!)

- he's just a kid. hes struggling! i was sad when it was confirmed that he and zoya were a thing for a bit (and has been with other girls) but thats just being a teen in a war torn society (and also hyping him up to be desirable for the audience)

- even his maturity is very much in line with him being a kid and trying to navigate being a soldier and then having to shifting his entire purpose to aligning with just alina. he was suppose to just be a soldier, and die honorably depending whos attacking who. but he rejected his training/soldier mindset and found alina because he knew she needed him! he could have died soooo many times, he lost friends but he had to roll with the punches the entire time. and again, this man got nothing going for him! just his love for alina!

- i dont think YA books appreciate the boys without power; those who aren't royalty and aren't born with wealth and poise. mal had to learn to survive at an early age and that includes learning to be likeable and social, being a skilled soldier, and tracker (but that was a gift). i love that alina also started out in a shitty position but she also learned her power and voice.

- mal lets alina be herself! I love female protagonists who are ambitious and want to stay in power but for alina, i like that she wants the ordinary things. she wants a normal life that isn't full of explosion, talk of war or politics or grand dresses. mal let her be goofy and let her be childlike-- see their banter, see their mischiefs growing up. darkling and nikolai needed her to be a summonor/weapon and a queen/leader. they demanded her to use her powers and be a face that decorated their arms; they demanded her to be this surreal being that hordes of people will follow. she has to be regal; has to be poised and laugh and smile on command; be an intimidating figure especially in this war torn country.

- mal wanted alina because she's his best friend! thats it! my favorite moment (and ended up being the sad moment) was in ruin and rising when there was a meteor shower and nikolai found alina first and them walking together arm-in-arm to go see it. mal, with a big smile on his face, was rushing to her to tell her about the shower but stopped short when he saw them together. in that paragraph, alina talked about how mal always ran to her when something that made him happy happens (ugh my sappy heart!!!)

- grishas are the marginalized group and face horrendous torture and systematic prejudges and ravka should have been a place they could feel safe. i like that darkling was fighting for them...but it falls apart when it seems he was hell bent on making sure alina fall in line. he could be that radical; thats fine but he was so obsessed with alina; he was manipulative !!

- i know we're suppose to sympathize with him because he grew up filled with hatred from his mom, grew up in a society that hates people like him and at its core, hes just a lonely boy where nobody understands him because hes soooo powerful and can live 5ever and only alina could understand him because her power measures up to him. but heres the thing, just learn to be a good person wtf??? also he had his mom???? he had someone???? also learn to make friends?? mal fucken did it and he got nobody. learn to build ships??? like nikolai who is an outcast in his own family. (im harsh to characters that live forever and refuse to budge from their original notion about the world. because u spent all that time being alive and not do a thing about that??)

- darkling just latched onto alina for her power. and he is demanding her to be his partner without understanding her and what she needs. he flirts w her, seduces her and plays her so he can be the ultimate powerful figure to lead ravka--so his goal stopped being saving grisha and demanding things from people. ugh how can anybody ship darkling and alina???

- at no point would it feel balanced if alina and darkling were a thing because alina will constantly play catch up. she will always feel like she has to be an adult and has to be this face for the people to follow. she could live with him forever and what?? learn to love him??? i guess??? doing what?? controlling ravka forever???

- anyways i love mal. i dont think hes boring. while browsing the tag for s&b and malina, it was just filled with mal slander! and this is my response to some of the hate. he's literally trying his goddamn best; he literally has no power and has to learn to defend himself the best he can. he is the type of character that has to fight for his survival, fight for his worth and fight for his love!!!! whats not to like???

[vercopaanir]

Chapter 28: Blood Running Cold

Masterlist

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Blind!(Fem)Reader

Summary: The bounty boards the Razor Crest while Din is hurt and the child is incapacitated.

Words: 5.1k

Rating/Warnings: T, for mentions of violence.

Notes: Whew, it’s been a spell! Thank you all so, so much for tagging me in things, sending sweet messages, and reblogging me in stuff! It’s been so nice to check back in every now and then and know I haven’t been forgotten while my body betrays me. This chapter has been written for a while, but I could not get myself together to actually edit it. I hope it still delivers and that you all enjoy reading. Special shout-out to mandhoelorian for guessing who/what Din’s special bounty is. Read more to find out!

AO3

There is nothing quite like hunger. When you were abandoned as a young child, eating unripened berries, questionable plants, and bugs with too many spindly legs to survive, you remember the pain in your belly, the cramps that seemed to strangle you so tightly they would lift you off your feet. Hunger, like any pain, is a constant throb, a dull ache, something that sinks its hooks into the mind and slows time until it suffocates. 

You should eat, you know. You have not put food in your mouth in nearly two days, but the very idea of anything that isn’t a prayer passing your lips makes you feel sick enough to struggle just to keep water down. Your fingers begin to shake as you mend shirts, closing up holes and tears like wounds. 

The child is still unconscious, unmoving like a stone, with a clammy perspiration on his wrinkled brow that soaks his blanket in the silently floating pram. You check on him until the inside of your shoes wear against the delicate skin of your ankles from walking back and forth. You have not been without him before, not since your freedom was bought, and the black hole of silence that fills the metal void of the Razor Crest makes your nerves feel raw and exposed.

Din is still unconscious and unmoving, too. You had been able to wrestle him to his feet, buckling beneath the near-dead weight of him before bullying him onto the medical cot. You remove all the beskar beforehand, of course, and still he is heavy enough to cause you to pull a muscle when you try lifting him. You strip him of his torn, burned clothing and bring down the blankets from the bed in the captain’s quarters, knowing to sweat a fever will help. You can’t be sure what the fever is from, though, be it his healed burns or having stayed in the elements for so long. He’d been conscious long enough for his eyes to blink open, his brow dripping sweat into his gaze before pressing his sticky forehead to your own in relief.

Then, he passed out again.

In the afternoon, when the sun is at its peak, you risk opening the hull and collecting snow in the beskar chest plate like an oversized bowl, packing it tightly in clean cloths and keeping it on Din’s back and a cold wet rag on his forehead when his fever waxes and wanes.

Even when he is at his most alert, his most talkative, he is a quiet man by nature, but his presence fills the emptiness with familiarity that you now miss. This silence that the child and his father leave behind in their sickness is like a well with no bottom, cold and deep and dark, and you do your damndest to distract yourself.

You try to clean a little, though it doesn’t hold your interest, still allowing your mind to wander back to those breathless moments when you were alone in the world without him. You wake from half sleep throughout the night, head throbbing and mad with grief that he might still be gone. But, you curl against the wall, tucked across from the small medical bay where he lay asleep, his back rising and falling with steadier breaths each time you look upon him.

It is not so much his dedication and loyalty to you, but the companionship you two have fostered over these long weeks. You had never had such a person to fill your day with, to listen to you and respect you. It occurs to you, looking down at the half mended shirt now splotched with your tears, that Din Djarin is your dearest friend. The quiet revelation leaves you hiccupping with loneliness, and you put away the needlework in frustration.

The burn salve takes away the last sting of heat and redness upon his back, and when you trace your hand over the lovely slope and dip of his shoulder, all you feel is cool, smooth skin. You cup both Din and the child’s face while they sleep, holding a cup to their cracked lips to slip water down their throat. It is met with no resistance, and you worry even more when they will wake up.

Using melted snow for water becomes a welcome distraction. You find it’s easier to melt and boil for clean water than wasting the reserves on the Crest, though you slip a few times, falling hard on the metal exit ramp from the slickness of your boots. Face flushed, you’re thankful no one is around to see, scowling at your own lack of balance and clumsiness. 

Day turns into night, and with it comes that awful, echoing wind that beats against the outside of the ship. You turn the engines on enough to recycle the warm air that chases the chill away, working to clean and organize the crates twice over until you’re damp with sweat and aching in your arms and legs. It is hard, fumbling with things in the dark with such poor sight, but you dedicate yourself to it. Creating distractions is more difficult than the chores you come up with, but it tires you out enough that your eyelids grow heavy. You take a turn around the cockpit, turning everything off now that the ship is warm enough to last through the night, and you close the doors. 

It is easier for you to navigate your surroundings if things are kept a certain way. Doors closed, cabinets shut, things put away in their place. You are lucky that Din is naturally an organized and overall neat individual, and you’ve found he prefers his own things-weapons, food, clothes-kept tidy and stored. You imagine you’d be at your wit’s end if you had to keep bumping or tripping into things, and for a moment, as you stare down at the sleeping man in question, you wonder if he’s always been that way. Was he a particular little boy who grew into a particular man?

Or did he become one? For the child? For you?

The pram is just beside you, and you find yourself smiling, grimacing over the notion that you are the one sleeping nearest the door now. You are sleeping on the floor, beside the medical cot, but you are still the one nearest any possible danger.

You wonder what Din would think about that if he was awake. You hope he would be proud.

Sleep comes easily, but rest remains elusive. You feel as if you sense everything around you as you doze, never fully slipping into the dark deep of dreams. Perhaps that is just as well, you will think later, when an eerie sound of metal scraping metal drags you back to consciousness. For a moment, you think it is the child, awake and dragging around some tool or getting into playful mischief once more, but as you listen, you realize the sound is coming from outside the hull.

A tinny, high pitched shriek of steel on steel, as if the very ice is sinking its teeth into the ship, and you fumble to sit up in the bulky tent of your cloak, blinking blindly in the near darkness. 

It stops suddenly, and you look towards the door before a terrible crash nearly shakes the hatch off its hinges. It rattles the very teeth in your head, and you struggle to suddenly stand, your heart thundering against your breast in terror. Another heavy crash, a heavy, metallic ramming that you feel in your chest and hurts. Something is being thrown against the hatch, and this time, they will get in.

The first thing that comes to mind is how your father had picked you up from playing with a worn, threadbare cloth doll when your family home had been stormed, and it is in your genetics, you think, to put your hands on Din’s shoulders as he lay sleeping. His eyes flutter, delicately long lashes kissing his cheeks. There are not many places to hide on the Razor Crest, built efficiently and with military power in mind. There is suddenly too much open space and not enough-

Crawl space.

You drop to your knees and feel along the corrugated metal flooring until your fingertips come into contact with the latch set flush into the floor. Din had once told you to mind your step in the hull, and often would call that he was working on panels and wires hidden beneath so you would not trip and fall in. You wrestle the latch open, sliding and pushing it up to open the small covering. You can feel with your arm it’s barely big enough for one person, and you make up your mind without a second thought, turning back to the sleeping warrior and throwing one of his arms over your shoulder.

His entire body is burning with fever again, and your knees buckle halfway across the floor beneath his weight. He wears no armor, but he’s still nearly too much for your spasming muscles to bear. You hold onto his shoulders, then his arms, bullying him into the crawl space until his legs fold beside him. Then, you let him drop softly against the metal wall. Every move you make is clumsy, rushed with panic and shaking with uncertainty from being unable to see.

You lift the baby out of his pram next, swaddled in his blue cotton blanket, and as an afterthought, you grab the beskar helmet that lays inside the medical cot. You affix the child until he is nestled in Din’s lap, folding yourself in half to reach beneath the floor so that you can let the helmet fit and slip over his head. If you are discovered, you think, his face will be protected, at least.

There is a sudden, shuddering movement that seems to rock the entire ship, and you catch yourself before shutting the crawl space again. It’s followed by a loud whirring sound, like an electric tool being dug into the side of the hull. With man and child stowed beneath your feet like cargo, you struggle to stand, planting your feet firmly over your racing heart. You can’t hide in the cockpit, the fresher, or the medical bay closure-it all seems too obvious.

There is a sickening shriek of the sound of metal bending, and your eyes settle on that darkened part of the ship Din had told you to never go near. Taking a quick breath, you grab the amban rifle and your staff, securing the latter to your side and the former over your shoulder, and you march into the darkened corner.

It only takes you three slippery steps to reach the carbonite freezer, the durasteel plated frame for the next bounty hanging like a cold slab for a dead body. You’re just the right size to slip behind it, the metal painfully pressing against every soft curve you have.

Just as you yank the rifle to your side, the hatch of the Razor Crest is wrenched open, falling open with a deafening thud.

You lift your free hand and cover your mouth, sweat pooling from your brow and dripping into your eyes as you try and catch your breath silently. Heavy boots hit the hull’s flooring, and you close your eyes tightly.

The pacing pauses, and you can hear noisy breathing through a helmet. There is a series of clicks, perhaps on a handheld device of some kind, or even on a weapon. You can’t be sure, but you focus on picturing the sounds in your head rather than your encroaching panic.

The heavy footfalls resume, moving away from the freezer. A slam shakes the entire ship, and you think whoever it is has opened the fresher. A few more footsteps precede another rattling crash, which you know is the medical cot being shoved back into the bay. 

Whoever the intruder is, he is searching for something.

You can hear his lumbering footfalls climbing the ladder, and you’re tempted to move. The sudden blast of icy air from outside hits the paneling of the carbonite freezer, and you feel it in your bones. Frost crackles and splinters, beginning to coat the metal of the inside of the ship.

Loud noises from the upper deck make you jump, cabinets being flung open, objects being thrown, walls being shaken. The ship itself is safe from being taken, the main controls linked to Din’s vambraces, and the rest of his armor is safely stowed in one of the crates beneath medical supplies.

You hear it when the intruder’s boots slam into the ground as he slides back down the ladder. He must be a well built warrior, or perhaps his armor is just heavy. His pace quickens with frustration as he walks the length of the hull, shoving aside boxes and supplies with an angry urgency. 

It’s when you can hear the pacing nearly directly across from the freezer that you can’t contain your need to know any longer. You press your head to the side, listening to the rousing sounds of crates being broken open and supplies being thrown around the hull. You peer between the gap of the steel plate and the inside of the freezer.

Even blind, you know the blinding white armor of a stormtrooper when you see one.

Though, this is a different set of armor, slashed with deep crimson along the joints and helmet, and the weapon he carries is nothing like you’ve ever seen before. It’s nearly as long as Venka is tall, wide of barrel and heavy with artillery. It connects to an odd, black pack on the soldier’s back, but you can’t make out any details. You slip your head back behind the metal plate, heart racing when you hear the trooper’s boot connect with the side of one of the crates, cracking it in fury.

He snarls curses that have you red to the tips of your hair, and you listen with slow encroaching joy as he storms towards the hatch. 

You drop your head forward against the steel plate in thankfulness, but the hinge holding it to the ceiling gives a quiet creak.

Immediately, the stormtrooper stops walking.

Blood running cold and your fingers gripping the body of the rifle, you move as slowly as you’re able, breathing silently through your nose as you gently lean your head backward. Bootsteps draw nearer, a slow, cautious tempo, and you hear the unmistakable click of a firearm being drawn from a holster. You take a deep breath and brace against the back of the carbonite freezer. 

For a moment, silence stretches out, save for the soft breathing through the modulated helmet, and you are just about to relax when a creaking, splintering shadow appears in your periphery. Like creeping spider's legs, long, black gloved fingers begin to wrap around the edges of the carbonite plate that shields you from view, and you know now he has found you. 

With a terrible wrench, the stormtrooper yanks the plating away, and...nothing.

The plate is secured firmly above and below, making it impossible to remove without a specialized tool or vambrace. You were only just slim enough to slide between, and the realization breaks over your blinding panic as the soldier continues to shake and yank on the plate uselessly. He slams his fist against it, the metallic reverberation making your ears ring before storming off.

This time, you wait until his footsteps retreat, past the metal ramp, and then you wait just a short while longer. You wait so long that the cold from the open hatch begins to make your teeth chatter, but you don't move a moment too soon.

The blast of icy wind pouring into the ship nearly takes you out at the knees when you push yourself out of your hiding spot, and you run to the control panel, feeling with your hand for the switch and the buttons you know releases the hatch back up into the ship. Sparks hiss from the top of the panel, and you flinch back, sucking in a breath when the ramp shudders before falling back into the snow. Whatever the stormtrooper had done to the door, it compromised the panel, and you are certainly no engineer.

It’s the night that won’t end, you think miserably, dropping your forehead against the cool metal wall.

A light scraping makes your temples prick with aggravation before you realize it’s coming from beneath the floor. Whirling about and dropping to your knees, you slide your hands along the corrugated metal until your fingers find the latch. When you draw it up, it’s too dark for you to see, but you can hear Din rumbling and sliding in the narrow crawl space, attempting to stand up.

His voice sounds about as smooth as a rusted used engine part. “Why am...I in the floor?” 

The wobbly smile that pulls at your lips holds back a near hysterical bubble of laughter, and you sniffle, wiping your eyes with the tips of your fingered gloves. “It’s a long story,” you say, voice choked and hoarse. You give him your hand, and the two of you work awkwardly to pull him up out of the hole. 

The baby is snuggled against his chest, still swaddled and sleeping, though his coloring is significantly better, you think. You silently lift the child from Din’s arms, letting him turn his helmet this way and that as he takes in the disarray of the hull. His hand rubs the back of his neck before he stops, and you think he must remember his injuries because he pulls his hand back to look at it as if he expects to see blood.

“What happened, Cyare?”

By the time you recount the whole of it, Din has managed to fix the compromised panel to get the hatch to close securely, cutting off the arctic winds bellowing into the ship. You tell him of the burns, his injured state, his fever (which he assures you has broken beneath his helmet), the child healing him, and the stormtrooper who overturned the entire ship. 

It didn’t seem like such a mess when you first looked around with your mottled sight, but now you can see crates overturned, supplies and food strewn about. The refresher is nearly torn apart, and upstairs the captain’s quarters is a disaster. All you want is to crawl into bed and sleep without thinking of a time to be up, but you can’t leave this all to Din.

After tucking the baby into his pram, forcing the worry down and away, you prioritize your thoughts, kneeling amidst the medical supplies and frowning in concentration. You’re in the middle of rolling up some gauze, listening to Din shuffle and tinker and try to hide his soreness. You can’t banish the memory of the stormtrooper’s glove, and you turn your face toward where he stands.

“Who are they?”

Din pauses from where he’s trying to reassemble the shower shelf, his helmet tilting toward you and catching the light. You shift to rest back on your heels, dropping the gauze in the crate and gently feeling for the other supplies strewn about. You scoop up several medkits, pulling yourself up by the side of the crate.

“The bounty. It was your bounty, who came aboard, wasn’t it? The stormtrooper?”

He turns back to his task, rehanging the shelf and collecting the few bars of soap and bottles the two of you keep in the shower. When it’s functional and put together once again, he shuts the door and walks carefully over to you, crouching down on the balls of his sock-clad feet.

“Yes.”

You focus on affixing the lid onto the crate, and the two of you are silent for a while, working side by side in companionable and shared space. When the hull is free of mess, you feel yourself sway on your feet. 

Din captures your elbow in a gentle cup of his hand, and you can hear the concern bleeding into his voice when he asks, “When was the last time you slept?”

“I don’t remember,” you puff out a laugh, though there’s no humor in it. You allow him to lead you to the ladder, and climbing up to the second deck feels like an effort fit for the Maker. Din rearranges the overturned mattress and sheets, and when he leaves to adjust the heating system, you check on the sleeping infant again. Rather than dozing like a stone, he turns his tiny face toward your fingers in sleep when you stroke his ear, and your heart feels lighter at the response.

A warm blast of air comes through the vents above, but it is nothing compared to being wrapped up in the arms of the Mandalorian who comes to stand behind you. 

“You’ve been so brave,” he whispers against your ear, his naked face pressing into your hair. You shiver, leaning back against him with nearly all your weight. “I’m so sorry I didn’t protect you, Cyare.” 

For a moment that hangs suspended in the cold darkness of the ship, you close your eyes and let every shadow and shape melt away. The secure, warm feeling of his arms, the rhythmic breathing of his chest against your back, the gentle scrape of facial hair against the side of your neck where he buries his face all merge into a kaleidoscope of sensations that make you dizzy. You want to tell him that he shouldn’t apologize for anything. You want to weep that he was right, that this is too much for you, too much responsibility to bear watching him leave and knowing he might not come back.

But you’re too tired for that conversation. In fact, you’re too tired to even express how tired you are, because the next thing you know, you’re waking up in bed, tucked up to your chin with blankets. Your limbs are stiff and sore, your throat and mouth dry as a bone. You can’t tell the time, nor can you decipher how long you’ve been asleep. All you know is that you feel like you’ve slept a millennium, and you’re in bed alone.

When you sit up, your orientation tilts, and you nearly fall forward, sucking in a breath and bracing yourself on the edge of the mattress. You use your hand to touch your stomach, feeling the soft fabric of your sleeping shift, and you wiggle your toes inside thicker woolen socks that are several sizes too big for you. You don’t even remember falling asleep, let alone being dressed for bed, but you know who will.

He’s piloting, fully encased within the cold beskar armor, which you see from the polished gleam that the silver glare of hyperspace reflects. He looks even better than he did before being injured, you think, peeking around the open doors of the cockpit. One ankle of his boot is tossed carelessly over his knee, his arms holding the sleeping child in his lap. His hands are covered in gloves, new ones that share identical orange leather fingers. It’s almost as if he hadn’t been scorched from nearly head to toe, and you blink, standing dumbly in the threshold, feeling out of place and more dreaming than waking.

When he turns his helmet towards you, the chair creaks from the base, and it makes you flinch, reminds you of the stiffness in your limbs. You sit in the copilot seat, perched on the very edge in case of something else terrible happening, but the longer Din seems to gaze at you, the more you come to hear the little one’s soft snores, strong and rhythmic. Your shoulders drop, and you sit back against the leather seat.

“You were talking in your sleep.”

You blink at that, tilting your head curiously at the shadow of your lover, drawing your legs up to curl beside you. Still half drowsy with dreams you don’t remember, you lean your temple against the cold metal siding of the wall and sigh. “Anything interesting?”

“My name.” He pauses, looking down at the child. “Venka, and Corde.”

You wonder, if the child had a name, if you would have said his, too.

“Who was it, Din?” you whisper, slowly wringing your hands together in your lap. Now that you are in hyperspace, you know you are safe, you can be whole. His wounds are, after all, more healed than before he was injured, even though there may be missing pieces of your solace of mind, now. “The bounty. He didn’t...he didn’t seem-”

“He was a member of an elite and specialized task force,” Din’s voice is rough, cold, and hoarse, and you wonder what he is imagining as he describes his bounty. A shiver runs along your back, the planes and curves he has touched, and you bite your lip. He draws one forefinger along the tiny wrinkles of the baby’s brow, more gentle and tender than you’ve ever seen. “A stormtrooper raised to burn whole clans and cities and villages to nothing.” 

You think of the oddly shaped object he was carrying, the sloshing of liquid you now know was some kind of fuel for incineration, and you shudder at what could have happened to you and the child. What did happen to Din.

“That’s why you were so hurt,” you whisper, and he nods once.

“Surprised me,” he mutters, dropping his hand away from the baby to flex his fingers over the armrest of the pilot’s chair. “Damn armor blends into the snow.” 

The two of you sit quietly, and you consider this new information with the foggy memory of the soldier who overturned the Crest. Still, something doesn’t make sense to you. Two slotted pieces that don’t quite match, that won’t fit, and you can’t sit still. “I don’t understand,” you finally heave a sigh, brow furrowing. “Why does...why does the Empire want one of their own?”

Din shrugs lightly beneath his gleaming pauldrons. “I don’t ask questions.” 

Of course not.

You breathe noisily through your nose. Bracing your hands upon your legs, you sit forward, narrowing your eyes. “It’s important to understand what we’re doing if this is to release us from underneath their thumb, don’t you think?” you ask quietly, your patience a living, wriggling thing.

“What I’m doing,” Din corrects, looking away from you then. “You will stay far away from it. That was the deal.”

You’re on your feet then, fast and striking, and you shove the heel of your hand into the back of his chair so it swings his helmet towards you.

“That deal was broken when I almost lost you,” you whisper, your voice wobbling on the painful knot choking your throat. You force any threat of tears back, steeling every soft part of your body into an unshakable fortress. Din’s shoulders draw up in defense, but you drop your other hand to the side of his cloth covered neck, loving and warm. You cannot see his face, but you know he’s holding your gaze. “This isn’t just about you, or the child, Din. Your actions have more consequences than just losing your own life, now.” 

His chest plate begins to rise and fall like a shining, silvery wave, churning in the midst of a storm, and you are ready for him to use his size, his presence to push back against you. You are surprised when he does not, when he lays one hand over the child asleep on his lap and presses the crown of his helmet back into the headrest, presenting. 

“What do you want from me?” he rasps, harsh and angry. Perhaps the anger once would have made you timid, but you recognize his fear for what it is. You grab his hand that threatens to choke the life out of the armrest, leaning over him until you can press your brow to his helmet.

“Teach me to fight.” You hear him suck in air, holding his breath, and you lean firmer to ground him. “To defend myself, properly. To defend our children,” your voice catches on the last word, blinking against your blind, stinging eyes. You squeeze his fingers as tightly as you can, dragging air into your lungs as if drowning. “I don’t want to hide like that. Ever again.”

Din drops his head forward, almost pushing you away in his attempt to press the visor of his helmet against the softness of your belly. You drape your arms around his neck, rubbing against the newly healed expanse of his back. You feel his words more than hear them, the modulator muffled against the fabric of your gown. “I should have protected you better.” 

Your hands are not gentle when you slide them beneath his chin, pulling his visor upward to look at you. “We have to do this together. It cannot be one-sided,” you murmur, feeling his hand resting on the slope of your waist. You slip your fingers beneath the lip of his helmet, feeling newly shaven skin on his cheek. “Who will protect you?”

He chuckles, dropping his visor again against your stomach, and you feel him sink against you this time when he sighs. You rest against him, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand while the other lays warm against the back of his shirt. The two of you enjoy the silence, companionable and soft until a little gurgle perks you up.

When Din sits back, the baby’s eyes blink open, bleary and heavy, and you drop to your knees with a soft coo, kissing his brow. Din’s hand caresses the back of your head as the two of you marvel over the waking baby on lap, an entire wave of gratefulness nearly drowning you both. The child holds out a shaking three fingered hand out until he can grasp the Mandalorian’s forefinger. 

“You can’t do this alone,” you whisper again, your heart in your throat as you look upon your little one. “Not now. Not anymore.” 

“I know,” Din whispers, and you think he must know the sacrifice of the child, the gift he has been given in being pulled back from that hollow darkness, because he sits a little taller now, tilting his visor toward you. “You’re right.”

Your hands take the baby when he passes him to you, and those familiar petal ears begin to lift in happiness, his mouth smacking hungrily as you shoulder him, standing on wobbly feet. Din turns from you to the controls, pulling his navigation up with the lazy knowledge of a pilot who has crossed thousands of parsecs. 

“So you will teach me?” you ask, leaning against the side of the pilot’s chair. The child begins tugging at your collar for attention, but your sight is trained on the sharpened silver of the beskar.

“No.” His voice is brusque enough to drop your heart like a stone, but you feel blindsided with excitement when he glances up at you and says, “But I know someone who does. Ever been to Sorgan?”

-

Mando’a Translations:

Cyare - Beloved

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[crispyjenkins]

Thot obiwan... just him being a thot and happy (it’s what he deserves) pls no obitine lol

(went a poly route with this cause i wasn't sure how to write thot!obi without making myself uncomfortable, so instead have poly obi and his seven partners! it’s like scott pilgrim except obi’s still dating them all. a mix of triads and Vs here! because i’m soft for big polycules

couldn’t get to more detail in such a short fill, but all ships are tagged if there’s any confusion! (ノ*´◡`) i will absolutely be returning to poly!Obi in the future.)  

Rex promptly, and calmly, chokes on his first sip of tea.

  Cody sighs, because he isn't exactly clear on the details either. "Yes, all of them. "

  "Is that... Is that... allowed?"

  "High General Ti is also on the council, it must be." The last twenty five hours since rescuing his general and the rest of Ghost Company from Ventress’ latest plot have been rather confusing for Cody, from Obi-Wan’s debrief to the holocall with the council, to Obi-Wan’s four other holocalls that Cody isn't entirely sure he was meant to see. He supposes he should feel grateful that Senator Organa had recently returned to Alderaan, or it could have been more. 

  Rex's eyes go distant as he does the math, a couple of brothers ducking around them where they've stopped in the middle of the hall. "That's... five people, Cody."

  "Yes, Rex, I can count." He grabs Rex's elbow to start steering him towards the hangar again, where they’re supposed to be greeting some new Shinies in less than five minutes. 

  "But what about Ventress? And isn't General Fisto—"

  "With Bly and General Secura? Yes. As for Ventress, as far as I can tell, the General... is simply like that with everyone he fights." It certainly calls into question quite a few "interactions" Cody has witnessed in his two years at Obi-Wan’s side, anyways. Fett's left sheb, does he have to worry about Ohnaka?

  For all that Rex had been CC track just by being smart, he doesn't seem any more sure of the situation than Cody is. "Fett's left sheb," he agrees, bewilderedly tossing his flimsi cup of tea into a waste receptacle without actually having drunk any. "Bly never said anything."

  Cody grunts and thumbs the edge of the helmet in his hands. "He isn't involved with General Kenobi."

  "Cody, brother, that doesn't make sense." He punctuates the notion with a wild swing of his hand, narrowly missing a tech clone, who takes one look at the two of them and decides he isn't going to try and go toe-to-toe with two war heroes. "Where did you hear this? If it was Fives, you should know by now–”

  “The General told me himself.” Sort of, anyways — Obi-Wan is rarely blind to his surroundings, and he had not dismissed Cody after the debrief with the council, so he must have meant for him to see. Why he had been meant to see is still up for debate, especially when Cody had waited all of four hours before telling Rex; no secrets among brothers, or what have you.

  “I suppose what the generals do in their spare time is their business,” Rex mutters. “And it’s not as if the Jedi are anything the longnecks said they were, anyways. But Kote...”

  He could do without the pitying look Rex gives him. “As you said: it’s their business. It wasn’t, and isn’t, any of mine what the General does off the field.”

  “If you say so, brother.” He pats Cody’s shoulder, far gentler than the situation perhaps warrants. “What a way to find out, though; I don’t know what I’d do if I knew Skywalker was romancing around with half the council.”

  Cody sort of wishes Waxer hadn’t tossed out the rotgut Wooley’s had cooked up the last time they were planetside. “I won’t tell you about Senator Amidala and Senator Mothma, then,” he sighs, just to see Rex turn as white as Shiny armour.

-

  Senator Organa breaks away from the little party that had greeted The Negotiator in the Temple hangar and approaches Cody with a smile perhaps even kinder than his general’s. 

  “Welcome back to Coruscant, Commander,” he says pleasantly, folding his arms behind his back and settling next to Cody to observe General Ti fuss over Obi-Wan’s injuries.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I think I can speak for everyone,” Organa nods to Obi-Wan’s entourage, “when I say we are indebted to you yet again.”

  Cody blinks at him, thankful he can hide his incredulity inside his bucket. “Sir?”

  Turning his smile back to Cody, Organa puts a hand on his shoulder not unlike a brother would. “None of our positions allow us to watch his back, and certainly not as well as you do. I’m sure you can understand our worry.”

  “I suppose so, sir,” Cody says carefully, not convinced that Organa isn’t trying to catch him up in a lie. “If I may, sir,” Organa waves for him to continue, “I’m not entirely sure I know what we’re talking about.”

  “Hm, perhaps that’s fair,” Organa chuckles. “I apologise for having to speak so mysteriously, but one can never be too careful. I merely meant to thank you, and to encourage you to talk to him; for all that the Jedi are not hierarchical, he worries about his position above you. And Obi-Wan is no blushing Alqull, but he would not impose himself on you.”

  “... Sir.”

  “Yes, yes, more mystery. Just talk to him.” Organa leaves him with one last smile and a pat on the shoulder, and Cody wonders if Waxer had spiked his caf that morning. 

-

  The 212th had lost enough brothers in their last entanglement with Ventress that they return to Kamino immediately after Coruscant, General Ti all too happy to join them aboard The Negotiator; the brothers are delighted to learn she prefers to stand against their general’s back, lekku and arms absolutely dwarfing him, and Obi-Wan lets her. 

  They keep separate quarters, though Cody isn’t sure how much of it is for keeping up appearances. 

  As high strung as he is after his conversation with Senator Organa, Cody is relieved when they finally dock in Tipoca City and he can hand babysitting the 212th over to Waxer. He loves his men, truly, but being cooped up with them for a tenday in hyperspace is far from his favourite pastime.

  When Cody joins Obi-Wan for their trek to the training levels, Obi-Wan takes one look at his harried expression and laughs — Cody would like to believe it’s because he knows what Cody’s thinking, rather than any sort of Jedi-mind-reading-nonsense.

  Taun We meets them on the way, prattling about the “improvements” they’ve made since the last batch, and Cody pays attention because he has to, but the general’s little smile aimed in Cody’s direction does nothing to help him concentrate.

  Alpha-17 greets them as soon as Taun We opens the door to one of the training rooms, and Cody finds he’d actually missed the old hardass; it isn’t every brother that can call High General Yoda a toad to his face and get away with it, just by virtue of being Alpha-17.

  And then Alpha sees Obi-Wan and actually smiles, and Cody updates his mental counter to six. He had forgotten how much time Alpha had spent with the 212th before Cody was assigned, forgotten that it was Alpha with Obi-Wan when Ventress first kidnapped him; perhaps the holodramas are right, that shared trauma is a simple step away from romance.

  Kriff, he could have gone his whole life not picturing Alpha trying to romance absolutely anyone.

-

  “You haven’t asked,” Obi-Wan observes, hands folded under his chin across the desk from Cody. The teapot between them steams gently, filling Obi-Wan’s quarters with a haze of shiso and ginger that settles Cody’s nerves rather than stokes them.

  “Sir?”

  “Come now, Cody: we’ve worked together far too long for that.”

  And Cody snorts a laugh, even as he turns back to the datapad in his hands. “I did not think it my business, sir.”

  “Hm, and your conversation with Bail?”

  Cody glances up. “Are you laughing at me, sir?”

  The soft smile from Kamino is back on his general’s lips, making Cody all too aware of his helmet on the other side of the room. “Perhaps a little, Commander – your play for stoicism is as amusing as always.

  “I don’t know what you refer to, General, I did not lie: I have not asked because it is not my business, and if there was more to discuss, I knew you would bring it up again.” With an inhaled sigh, Cody sets his datapad back on the desk and faces Obi-Wan properly, because he isn’t a cadet, and he isn’t what-are-emotions-what-is-responsibility Skywalker. “Clearly you have more to discuss.”

  “Bah, you make it sound like a chore, Kote.”

  He raises a brow. “When I was assigned to the 212th, General Vos warned me of your politician-speak, sir. Any conversation with you is a chore.”

  Obi-Wan startles out a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners as if just to remind him that there are lines on his face from more than just war. “Captain Rex tells me you get that snark from Alpha, but I must say I think it is a family trait.” Smiling behind his fingers, Obi-Wan tilts his head as if Cody were an especially endearing puzzle. “I’m afraid I don’t quite know how to navigate this conversation, my friend: I don’t believe I was the instigator of any in the past.”

  “More politician-speak,” Cody chides without heat, but knows what he means anyways. “And you thought I would instigate, if you left it long enough?”

  “Well, I hope I’ve created an environment where you and your brothers may speak your minds–”

  “General,” Cody interrupts boldly, and Obi-Wan just keeps smiling at him, “I have it on good authority that none of my brothers have been the one to broach this subject first.”

  “Mhm,” he chuckles, “Yes, I did hear about Commander Bly and Kit, and about Commander Choke with the 202nd.” Poor Shiny, Cody thinks, fresh out of ARC training when she met her general for the first time; the other battalions hadn’t stopped laughing about it for months.

  “Sir, the freedom the Jedi have given us undermined nearly everything the longnecks brought us up to believe; if you are unsure of what to say, I’m hardly going to be more prepared.”

  “Hm, perhaps we ought to be blunt with each other, then? Avoid the politician-speak entirely?”

  “Yes, perhaps that would be better, sir.”

  “Then, Kote, I would very much like to kiss you.”

  “Only if you’ve brushed your teeth since you kissed Alpha.”

  Obi-Wan throws his head back and laughs.

[paper-n-ashes]

sparks and embers - chapter 7

Characters: Poe Dameron x Original Female Character, Kylo Ren x Original Female Character

Story Tags: Explicit (18+), Canon Compliant/Divergent (Set after TLJ), First Person POV, Love Triangle, Slow Burn, Enemies to Lovers, Porn with Plot, Hurt/Comfort, Kylo Ren hates Poe Dameron

Chapter 7 - The Transmission

Words: 5.6k

Chapter Tags/Warnings: Mentions of medical procedures, ANGST, description of severe anxiety/panic attack

Read on AO3 or Start from the beginning

~

Poe didn’t exit the study for a long while, finally hearing the creak of my office door as it opened for the first time in hours. Within that time I'd farewelled the last of my patients for the day and begun to prepare dinner in my quarters, feeling significantly more balanced as the evening wore on.

Mind over matter. That’s all I needed to remember.

It was BB-8 who rolled in to demand my attention first, knocking his body into my ankle as I stood chopping vegetables at the kitchen counter.

“Hello again,” I greeted, still marvelling at how sweet this droid’s disposition was. Placing my knife down, I turned to face Poe as he slinked into the space, taking a place at the dining table. He seemed tired, almost despondent, possibly even more solemn than he appeared when I saw his face last.

“How did the transmission go?” I asked, breaking the silence. From the energy drifting out of his shape, it was clear he hadn’t completely moved on from the sadness we’d shared during our last interaction.

“As well as it could have. They’re still safe, for now. Think I gave them all heart attacks when my transmission came through,” he responded, exhaling hard. “And you were right. There was a search initiated. But my last reported co-ordinates were over Hutt Space, so they never would have found me.” He looked puzzled then, and I mirrored his expression.

“What do you mean? That’s at least a day’s trip from here.”

“That’s exactly what I can’t seem to figure out.” He huffed then, exasperated. “I don’t remember getting any further than that. I hadn’t even nearly reached my destination.”

“Were you traveling Galactic North or South?” I screwed my face up immediately after asking the question, already assuming he wouldn’t give me an answer.

“Yeah, I can’t tell you that.” He looked down to his hands, wringing them restlessly. “I know I can trust you, but I just can’t risk it, for both your own sake and the Resistance. All I can say is that I wasn’t flying to anywhere near Raxus.”

I nodded, understanding. “Well, no matter which way you were headed, Hutt Space is way too far from here for a ship to be unpiloted.”

“Right. Something, or someone, must have changed my course while I was there. And whether it was the crash or some other reason, I’ve lost any memory from after I was flying over the region that might have explained the cause.”

A sparkle of thought flickered, looking down at BB-8 still stationed at my feet. Poe appeared to read my mind.

“I thought the same too,” he remarked. “But he has no data logs indicating any unauthorised navigation. I’m still concerned about how his internal circuits looked when I was repairing him - I don’t think that kind of damage was caused by the crash. If BB had something to do with this, if he’s been tampered with, I won’t be able to be sure until I can conduct some deep diagnostics back at the Resistance base.”

BB-8’s head fell in his own form of remorse, emitting a few low beeps I could only gauge as an apology. I leant down and patted him softly, feeling sorry for the droid. It felt a little unnatural for me to have any sort of emotion towards a machine. All the medical droids I’d worked alongside in the past had the personality of a decaying tree.

BB beeped back happily at me, appreciating my sympathy, when I realised abruptly what Poe had been implying. “Wait, do you think someone did this on purpose? Sabotaged your flight?”

He seemed hesitant to answer again, most likely debating internally how confidential this information was. But eventually he nodded. “It’s what Leia seems to think, and I’m tending to agree. It seems too orchestrated. But the more worrying concern is that only a select group of Resistance personnel knew about my mission, even less knew exactly where I was headed.”

Both the casual mention of Leia Organa, famed princess of an obliterated planet, daughter of one of the most powerful Sith to have lived, now Leader of the Resistance, and the notion Poe seemed to be hinting at, tilted me slightly off balance.

“You think a spy might have infiltrated the Resistance?”

“That’s the theory we’re running with for now. Whoever did this assumed a crash landing on an Outer Rim planet would have meant my certain death, and any evidence would have most likely never been found, especially with them looking in the completely wrong place,” Poe explained. He looked up from his hands, his eyes finally gentle again, the creases in his forehead relaxing. “They obviously never planned on me landing right on your doorstep.”

“The universe clearly wanted to keep you around for a little longer.”

“Lucky me,” he laughed gently. “Hopefully I don’t mess up whatever it has planned.”

“You’ll figure it out,” I said encouragingly, glad he had relaxed a little. But it was short lived.

His face became sombre again, gaze moving to his fingers once more. “Leia is keeping my reappearance quiet for now - her and our most trusted Resistance members, my friends, are the only ones who know.” I saw his jaw tighten, face tense, a controlled breath seeping past his lips. “They’ll be arriving sometime in the night to take me back to base.”

I knew it was coming. I was more prepared now, my resolve holding strong against the gloom I’d pulled into a locked box inside my mind, easily keeping it restrained.

“I bet you’re excited to see them,” I said kindly, hoping to pick up his mood.

Poe smiled softly to himself. “I’ve missed them,” he agreed, glancing up at me. “They’re pretty eager to meet you actually.”

I furrowed my brows, dubious. “Really? You told them about me?”

Poe looked at me incredulously, like that fact should have been obvious. “Of course. How else was I going to explain how I managed to survive that crash? Leia seemed particularly impressed. She's disappointed she can't give her thank you in person, being too valuable to send away from the base.”

My cheeks threatened to flush with crimson, wanting to shy away from the compliment. Relief was the more overwhelming emotion, glad I wouldn’t have to navigate my way through a conversation with Leia Organa, having no doubt I would make a fool of myself. “So, who is coming?” I wondered, interested in learning more about the people Poe considered his trusted friends.

“Well there’s Chewie-”

“As in Chewbacca the Wookie?” I interrupted. “The Chewie?”

Poe rolled his eyes playfully at my marvelling. “So I don’t need to tell you anymore about him then,” he continued, smirking. “There will be Finn, an ex-stormtrooper who defected to the Resistance, royally saved my ass when I was captured by the First Order. And then there’s Rey, who has been training as a Jedi, and technically pilots the Millennium Falcon now, although if you ask me, I’ve flown that rustbucket way more often…”

Poe kept talking, but my mind was barely able to focus on his words.

A Jedi. A Force user. Coming here.

This is bad.

I forced my face into a veil of interest about what Poe was chattering about as he remained oblivious to the panic that had erupted inside my chest. Eventually his words ran out, thankfully without ending on a cue for me to reply. It took all of my focus to keep my voice steady as I spoke. “I thought all the Jedi were gone?”

It was a question anyone would ask. Not too suspicious.

He appeared slightly confused at the point I’d decided to back track on, yet quickly seemed to realise I’d not had the same encounters with force users that he’d had. “We thought that too,” he remarked. Poe then relayed what was evidently an extremely condensed story of the re-emergence of Luke Skywalker, who had then begrudgingly taught Rey how to wield the Force.

It was an unbelievable tale, something any other being would be enthralled to hear. And honestly, I couldn’t believe Poe had made it so far as to have landed on my doorstep. But there was one thing my mind centred on amongst the rush of information.

She’d been trained by a Jedi Master.

I’d learned an essence of control over my power, whatever kind it was that I utilised, both before and after I’d run to Raxus. After realising the target it put above my head at a young age, I’d taught myself to restrain it, hide it away in the absolute pit of my consciousness, only summoning that which helped heal people in the most dire of circumstances.

When the wrong person caught me, when I’d let my power become unconstrained for only a few moments, I knew I had to deepen my command over it, in case I ever found myself in that situation again. And now, I was completely unsure if four more years’ worth of preparation was going to be enough to hide it from a trained Force user.

“Why is a Jedi coming to get you off this planet? Wouldn’t she have more important things to do?” I pointed out. Only when the words escaped my lips did I realise how rude it might have seemed to Poe.

Come on Alex. Simmer down.

He actually laughed, taking my perception with good humour. “You’re not wrong. But as I said, she pilots the Millennium Falcon now, which is the fastest ship we have available at the moment. And she insisted on coming herself. Said she owed me.” Poe appeared warmed by the sentiment, and I would have enjoyed his happier demeanour if not for my own internal fretting.

There was no avoiding it. Rey was already on her way here, and there wasn't an appropriate way I could prevent myself from meeting both her and the other crew members without arousing heavy suspicion. I was truly trapped, heart thumping along fast with anxiety, fearing I could be hours away from facing all I thought I had escaped from.

*

I made dinner for us both, Poe continuing to make idle conversation in our last hours together as we ignored the looming farewell.

Yet now I was more concerned with what I needed to confront before that moment. My mind was a mess of warring emotions behind the indifferent façade I held in Poe’s presence, wanting his departure to be both as quick as possible and dragged out as long as I could make it.

I knew he sensed some of the unrest behind my eyes, but he didn’t probe, probably hoping to maintain the easy-going nature of our last meal together, however fake it might have been.

It was long after we finished eating that I recalled the need to do one last assessment of Poe’s injuries, remembering something I’d promised to do before he left.

“Your cast!” I gasped, thinking out loud, startling Poe as he dried the last of our dishes. After turning around, smirking at himself for the way I’d made him jump, he rose the casted arm into his view.

“Oh yeah,” he realised, flexing the fingers. “I’d actually kind of forgot about it.”

“Well come on, one last assessment and you’re officially free of my care.”

I said the words with such pure intentions, yet it was starkly clear both of us were jarred by the reality hidden behind them - a cold, unbroken hush settling in the space. I noticed BB-8’s head movement from my periphery, once again calling into question our sudden stillness. He raced to my feet, squealing little beeps in an inflection I couldn’t understand. Poe’s expression swiftly turned aggravated at the droid, and didn’t immediately translate like I assumed he would.

“Is he okay?” I asked. “Did he say something important?”

Poe’s face forcefully relaxed in an attempt to seem unbothered by BB’s insistent beeps. “He’s just appreciative of how well you’ve treated me.”

I knew he was lying, but I could only assume it was better I didn’t discover what was really said. 

* 

Poe had perched himself back onto his hospital bed, and I could feel his gaze follow me as I placed the monitoring over his figure for the last time. The moment for conversation had obviously passed as we maintained a heavy silence during my final tests. He barely winced when I took blood, the results revealing all of his inflammatory markers had receded. The bruises had disappeared, the scars had begun to fade, even over his badly burned arm and torso.

I glanced to his face while taking some X-rays of his femur, pulling up the initial post-crash shots and scribbling down my final progress notes on the healing of the fracture. He seemed awed once again at the damage I’d managed to repair, and he turned thoughtful as he looked down at his perfectly functional leg. I could tell without words he was grateful, knowing we’d both experienced the outcome of those who might not have been so lucky as to keep their limb after such an injury.

I’d kept the casted arm until last, wishing to drag out these final moments, most likely the only thing he’d truly remember of our time together. A comforting thought simmered into my awareness, realising his deeper scars wouldn’t fade for years yet, somewhat of a memento etched onto his skin.

The X-rays were textbook. The fracture line had fused nicely, with almost no irregularity in the shape of the bone shaft. The cast had done its job, and now, there was no need for it to be connected to him anymore.

Just like me.

I pulled my thermal scissors from within my medical trolley, used specifically to melt through the hardened plastic I’d moulded closely to his forearm. It was over in seconds, slicing through the cast and peeling it from his limb, the skin underneath looking slightly clammy but otherwise acceptable. As soon as he was free from the plastic he begun to flex and twist his wrist, a small exhale of relief slipping out of his throat.

“Well that just about does it,” I stated flatly. “You’re all healed up.”

Poe looked away from his newly freed arm and locked his eyes with mine. “I know I’ve said this a million times, and it will never be enough, but thank you.”

I looked down from his gaze. “You’re welcome. I’m glad I could help you.”

He lifted his left hand to my chin, tilting my head back up to meet his stare again, holding it there while he spoke. “You’re really good at your job Alex, I hope you realise that. You saved my life. And I won’t be the last one you save, I’m sure of it."

His eyes were so penetrating, so impassioned, that it made me want to turn away. I didn’t like being praised like this. It made the flesh under my skin feel itchy. Somehow, through no power of my own will, I kept my stare locked to him, confined into place with his thumb softly resting on my skin.

He began to breathe slower, more cautiously. “If we…” he started, voice barely above a whisper. “If we never see each other again…” The words trailed off as he seemed to grapple with the future bearing down on us. My heart was pounding painfully in my chest, instigated merely by the sensation of his fingertips pressed to my skin.

Please. Please stop making this so hard.  

“I won’t forget what you did for me… I won’t forget you.”

Without conscious thought I felt my hand begin to rise, instinct pulsing within to pull him into another fervent kiss. Before he noticed the movement, I wrenched it down, closing it into a fist. It was my own voice that echoed in my head, louder and louder.

I will not let this ruin me.

It felt cruel, the way I abruptly stepped away from his touch, but it needed to be. I glared back at him, hoping my words, particularly the meaning behind them, would suffocate the flames of yearning I kept seeing in his irises. “You’ve been a cooperative patient Poe, and I’m glad you survived. But I wouldn’t wish on seeing you in the future. It would only be because you’re in need of my medical care again.”

Poe’s head snapped back, stunned at my reply and the harsh recoil from his hand. Clearly, he'd predicted a different reaction. “You don’t know that,” he urged. “I could come ba-”

I flew my hand up, palm forward, immediately indicating him to cease talking. “Don’t. Just don’t.”

He ruminated on my request for a few eerily silent moments before his stare turned fiery, irritated. “Why are you fighting this?” he shot, rattling me. “We both know there’s something here, something more than you’re willing to admit.”

His maddened tone made it harder to keep my stoic demeanour. “I told you why.”

“Wouldn’t it be more painful to leave each other like this?” he retorted, the muscles in his arms tightening. “Not acknowledging what I know you feel? Pretending it’s not eating you alive, like it’s doing to me?”

A beat of silence passed before I turned and walked away.

I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t keep my restraint if he continued interrogating me this way, revealing emotions a strangled part of me hoped he had. I wasn’t strong enough for that. I needed distance.

“Alex!” he boomed, hearing him leap off the bed behind me. “Tell me you haven’t felt it! Tell me you don’t want to give in to it!”

“I barely know you!” I shouted, swirling to face him again. “You are- were my patient! And you’re about to leave! You shouldn’t come back here, and I shouldn’t go with you!”

“You know more about me than nearly all of the galaxy! And that’s within five days!” he growled, offended. Poe took a tentative step towards me, letting some of the anger recede before speaking again. “I would come back for you. I would come back, if I survived, if you wanted me to. If you admitted what you’re keeping hidden, the feelings that made you kiss me.”

“Please stop doing this,” I begged, a hopeless attempt to keep him at bay, my resilience starting to fizzle away. “You seemed to understand yesterday. That it would be too difficult if we crossed that line.”

He shook his head in frustration. “I've already crossed it Alex." His eyes turned pleading, an intensity within them I was sure I hadn't witnessed before. "I don't want to ignore it anymore, what I feel for you. I can't keep holding back."

I pulled my hands into fists, resisting every temptation to throw away resolve and allow myself to experience the warm glow of happiness his revelation brought. There was no denying the way in which my walls started to weaken, mercilessly barraged by the raw emotion he was exposing.

Don’t give in Alexys. His life, and yours, depend on it.

The voice toughened my determination, enough to keep my willpower solid against the craving to surge into his arms. “I guess I’m just stronger than you are,” I muttered, turning again to prevent catching any type of reaction in Poe’s face. Even one glimpse would make me crumble.

I stormed down the hallway, desperate for the isolation of my quarters, closing the entry and setting the lock. Falling back into the door, my teeth felt like they were going to shatter if I clenched my jaw any tighter.

My brain focused solely on the rhythm of my breathing, centring on the quickened rate, trying to force it into a more calmed pace. Soon I began to concentrate on expanding my lungs, inhaling until the space was full of air, letting it sit there as long as I could hold, before allowing it to whistle out of my nostrils.

That’s all I permitted myself to think of, the slow inhale and exhale, imagining the oxygen particles seeping into my bloodstream, travelling to every cell in my body, keeping me functioning amongst the turmoil thrashing through my soul.      

*

Time passed. I wasn’t really keeping track on how quickly. Imprisoned in my own mind, pacing my quarters, continuing the attention on my breathing. It was the only thing that kept me stable, that pushed away the memories of Poe’s voice ringing in my thoughts.

Eventually my legs grew fatigued from the movement, and I placed myself on the sofa, dropping my head into my hands, grasping my fingers through my hair in frustration.

He couldn’t have just left it alone. He couldn’t have just ignored it, departed this planet and forgot all that happened here.

A memory slipped through the cracks, pushing its way out into the forefront of my awareness. One that refused to be smothered.

'I would come back for you.'  

I shook my head within my clenched hands, trying to physically rid myself of it. I wanted to claw my fingers into my brain, pluck the memory from my inside my head and banish it forever, never to torture me again.

Breathe. Focus on your breathing Alexys.

The voice caused a realisation to strike, how hard it had become, my ribs stuck in place, intercostal muscles rigid, refusing to let my lungs inflate. It felt as if gravity had increased its pressure over my body, making me crumple underneath its increased weight. The load was too much, my head screaming for oxygen. I knew what was happening, I knew I was in the throes of a crushing panic, helpless to stop the cascade of anxiety from taking over.

Instinct was quick to surface, telling me exactly what to do. What I’d done only once before.

I withdrew my fingers from their entanglement within my hair, placing the tips on each side of my temple, and within my depths, I set it free. The energy swiftly begun to course through my blood, bringing with it an incredible radiance that lit up my veins. It crawled its way through every capillary, every vessel, as if it was replacing my own blood with its glow.

Soon, it weaved itself through my chest cavity, relaxing the muscles clamping down on my lungs, the relief of an easier breath making me feel lighter. It's journey didn’t cease, surging through my neck to my brain, twirling in between the individual neurons, clouding me with a feeling of peace, serenity, the rest of the world blocked off from my senses.

I wanted to stay in this place forever. Every fear, every sadness, every frustration, all of it melting away into nothing. I felt whole, a brilliant euphoria shimmering from every part of my being.

Let go. You cannott linger here for too long.

My fingernails were suddenly pierced into the pillows of the sofa, panting, grateful I had something to remind me not to surrender myself to the dangerous void any longer. The energy recoiled instantly, my own invisible hands pushing it within the confinement I'd kept it behind for much of my life. I took a moment to push it even deeper down my consciousness, praying it would be too far for Rey to sense when she arrived.

The panic was gone, my chest moving in even time, an aura of composure enduring even with the healing energy locked away. But it also left me exhausted, my brain feeling slightly fuzzy with fatigue. Although for this, I was glad. Even a short time in the peace of sleep would stop me from thinking about Poe.

I had just risen from my seat, about to walk to the comfort of my bed for however long time would allow, when there was a solid bang at my door. I tilted my head in confusion at the noise, knowing Poe would have simply knocked if he wanted entry. Although right now, that seemed extremely unlikely.

When I heard an artificial squealing piercing the air behind the wood, it was obvious what had made the sound.

BB-8 was still beeping urgently when I allowed him entry into my quarters, whizzing past my legs before I even had time to greet him. I noticed the sound of the ‘fresher running as he rolled quickly to the space before my sofa, his head movements darting from me to the pillow where I had just been seated. He wanted me to sit down, that was clear, but I couldn’t determine why.

I did what was requested, settling back down, BB-8 at my feet, his eye appearing to whir and focus in on my face. He was quiet for a moment, doing what I could only imagine was a droid’s version of thinking, before his head darted away. Suddenly a burst of blue light flickered into the air, floating the outline of an image on top of the metal table that sat in front of us.

He was showing me a hologram.

It was fuzzy at first, slowly becoming clearer, displaying a scene I hadn’t been privy to this afternoon. The simulated image of Poe was sitting at my office desk, his own hologram transmission only just visible in the blue beam.

It appeared BB was showing me a long way into their discussion, Poe’s face stressed as he listened to the multiple figures in the holo, their lips forming words that only came out muffled.

“I don’t think you should be showing me this BB-8,” I fretted quietly, acknowledging how private Poe had been with Resistance information.

BB-8 beeped insistently, sounding like he disagreed, and continued playing the holo. The voices became more defined, eventually loud enough for me to make them out.

“We’ll have another X-wing ready for you as soon as you make planet fall,” an older woman’s voice explained. I could only assume it was Leia’s, holding a gentle yet authoritative tone. "Do you think you’ll be ready to attempt the mission again as soon as you return?”

Poe didn’t immediately answer, and I could almost make out the pain in his holo image.

“What is it?” another woman, a lot younger sounding, questioned. Her voice was more on edge than Leia’s, speech displaying an accent I wasn’t familiar with. This was most likely Rey. “Are you still too injured?”

“I’m fine,” Poe reassured. “Better than fine really. Alex… uh, Dr. Jago had me walking within the first few days. And everything else has healed well enough.”

Yet another voice, this time a man's, piped in. "You broke your leg and she got you walking that quickly? There’s no way.”

Poe rolled his eyes, the small movement still obvious in the flickering image. “Finn, you nearly died and you can still doubt the effect of bacta? That stuff fixed your shattered spine for maker's sake.”

“Still took more than a few days though,” Finn mumbled.

“It’s irrelevant,” Leia interjected, seemingly annoyed for a moment, before softening. “Is something wrong Poe?”

His eyes looked down from the hologram in front of him, hesitant to answer. “Is there…” he started, breathing in as if to gain courage. “Is there anyone else who could make that flight?”

All three of the figures recoiled in disbelief at the question.

“You’re the best pilot we have,” Leia said definitively. “There’s no one else who could navigate that route except you.”

“What about Rey?” he retorted, looking to her figure insistently. “She’s got the Force to help her.”

Rey sighed, troubled. “I... already tried. I thought maybe your navigation system may have malfunctioned, preventing any tracking, but that you’d still made it to-” BB-8’s hologram suddenly became engulfed in static for a few moments, leaving me unable to hear the destination of Poe’s mission. Eventually the picture cleared into the same scene, only a few seconds later. "-but I couldn’t make it through. It was too dangerous to traverse, even with the Force to guide me.”

“Why are you even asking us to find someone else?” Finn challenged. “You were more than ready to do it yourself a week ago.”

Poe gritted his teeth, looking somewhat ashamed. “I know.”

There was silence in the holo, and for a moment I thought this was all BB-8 wanted to show me. But Leia’s voice struck up again. "Finn, Rey, could you let me talk to Poe privately?”

From their small faces I could still see them look quizzically at each other, Finn appearing more puzzled by the request. But they left under the General’s orders, slinking past the frame of the holo.

“Poe… Tell me. Tell me what’s changed,” Leia urged softly. “You and I both know you’re the only one who can do this. And if there’s something worrying you, or making you doubt yourself, you need to tell me.”

He looked despairingly at her, uncomfortable with the prospect of hiding anything from his General. “I don’t want to admit it.”

Leia breathed out heavily. She began to pace inside the holo, arms folded in thought, before turning back to speak to Poe again, her face gentle. “It’s the doctor, isn’t it?”

It took an excruciatingly long time before Poe responded, finally nodding his head.

I felt every muscle in my body tense at his reply, heart thrumming to a faster beat.

“I thought so,” Leia whispered. “I... wasn’t expecting this.”

“Neither was I, General. I’m sorry.” The expression he wore, filled with such unyielding turmoil, shot a pang of cold ice through me.

Leia looked kindly to him, her face melting into understanding. “Oh Poe, you don’t have to apologise. You aren’t the first, and you won’t be the last, to question everything for the sake of their emotions.”

“I want to do what we planned. I do. I’m ready,” he asserted, voice rising into confidence, only for his face to fall again. “But every time I think of leaving her…” His face became buried in his hands, frustrated, unable to finish his sentence.

“Does she feel the same way?”

“I don’t know,” Poe muffled under his palms. “I... think so. She’s holding back. Her loyalty to this clinic is annoyingly similar to mine with the Resistance.”

“So she wouldn’t consider coming with you, joining us? We desperately need doctors of her calibre.”

He pulled his face back up. “I asked. And she refused. She would never want to leave, fearing for the health of her patients without her here. Not to mention she’s staunchly against the war we’re fighting in.”

“She sounds like someone I would like to meet,” Leia smiled to herself. “So... That’s why you don’t want to return yet. Why you need someone else to complete the mission. You want more time with her.”

Poe nodded slowly. “I know we don’t have much time to get-” Another fuzz intercepted Poe’s speech, an additional piece of information too confidential for my ears. “-but I just… I just don’t want to go yet. If someone was able to go in my stead, then I wouldn’t be completely dooming us. I know it’s selfish… Irrational… But the thought of leaving her behind right now, on a mission I might not make it back from… It’s too much.”

“Oh,” Leia mouthed, her voice muted. “Do you… Do you think that you…”

She didn’t have to finish her question. Poe knew what she was implying.

“I… think I could. If I had more time, a chance to figure it out.”

His revelation made me stop breathing, a tear wriggling from the duct, crawling down my face.

Leia sighed loudly, her stress evident. “I wish I could Poe. I would want nothing more than to give you this, after all you’ve given for the Resistance. But you’re the only one who has a chance of completing this mission, and we are desperately running out of time and options.”

Poe clenched his eyes shut as she finished, his jaw tightening, lips fighting back a frown. He took a few moments held in this position before relaxing himself back into composure, his face serious and professional. “I understand,” he replied flatly. “I’ll get this mission accomplished General. See you back at the base.”

“I’m truly sorry Poe-” Leia began to apologise, only to be interrupted by his sharp tone.

“It’s fine. Tell the engineers to make sure the new X-wing is prepped before my return. I want to leave as soon as possible.”

Leia nodded, her expression remorseful.

Suddenly the blue, illuminated image was ripped from my view, the rest of my quarters coming back into focus around me.

My body was stuck, motionless in the now painful silence filling the air. Inside my mind there was chaos, memories of the hologram darting around randomly. I tried to capture at least one rational thought, to analyse the emotions bubbling up from within my chest.

He wanted to stay. For me. Everything he wanted to accomplish, for the Resistance, for his friends, for his parents, for the galaxy. He wanted to put it all on hold.

Just for me.

He’d been right. I was holding it back, the same thing he felt, and it was clawing at my insides, desperately wanting to be set free.

Purely out of my selfishness, my own excuses, the voice in my head threatening our lives. All of it keeping me from what I really wanted.

Him. I wanted him. To be close to him. Even if it was just for a little while.

You’re giving in? So easily?

Damn right I am.  

~

Next Chapter

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[mayakern]

hi maya! i've been following you for years and you've been a big inspiration to me! i'm moving back to my home state in 9 months and when that happens i want to be a full time artist. i've started emailing art directors and opened up commissions, but generally i can't get people to engage with my work. i'm coming to you because i've seen you try so many things throughout the years. if you have any insight, or if i need a reality check, it would be greatly appreciated! thanks for reading!

i don’t know you and i don’t know your situation so i can’t give you any specific advice, so i’ll try and just type out some general “i wanna do art online” tips:

1. make your art easy to find. whether that’s a separate art blog or a prominently displayed art tag, just make sure people can find it within 1-2 clicks!

2. keep practicing, keep doing things you enjoy, keep posting. online following is a snowball. it goes painfully slowly for ages and ages and ages. once it starts to pick up, the rate tends to increase exponentially. there’s also a lot of luck involved. it’s hard to predict what will or won’t resonate with people, so just try to make sure that you genuinely enjoy whatever you make.

3. if you approach working professionals/people you admire for help, demonstrate off the bat that you are familiar with them/their work and keep your email/message brief and be polite. well known/popular artists get a lot of cold emails/messages from all sorts of people, and most frequently from people who just see a follower count or a popular post or something and cold email them without any care or specificity to them as a creator. these sorts of emails usually get dismissed out of hand. 

if you are looking to someone for help, be sure there is something specific about them that resonates with you that’s more than just “i see you are popular or successful and i also want that.” no one really likes getting those emails/messages because it feels like they could go to anyone as long as they had a high enough follower count or worked at X company. instead, look at their work or accomplishments and go “this aspect of this person’s work speaks to me, they work this job that interests me, i want to learn, etc.”

AND AGAIN: KEEP IT BRIEF. it’s really tempting to want to perfectly explain yourself/your situation, but you are a stranger and most people working in art are pretty busy, and you are not the only person sending them this kind of inquiry.

for art director stuff specifically, i recommend reading through @dearartdirector. i’m not an art director so i can’t help with that.

4. remember that online following/popularity and success are NOT the same things. i know plenty of popular artists who struggle financially, who can’t break into the industry. i know tons of working professionals who have very small online followings. i know in this hyper connected world, it is very easy to conflate those two things. DON’T DO THAT.

5. similarly, it is very easy to compare yourself to other people and to feel inadequate because others seem to have an easier time of it. this is a horrible illogical thing your brain does to spite you, don’t listen to it. you don’t know other people or their stories. you don’t know their struggles. lots of people work very hard and experience hardships that you will never be aware of, but it will seem externally like they have an easy time of it. it’s the old duck in the pond thing -- above the water they look serene and easy, underwater their flippers are going crazy to churn water.

6. it is okay to fail. everyone fails. it is not shameful or a waste of your time. it is just part of being alive and trying to do something you love.

7. similar to 6 -- be careful with your notions of what failure even means. it’s ok to not work in art, it’s ok to work part time, it’s ok to do whatever you need to do (that doesn’t hurt others) in order to find your way to a happy and sustainable life. similarly, being able to make money off your art is not necessarily a question of skill. there are... a lot of factors. you should not tie your worth to money in general, but you especially should not tie your value to your ability to monetize your art.

8. this is going to be an unpopular one... do not let your passion or desperation control you. sometimes the healthier thing is to not pursue something you love. i had to give up comics after years of making them because even though i loved them, they were terrible for my mental and physical health. it’s ok to love something and let it go and it’s ok to let your goals change. it is not worth ruining your health just for the privilege of making things. 

there are a lot of exploitative companies that will try to leverage this to make you take work for terrible pay and no rights. those jobs are never worth it. it is almost always better to do a non-art job and pour that time and love and passion into a project you care about, rather than being someone else’s cheap labor.

9. make friends who are around your age and skill level. i know it’s tempting to want to reach out to artists you admire and try to befriend them -- but it is not comfortable on the other end. usually those artists will be significantly older than you and in a different place in their lives and from their perspective, you are a stranger who is only interested in them because they make a thing you like. it’s a very awkward situation to navigate because you are not treating that creator as an individual, but rather as the conduit for Content You Like.

it is important to find peers to learn and grow with. real, genuine friendship will do so much for you as a person and an artist.

also -- older creators who are very receptive to young, untried artists and who easily let them into their space on the pretense of friendship or mentorship... i won’t say this is always a bad thing, but it can be indicative of bad intentions. there is an inherent power imbalance in that sort of relationship and there are people who will exploit that. this is a painfully common practice

this is a sour note to end this on, but it is a very important one. recently we have seen many industry pros in comics, games, and animation get ousted for exactly that sort of behavior. it sucks that it is a thing we need to look out for -- but it is.

[lastbluetardis]

Chemical Reaction (18/22)

Summary: Though their chemistry class is now over, the chemistry between James and Rose is just getting started. Together, they navigate the highs of new love and the lows of coping with past trauma to forge deep and unbreakable bonds of love and commitment. Part 2 in the Catalysis series. Tagging @doctorroseprompts

This chapter: ~6900 words, teen

If you like my stories, consider leaving me a tip? I know these are trying times, but if you are able, I would really appreciate it xoxo. And as always, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated as well.

AO3 | FF | TSP

Ch1 | Ch2 | Ch3 | Ch4 | Ch5 | Ch6 | Ch7 | Ch8 | Ch9 | Ch10 | Ch11 | Ch12 | Ch13 | Ch14 | Ch15 | Ch16 | Ch17 | Ch18 | Ch19 | Ch20 | Ch21 | epilogue

James was shaking. It was like he hadn’t eaten in too long and his blood sugar dropped too low and his body started rebelling against him until he gave it nourishment.

Only this was worse. Much, much worse. He was dizzy and nauseated and crippled with grief.

How had the night gone so wrong? They’d been having fun at the Phillies game, hadn’t they? They’d been laughing and lighthearted, and were so exhausted that they’d been a few minutes away from collapsing into bed together.

Then he’d gone and snooped through Rose’s mail. He should have ignored the letter. He should have asked her what it was, and asked why Jimmy had contacted her.

Would she have told the truth?

He hated that he had to ask that question, and he hated even more that he didn’t have a definitive answer.

His body moved on autopilot down the many flights of stairs of Rose’s building, not entirely aware of his surroundings. It was a miracle he didn’t trip down the steps and break his neck, considering he couldn’t quite feel his feet. He couldn’t feel much of anything apart from the heavy, aching pressure in his chest and the acid roiling in his gut.

James slipped into his dark car, which was still warm from the drive to her flat. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be with Rose, holding Rose, snuggling Rose in bed as they drifted to sleep.

Instead, here he was. About to drive home. Alone.

A break. Rose wanted a break. Because he had been such an insensitive arsehole.

But so was she.

Every insecurity he’d shared with Rose, every heartbreaking moment of the aftermath of his parents’ death… had Rose not wanted to hear about any of them? He felt stupid—so stupid—for baring so much of his soul to her without realizing she wasn’t reciprocating. How had he ever thought the nuggets of information she’d dropped for him constituted reciprocity? She had put in the bare minimum of emotional effort, giving him just enough that their communication felt like a two-way street. Did she know what she was doing? Had this been her plan all along? Get him comfortable and familiar with her so he would fall utterly in love with her? So he would have sex with her? Was that all she had been after this whole time? Had she taken advantage of his inexperience and banked on him not realizing she wasn’t putting in as much effort as he was? 

His shoulders shook as he wept into his hands, those ugly, nasty thoughts eating away at his mind until he couldn’t think of anything else. He didn’t want to believe that about Rose. These last four months with her had been nothing short of bliss. He’d never connected with anyone as much as he had with Rose. He was desperate to believe that what they’d had was real. It had to be real. It hurt too much for it all to have been nothing.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting in the dark before his tears stopped enough for him to turn his car on. The engine growled to life, and the time 12:03 flashed blue in his eyes. Had it only been twenty minutes since he had first pulled up to Rose’s flat? How had twenty minutes completely destroyed the last seven months of their friendship and relationship?

His vision blurred again with fresh tears, but he impatiently rubbed them away to put his car in gear and drive off down the deserted street.

It probably should have bothered him that he didn’t remember driving. Anything could have happened. He could have run every single stop light, could have hit anything or anyone. But he was suddenly home, pulling into his dark driveway sometime later. His house was equally dark. He hadn’t left any lights on because he hadn’t expected to come back here tonight.

The house was dead silent. Not even his cats could deign to greet him. He toed off his shoes by the front door then plopped his keys and wallet into the dish on the cabinet beside it.

“Pip?” he croaked, voice raspy from all the tears he’d shed. “Merry? Gollum?”

There was a tiny chirp from the living room—Pippin and Merry were curled together on the sofa. James frowned. They usually slept in his bed, even on the nights he didn’t come home. He stepped over to them and gave them each a few chin scritches, but they were too drowsy to do much other than purr lightly.

“Where’s Gollum, eh?” he asked them, glancing around the living room. The Siamese wasn’t in the cat tree, or anywhere in sight. After the night he’d had, it would be his luck if Gollum had crawled off somewhere and died.

Whatever. He would look for him in the morning. James wanted nothing more than to strip down to his pants, fall into bed, and not wake up for a few days.

However, those plans were instantly scrapped when he stepped into his bedroom and was greeted with the pungent, acrid odor of ammonia. A huge, reeking damp spot sat in the middle of his bed.

“God-fucking-dammit!” he shouted, kicking his bed frame. 

He cried out and hopped on one foot as his toes burned in agony. His anger surged. Anger at himself, for jumping to conclusions and making too many accusations; anger at Rose, for keeping all of her secrets; anger at Jimmy, for everything he’d done to Rose; anger at his cat, for weeing on his bed when all he wanted to do was sleep and not wake up for a very long time.

James sank onto the edge of his bed—far away from the urine stain—his tears starting up again in earnest. He wanted Rose, and he hated that he wanted her. She had broken his heart more thoroughly than anyone ever had before, yet he still loved her. God, did he love her. 

Was that wrong of him though? Was it unhealthy that he wanted her, wanted to make up with her, after everything they’d said that night? Could they even make up from something like this?

He hoped they could. He hoped they could find some sort of middle ground. What that middle ground looked like, he didn’t know; his brain was too foggy with exhaustion and grief to think about possible resolutions and compromises they could make.

Something vibrated against his thigh. Sniffling and wiping his sleeve across his running nose, James fished his mobile out of his pocket. A new message from Rose.

Did you make it home okay?

He wanted to reply, “What do you care?” but curbed the impulse. That wasn’t fair. If she’d had to drive home at midnight after the argument they’d just had, he would want to know she was safe.

“Yeah,” is all he sent.

Okay. Glad to hear it. Sleep well James.

“Fat fucking chance,” he muttered to his phone, and instead typed out, “Yeah. You too.”

He set his phone face-down on the mattress beside him and rubbed his fingers into his eyes. A throbbing headache was beginning behind his brow. He would love nothing more than to sleep soundly and dreamlessly, but knew that his brain wouldn’t shut down enough for him to get any restful sleep.

Besides, it’s not like his bed was in any sort of state to be slept in.

With a groan, James pushed himself to his feet and tucked his phone into his pocket. He ripped off all the layers of his bedding, cursing when he saw they were soaked down to the mattress cover. Had Gollum held his bladder all goddamn day so he could piss right through everything?

He carried the stinking pile of sheets and blankets to his laundry room and settled in for a long night of washing. He stuffed the duvet into his washer—glad this home used to belong to a single mother of three who had invested in a giant washing machine, and left it behind when she’d moved out—and dumped in two detergent pods before programming a long, hot wash cycle. He then took the rest of his blankets to his kitchen sink.

The sight of two days’ worth of dirty dishes made him want to throw them all against a wall—broken dishes didn’t need to be cleaned. However, the mess of broken dishes would be more taxing. Sucking in a deep breath, he blew it out noisily as he dropped his sheets onto the floor and loaded everything into the dishwasher.

When the sink was empty, he grabbed his blankets and gave them all an individual rinse to hopefully keep the cat urine stain from setting.

It took nearly two dryer cycles for his duvet to be completely dry, and then another two loads of laundry before the rest of his blankets and sheets were clean. To his relief, all traces of cat urine odor were gone.

It was the dead of night by the time he made his bed; if he fell asleep right now, he would get at least four hours in before he would have to get up for classes. Was it worth it to try to sleep? He was keyed up from his middle of the night laundry session and his brain was still too loud. Maybe he should give up on the notion of sleep and try to take a nap after classes. Though would it even be productive if he attended classes?

James flopped onto his back on the fresh duvet, breathing in the scent of clean laundry. He would have to revoke the cats’ bedroom privileges until they—Gollum—proved they could be trusted not to wee on everything.

He sat bolt upright. He hadn’t thought to check the guest bedroom. Grumbling to himself and crossing his fingers, he jogged down the hall, and cursed vehemently under his breath when he smelled cat urine.

What the hell? Should’ve left the stupid arsehole to drown.

Well. He was already awake. In for a penny, and all. Stripping that bed as well, he began the same laundry routine. While that duvet was in the wash, James indulged in a quick shower. The sweat and grime of the previous day coupled with crying his eyes out intermittently for the past few hours made him feel filthy. 

The shower didn’t relax him as much as he’d hoped, not when the evidence of Rose was all around him. He hadn’t realized how completely she had insinuated herself into his home, into his life. Her shampoo, conditioner, and body wash sat right beside his, her bottles of pink and yellow keeping company with his blue and red ones.

Firmly ignoring her products, James rushed through his shower, lathering his hair and body in record time. But when he went to his pajama drawer, he was yet again reminded of Rose when he saw a set of her pjs in the drawer too. He couldn’t help but touch them, feeling the soft fabric beneath his fingertips as his brain reminded him of all the times he’d pushed her top off before they made love.

His stomach ached with longing. Hurriedly shutting the drawer, James instead moved to grab a pair of boxer-briefs. Rose’s knickers sat in a small pile in that drawer too. Growling in frustration, he grabbed a pair of pants at random and slipped them on before bending to root through his t-shirt drawer. Unsurprisingly, he found several of Rose’s shirts mixed in with his.

How had he not realized how much of Rose existed in his house? How had he not realized that her light and beauty shone through his home, and that she had made it her home too?

Because I loved it. 

And he had. He had loved living with Rose, and had been counting down the days when she would officially move out of her flat and into his house.

His tears nearly started up again when he realized that he may never share a home with Rose if they couldn’t find a way to work through all that had been said. No more sleepy mornings spent giggling and kissing in bed. No more impromptu dance parties in the kitchen just because they felt like being silly. No more late-night chats that sometimes carried them into the wee hours of the mornings. No more exploring every beautiful inch of her body and losing himself in her love and pleasure.

He didn’t particularly care about the prospect of no more sex. Brilliant though it was, he found himself more devastated by the loss of Rose’s friendship than the loss of her body. He had fallen in love with her, and the thought of her not being in his life anymore was agonizing. They’d known each other for seven months, and she had somehow become a constant in his life, an unmovable force that he’d been confident would never be gone.

The unknown was killing him. The uncertainty of whether he and Rose would be able to make up. If they did manage to reconcile, to forgive and heal, would their relationship look the same as it did before?

A distant chime from down the hall told him the wash cycle was finished. Sniffling, James pulled on a soft, worn t-shirt and padded down the hall to continue his laundry. When the duvet was in the dryer and the sheets were in the washer, James started searching for Gollum. As irritated as he was with his cat, he was also concerned; apart from the first week James had brought Gollum home, the feline had never had litter box issues.

Drifting from room to room, James finally found Gollum in the basement—which also doubled as an office space—lying on the desk chair.

“What’s gotten into you, you little menace?” he asked, crouching beside the cat. Gollum didn’t react, making James’s heart lurch. “Gollum?”

He reached out and rested his hand on the cat’s side. Gollum let out a noise between a chirp and a growl.

“Thought you were dead for a minute. What on Earth is your problem, buddy? Are you not feeling well? Is the litter box not clean enough for you? Are you trying to make my shitty day even more shitty?” James sighed, and stroked the top of Gollum’s head. “I’ll call the vet when they open. In the meantime, try not to wee on anything else, yeah?”

Gollum huffed out a breath, then closed his eyes again, drifting off to sleep.

The rest of the night passed listlessly for James. When he wasn’t switching over laundry, he worked on cleaning his house from top to bottom. Anything to keep his mind busy and away from Rose, because otherwise all he could think about was the way he’d raised his voice and talked over her, the way he’d suggested she wasn’t as invested in their relationship as he was, the way she’d sobbed and hugged herself and flinched away from him. And all of that was something he definitely didn’t want to think about.

The sky was beginning to lighten in the distant horizon by the time he’d finished. His house was immaculate. There was not a scrap of unclean fabric anywhere, what with him moving on to washing his clothes and the various towels and blankets strewn around his home.

His eyes burned with exhaustion, and he thought he might be able to get some sleep. He preemptively filled his cats’ food dishes so that they wouldn’t barge into his room in an hour to demand breakfast, then he went into his bedroom and crawled beneath his sheets. Before settling in to try to sleep, he shot off a series of short emails to his various professors, letting them know he wouldn’t be in class that day, and he would arrange with some of his classmates to get their notes. That task finished, James silenced his phone and set it on the nightstand, then tugged his sheets up to his ears.

He hadn’t realized that his bed had begun to smell like Rose until he was surrounded by the scent of laundry detergent rather than her subtle floral aroma. With an intensity that stole his breath away, he was aware of how much he missed Rose. Missing her hurt almost as much as their fight did, because despite everything that had happened, he remained desperately in love with her. He knew that he would do just about anything to try to make things right with Rose, if she would let him. He hoped she would.

That train of thought kept him from getting much sleep. His mind kept replaying their argument over and over again, and it kept coming up with new rebuttals and explanations he wished he could have said instead of losing his temper.

It was ten o’clock by the time James gave up on the idea of getting any more rest. He felt worse now than he had when he’d collapsed into bed four hours ago. Bleary-eyed, James stumbled to the kitchen to begin a pot of coffee. While it brewed, he went to check on Gollum. His food dish beneath his cat tree was full, and the cat himself had barely moved from his position on the office chair.

“All right, bud. Vet time,” James murmured, stroking Gollum’s forehead and cheeks.

He went back upstairs for his phone, and placed a call to the veterinarian’s office. There were no available in-person appointments, but they told James he could drop the cat off with them and they would take some blood and urine samples from Gollum throughout the course of the day. 

James didn’t feel particularly good about dropping his sick cat off and leaving him alone, but the alternative was waiting a few days for an open appointment. He thanked the vet tech and said he would be by with his cat within the hour.

With a sigh, James pulled on some clothes, poured coffee into a travel thermos, and managed to get Gollum into his carrier with minimal fuss. Gollum loathed being in a car carrier, and often yowled and growled for the entire duration until he was set free again; the fact that he remained utterly silent and unmoving was testament to the fact he felt poorly.

The drive to the vet’s clinic was unremarkable, as was the transfer of his cat into their care. He confirmed his contact information, and thanked them for being able to take Gollum so quickly.

Since he was already out and about, James stopped by a nearby Walmart for his monthly supply run. He hadn’t thought to bring a list along on what he had assumed would be a quick stop at the vet’s, so he tried his best to remember everything he needed.

He was about to head to the front registers when a display of vibrant colors caught his eye. Paint swatches.

Hmm. Been meaning to repaint my bedroom.

Pulling his shopping cart to the side, James grabbed a booklet and began leafing through for some palette ideas. Currently, his walls were boring off-white, which hadn’t really bothered him before. He always assumed he would eventually get around to repainting, but after nearly two years of living there, everything was the same as when he’d moved in.

No time like the present.

He spent the next half hour poring over paint colors and mentally mapping the colors onto his bedroom walls. He frequently found himself wondering whether Rose would like a certain color, before he shut down that train of thought; it always came back, though. For the past several months, Rose was never more than half a thought away. Despite their current situation, that was a hard habit to break.

In the end, he decided on an eggshell-finish steel blue color that could have passed for gray. A nice, cool, neutral shade (and, despite his best efforts, he was sure Rose would like it too). He added a soft white for his ceiling and a sharp white glossy paint to his order to touch up the trim and crown molding. With his new paint cans in tow, he moved to the next aisle for paint rollers and brushes, protective cloth canvas, tape, a paint tray, and any other painting accoutrements he could find.

On his way home, he stopped by a fast-food drive-thru for a burger and an order of fries. His cholesterol was probably not pleased with him, considering he’d eaten a cheesesteak and fries for dinner the night before, but he ultimately decided to hell with his cholesterol. 

It was noontime when he finished his lunch, and he hopped right in with his painting project. It took him an hour to move all of his furniture to the middle of the room, and to unhang the various decorations on his walls. Not sure how long the painting would take, James shifted his entire dresser into his spare bedroom, where he figured he would sleep for the next night or two until the project was finished.

The soothing, repetitive movements of painting were cathartic, which is more than James could have hoped for. It took a fair amount of concentration, especially to make sure he didn’t drip paint where it didn’t belong. He enjoyed cutting in the corners and edges of his walls using one of the small brushes he’d bought, but he didn’t like using the broad paint roller to cover large areas. That was an easy and mindless task, which meant his brain could go back to Rose. And that was definitely not where he wanted his brain to go.

How much longer would his memory replay their fight for him? How long would it take before he stopped thinking about everything he could have and should have said differently? And how long was this break of theirs going to last?

Several times, he had been tempted to take photographs of his bedroom and send them to Rose. A tiny little olive branch, maybe. But no, that was stupid. That would look like he didn’t care about or didn’t want to address their fight.

He still took photos, though, wanting a before and after comparison for his own memories.

He was about to move on to the last wall of his bedroom when the vet called with an update on Gollum. When his phone had rung, his heart had jumped into his throat; he hadn’t been sure whether he was hoping or dreading to see Rose’s name. The crushing disappointment he felt gave him his answer. It took everything he had to not dismiss the call and instead phone Rose, desperate to speak with her and start mending whatever broke between them.

However, he had a duty to his cat, and so he accepted the vet’s call. Gollum, it turned out, had a rather severe urinary tract infection. The vet wanted to keep him overnight to start him on an aggressive antibacterial regimen, and to give him intravenous fluids because the cat was dangerously dehydrated.

The guilt nearly overwhelmed James. He hadn’t realized Gollum hadn’t been drinking or acting any differently; if the cat hadn’t wee’d on the beds, James wouldn’t have known anything was wrong. The vet tech, seeming to sense his distress, assured him that UTIs could frequently get overlooked, but that Gollum should make a full recovery.

“We anticipate you’ll be able to pick him up in a day or two.”

“Great, thanks,” James breathed. “Really. Thanks so much.”

The call reminded him it was time to feed his other cats. He had shut them away into the basement to keep them from wandering into his bedroom while he painted. As he walked down the hall, he could hear Pippin crying and scratching at the door.

“Sorry, sorry,” he called through the door. “One minute, boys. One minute, then I’ll bring down your dindin.”

He grabbed the two empty food dishes in the kitchen, filled them with kibble, grabbed a water bottle out of the fridge, and opened the basement door. Pippin bolted upstairs and sprinted directly to where his bowl usually sat. He froze when he saw it wasn’t there, and James couldn’t help but laugh at him.

“Right here, bud,” James said, shaking the bowl. “C’mon. You’re dining in the basement tonight, and tomorrow. Until I’ve finished painting. I absolutely do not trust you to not brush up against the wet walls, and I don’t fancy washing paint off of you.”

James continued talking to his cats as he carefully walked down the steps, wary of Pippin and Merry who both were winding around his ankles. Wouldn’t that just be the perfect ending to the past twenty-four hours? His relationship with Rose had crashed and burned, then he went and broke his neck falling down the stairs.

Once the cats were happily eating their dinner, James returned to his bedroom and worked on finishing what he could. He worked diligently until nightfall, pleased with his progress and with how well the color looked. However, he was growing to realize that the warm brown wood of his dresser, nightstand, and bookcases didn’t match with the cooler tones of the room.

Well, he’d been planning to upgrade his furniture anyway from the inexpensive mishmash of pieces he’d found at second-hand shops. Figuring he was done for the night, James set up a rotating fan to help with air circulation then went into his bathroom for a shower. Paint flecks spattered his face, hair, and arms; it took quite a bit of vigorous scrubbing before he was satisfied he’d washed it all off.

Once he was clean, dried, and dressed in pajamas, he exited his bedroom and closed the door behind himself so that he could release his cats from their basement prison. Not particularly hungry but figuring he ought to eat, he cut up an apple and scooped a dollop of peanut butter onto a plate, then took it and his laptop to his couch. Aching and exhausted, James simply sat on his sofa with his head tilted back and his eyes shut.

He nearly dozed off until Pippin clumsily jumped into his lap, nearly upending James’s snack. 

“Shoo,” James grumbled, moving his cat to the sofa cushion beside him.

Pippin huffed, then walked in a circle half a dozen times before plopping right next to James’s thigh. Absently stroking his cat, James munched on his pitiful dinner and opened up his laptop to IKEA’s website.

He spent the next hour browsing new bedroom furniture. With the light, cool-toned walls, he thought dark furniture would pop rather nicely. He fell utterly in love with a curved, corner-unit bookcase, and with a long chest of drawers that could fit enough clothes for two people. He favorited both of those pieces of furniture as he wondered what to do with his current furniture. Some of it could be repurposed to other rooms in his house, but others, like his bed frame—if he decided to upgrade that as well—would have to be sold or donated.

The ring of his doorbell interrupted his mental reconfiguration of his home. He leapt to his feet and jogged to his front door, cautiously peering into the peephole to see who was visiting him so late at night. A tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed man had his face pressed close to the door, as though he could look through the opposite end of the peephole.

James threw open the door. “Jack? What the hell are you doing here?”

The other man scanned his eyes up and down James’s body, taking in the pajamas and his damp, messy hair. A salacious grin crossed Jack’s face.

“Oops, I didn’t interrupt anything important, did I?”

It took James a few seconds to realize what Jack meant. Then he wondered why Jack would think he and Rose had been in the middle of having sex. Eventually he remembered that nobody else was aware that he and Rose were in the middle of an argument. Which made him remember that he and Rose were in the middle of an argument. His mood soured, and he crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“What do you want, Jack?”

Jack simply stared at him for a beat before saying, “It’s Thursday.”

James’s stomach sank. Thursday… pub quiz night… shit.

“We didn’t see you at Molly’s, and none of us had heard from you. I thought maybe you were busy with Rose, caught up in all sorts of delicious debauchery that I would love to hear about. But you don’t exactly seem to be in a state of post-coital bliss, so…”

“What do you want, Jack?” James repeated, gritting his teeth. His sleepless night had finally caught up with him, and he was suddenly exhausted. His body felt leaden and his head began to ache. The last thing he wanted to do was stand in his doorway and have this conversation with his friend/ex-boyfriend.

Jack scrutinized him so intently that James had to fight the urge to slam the door in Jack’s face.

“What’s up with you?” 

“None of your bloody business,” James snapped. “Look, it’s late. Sorry I missed trivia night. I’ll be there next week. But if you wouldn’t mind…”

In a move James was not anticipating, Jack stepped forward and into James, startling him into backing up a step. Before he knew it, they were inside his house, and Jack had shut the door behind him.

“What the hell Jack?” James exploded. “I’m not in the bloody mood for this. Get out.”

“Spill. What’s happened?” Jack asked. Before James could shout at him again, he turned his head down the hall, sniffing. “Are you getting your house repainted?”

“Jack!” James followed uselessly as Jack strode down the hall to his closed bedroom door.

The other man threw open the door and flicked on the lights, revealing the messy, freshly-painted bedroom.

“Yes, I’m repainting my bedroom. Congratulations on your deductive reasoning skills. Will you please leave now?”

“Is there a reason you’ve started repainting your room on a random Thursday? That sounds like more of a weekend project.”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I was out shopping and saw paint swatches and had the urge to repaint my bedroom. So here we are.”

“Why were you out shopping and looking at paint swatches in the middle of a school day? Play hooky, did you? You know, whenever I blow off classes for the day, it’s usually because I’m having sex. Was Rose too busy? Or have you worn her out already?”

James’s cheeks burned, even as his chest crumpled in on itself. He had done his best to not think about Rose all afternoon, yet here was Jack, bringing her up every other sentence.

“Well, at least I can finally say I got you in the bedroom,” Jack said lightly, digging his elbow into James’s ribs.

James managed a weak, half-hearted snort. “Not quite how you expected it though, is it?”

“Admittedly, we were both a lot more naked,” Jack lamented. “I’ll let you save the nakedness for Rose. Speaking of, what does she think of your sudden home makeover?”

James’s stomach hollowed out, and he surprised himself by confessing, “Dunno. Haven’t told her.”

Jack went silent for the first time all night. James could feel his friend’s eyes on him, but he steadfastly inspected his walls, looking for any imperfections he would have to pay close attention to when he applied the second coat.

“James, what happened?”

Jack’s voice was so soft and so knowing that the backs of James’s eyes prickled. Damn. He thought he was done crying. James sighed and rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“I think… I think Rose and I might be breaking up soon,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Jack simply blinked at him, his face expressionless. “Right. We’re gonna get some alcohol, then you are going to explain everything to me. Why do you think you and Rose are breaking up? You two are the epitome of soulmates, if such a thing exists.”

James snorted, remembering every hurtful thing he and Rose had said last night. “Not anymore, we’re not.”

Jack clapped him lightly on the back, before he encircled his arm around his shoulders and gave him a squeeze. “Let’s go sit down.”

Keeping his arm where it was, Jack guided James to the kitchen and plopped him into the chair that Rose usually sat in. James didn’t bother moving, and instead watched his friend go to the fridge and pull out a partially-drunk bottle of wine. He and Rose had opened that bottle last weekend. They’d snuggled on the sofa together and made a drinking game out of watching a cooking show together. Half way through the bottle, they’d gotten pleasantly tipsy and had stopped paying attention to the television in favor of making out.

Jack found the cabinet that contained the wine glasses and pulled down two of them. He sat at the table opposite of James, filled the glasses, and pushed one towards him. James gulped down half of it in one go.

“Okay. Tell me everything,” Jack said, topping off James’s wine glass.

The words poured out of him, from every heartbreaking thing Rose had told him, to everything he had said in return. Jack’s face remained impassive as James spoke, never once interrupting, even though James wasn’t sure he managed to capture all of the details as clearly as he would have preferred.

“I’ve ruined everything,” James concluded, polishing off the liquid in his glass before refilling it.

“No, you haven’t,” Jack said gently. “You buggered it up a little bit. But so did Rose. You brought up some valid points, James. You deserve to be in a relationship with someone who is honest and forthcoming. It isn’t a good balance for one person to constantly be sharing while the other remains a closed book. However, it’s not healthy to expect the same level of reciprocity from Rose as what you bring to the table. Especially when you haven’t been upfront with Rose about your expectations. And where you did bugger things up was with shooting yourself down so hard. Especially as a way to excuse what you’ve said, or assumptions you’ve made.”

“But… I genuinely feel like I’m at a complete and utter loss all the time,” James defended, ringing his fingertip around his wine glass. “It’s like… it’s like people innately know how to do this, this romance thing, and I’m bumbling along like an idiot.”

“Were you insecure in your friendship with Rose? Before you began dating? Did you feel any of this last semester?”

James paused, considering. He’d always had some butterflies when he spent time with Rose last semester, but for the most part, he’d simply enjoyed being in her presence. That hadn’t changed at all, despite their new relationship status. She had remained his best friend, the person he always wanted to be around, and the person he wanted to share every piece of his life with.

“No,” he whispered, pressing his fingertips into his eyes.

“Soooo… what’s the difference between being Rose’s friend versus being her boyfriend? I mean, I assume by now that you’re having sex? Apart from that, it’s not like anything really changed. Is the sex bad or something? Do you not like it?”

James felt his cheeks heating as his stomach twisted. Being intimate with Rose was one of the most special things he’d ever shared with someone. Not only did it feel brilliant, better than he ever thought physical pleasure could be, but it was equally as emotionally satisfying. Being vulnerable with Rose hadn’t been terrifying or overwhelming, but rather comforting. There had been nobody he trusted more than Rose.

“No,” he croaked. “No, it’s been… it’s been incredible. Everything with her has been incredible.”

“Has Rose given any indication that she has been dissatisfied with you in any way? Not even with the sex, but just…” Jack waved his hands around in the air. “…in general?”

You’re everything I never thought I deserved to have.

Hot tears burned in his eyes then dripped down his cheeks. Every kiss she’d given him, every squeeze of her hand in his, every sleepy smile that spread across her face when she woke up and saw him… It all raced through his head, a testament to their love.

What have I done?

He pressed his palms into his eyes

“No,” he answered, his voice raw.

Jack sighed. “Oh, James.”

“I know!” He plonked his forehead down onto the table and curled his arms around his head, tugging on his hair until it hurt. “I fucked up, Jack.”

James heard the scraping of chair legs on the floor, then a warm body was pressed tightly into his own. Jack wrapped his arm around James’s shoulders, leaning into him in a sideways hug.

“Much like having sex,” Jack began, “having an argument takes more than one person. Most times, anyway. If either situation is being done by only one person, chances are they’re a wanker.”

James let out a weak laugh, even as his eyes and throat burned with more tears.

“Rose said some very hurtful things,” Jack said, rubbing his hand soothingly up and down James’s arm. “She needs to apologize and address those. But you accused her of some pretty terrible things, too. From what you’ve said, Rose’s relationship with this Jimmy guy was toxic, if not abusive. It’s insulting for you to suggest she would want to go back into a relationship like that.”

James’s stomach ached. He had known for months that Rose’s relationship with Jimmy had been unhealthy, and that her heart had been badly broken. That should have been enough for him. Did he really need to know every single detail of her heartbreak?

No, he decided. No, he didn’t. However, he would have liked to have known that Jimmy had reached out to her. At the very least, James wanted to know why Rose hadn’t wanted to tell him Jimmy had contacted her.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he admitted.

“At least you know you want to fix it,” Jack said, giving James a squeeze. “That’s a good start. It means you’ve determined that what you have with Rose is worth fighting for. But you need to take a long, hard look at what you want from this relationship, and more importantly, what you want from Rose. And you need to be receptive to what she wants from you and your relationship. And you need to work on your own insecurities and stop projecting them onto Rose. That’s a shitty thing to do, James. You have the insecurities, so it’s your job to work through them. Stop making excuses for yourself, and stop projecting them onto Rose.”

“Not sugar coating this at all, are you?” James muttered, though he knew Jack’s advice was sound.

“Nope. I’ve let you mope for a half hour, but now you need to start making things right. And remember. You can only change yourself—you can’t change Rose. So decide what you’re willing to put up with, because she might never be as open as you want her to be. But also set some boundaries for yourself. A relationship is give and take, and lots of compromise. You can’t keep giving and giving and giving, or else you’re not going to have anything left.”

James cocked his head to the side and peeked up at Jack. “Do you have a degree in relationship counseling that I don’t know about?”

Jack laughed, and took his arm away from James’s shoulders to instead ruffle his hair. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“But how do I start a conversation with Rose to tell her I want to fix things?” James asked.

Jack pursed his lips and tapped his finger to his chin in mock thought. “Have you considered anything like “Hi Rose, I really want to make up and then make out”?”

James snorted. “I’ll think of something else. Oh, and I might have some furniture coming tomorrow or Saturday. Wanna help me move stuff?”

Jack winked. “You know, I think I’m busy. Why don’t you see if Rose is free?”

“Subtle,” James drawled. He then sighed. “Thanks for stopping by, Jack.”

“See, aren’t you glad I wasn’t put off by your less-than-warm welcome? If you want to practice your apology skills, I’ll take one.”

“Okay, I think it’s time we said goodbye,” James said, dragging his weary body up from the chair. He collected their empty wine glasses and set them in the sink.

“A piece of advice, don’t try that one with Rose. Maybe try a kiss or two. I’ll take one of those, if you’re offering.”

James rolled his eyes and lightly shoved his friend out of the kitchen. They’d only made it a few steps when the doorbell rang.

“Bit late for a social call, isn’t it?” Jack asked, frowning at James.

James gestured up and down the length of Jack’s body. “You can talk, showing up here at nine o’clock.”

“Touché. Late-night furniture delivery?”

“I haven’t ordered anything yet. Besides, no one would deliver this late.”

Shrugging, James stepped ahead of his friend to yank open the front door. His breath left him in a sharp, little whoosh when he beheld the person standing in the yellow glow of the porch light, cradling a small, plastic container to her stomach.

“Rose.”

[allycryz]

WOL Challenge #4: Outrage

[Prompt List Here]

[Filled Prompt List Here]

Haurchefant-focused so not entering/tagging, spoilers for HW and start of ShB

Pairings:  Mild Estinien x Haurchefant, Background Haurchefant x Nerys and Haurchefant x Urianger

Rating: G

Summary: Snapshots in Haurchefant’s journey from Knight to Emissary 

Mild warnings for other knights taunting him over his parentage

"Next time, I shall fetch our drinks." Haurchefant says, watching Aymeric's slow progress across the floor. Each time he is about to break free and return to their table, someone else hails him. And he cannot help but exchange pleasantries. Darling, infuriating man.

"You are as bad as he," Estinien mutters. "Worse even, because you might abandon us for a pretty smile."

"I would never abandon my friends so!" Haurchefant wears mock indignation to cover his actual indignation. He would never be so rude.

He would at least deliver the drinks before being led away by the pretty smile. 

"Politicians both of you," Estinien says. "I do not understand how you know all these people."

"Me? Perish the thought." Haurchefant waves a hand. "I am simply interested in everyone. That is different."

"Hm." Estinien continues to glower. Irritated that of the two friends he has allowed himself to make, one has abandoned them. Haurchefant has tried to remedy that but Estinien is resistant to more connections. Stubborn, darling man.

"Really," he continues. "Give me a blade and shield over politicking. Besides, they are subject to all sorts of scrutiny and I have had enough of that, thank you."

"Fair. You would not like being so circumspect."

"One of these days..." Haurchefant grins. "You are going to learn how not to insult people so often."

"What? How was that an insult?"

"I’m not offended so never you mind. Is the scrutiny why you haven't seduced Aymeric yet?"

At that, the tips of Estinien's ears turn red. "Never you mind that. It is as likely as you becoming a politician."

"On that you are utterly wrong." Haurchefant shakes his head. "He will end up in your bed by year's end but I will always be a knight."

--

The day he becomes a true knight is the day he swears himself to Ishgard, before Blessed Halone, before the other knights and nobility and his family. To serve his country and The Fury for the rest of his life. To uphold the laws of Ishgard. To protect the weak and defenseless. To serve the Fury’s chosen including the Archbishop and the servants of her church.

For all that they are men now, for all that they all took the same vows, for all that they squired and trained and rose up together; the knights of noble birth treat him as they always have.

“Edmont Oathbreaker,” says one of the Dzemael lordlings. He speaks to three other knights but pitches his voice to be heard across the barracks. “Swore to forsake all others when he took his lady. That lasted until they hired a maid prettier than the Countess.”

Haurchefant continues polishing his armor, keeping the same bland smile upon his face. If he reacts, they will narrow in like wolves scenting blood. And not since he was a boy has he responded to these taunts with fists.

It was this one’s cousin. He thinks, glancing at the lordling with his placid expression. Haurchefant had bloodied Grinnaux’s nose and his father had made him swear never to react so again. But one small victory–Grinnaux treated him with a begrudging respect thereafter.

“Someone should cut his tongue out,” Estinien growls. “And my new dagger needs testing.”

“Peace,” says Haurchefant. “Believe me, I have heard far, far worse.”

“That does not make it right.��� And he rises with clear intent in his gaze. Haurchefant clasps his wrist, shaking his head.

“My friend, I am glad to have your loyalty. Will you do me the favor of standing down?”

Estinien looks at him a long moment before sitting down. “Bah! Only nobies care which side of the bed you were born on.”

Darling, fierce man. “I am, despite everything, a noble as well.”

“I don’t hold it against you.” Estinien says in the deadpan way he favors for jokes. And before Haurchefant can laugh, he adds. “You’re twice the knight he is.”

Haurchefant swallows the sudden burst of emotion that forms in his throat. His friend is not given to flattery or platitudes. “That...means more to me than you’ll ever know.”

Estinien grunts and returns to his own armor. This time, Haurchefant’s smile is true and genuine. He will do his best to be worthy of such praise. 

--

Artoirel flicks him an acknowledging glance before returning to his papers, writing something in his perfect hand. Of the three sons, he is the only one who takes after their father in neat penmanship. 

Standing at attention is still a trial. Who knew the body was so interconnected–that the acts of walking and standing could hurt while your shoulder healed? He has been through far worse pain and manages but...would that he could stand without discomfort.

“Emmanellain acquit himself well at the Melee.” Artoirel says at last, looking up. “Please, have a seat.”

Haurchefant nods and tries not to show his relief as he sits. “He did. I’m quite proud of him.”

“So am I.” A rare, soft expression crosses Artoirel’s face. Haurchefant often misses the cheerful, mischievous older brother who collected beetles and smuggled him toys. It is nice to see him again. “And...I had a notion. But I would like your approval first.”

“My approval? Would you like him to serve under my command then?” If he even can command any time in the next few months. Ser Zephirin’s lance was no common weapon, thus the healing takes an uncommon amount of time.

“Ah.” Artoirel sits up straighter. “That is the thing. It hasn’t escaped my notice that you would like to join up with Mistre-with Nerys. And it occurs to me...Emmanellain needs purpose, needs structure.”

He connects the lines and it is at once terrifying, exciting, infuriating, and thrilling. What can he even say to such a proposal? Words fail him.

“Of course, we would have a long talk with Corentiaux about it. I’ve no doubt he would be the true leader until Emmanellain caught up to speed. And there is the matter of your vows.”

“My vows?” Haurchefant repeats. “...you’re right. I swore myself to Ishgard and The Fury. No, as much as I desire to fight at her side, I cannot break my word to join the Scions. Especially not now.”

Haurchefant is all too aware of the fraught threads connecting everyone and everything. He has to navigate them as Commander, as a noble, as one of the famous bastards of Ishgard. And now–as he watches his country rebuild itself–the networks of Ishgardian alliances and feuds resemble powder kegs more than anything.  

Looking up, he continues. “I cannot ask to be released from my vows. Not when Aymeric has just been elected Speaker. We know I support him but we also know some might twist it around. ‘Look, even Greystone thinks the new Ishgard will fail. No wonder he is leaving.’”

“I know. That’s why I have an idea.”

“...Go on.”

Out comes an official document, marked with Artoirel’s own signet ring. Haurchefant reads it over once. Frowns and reads it again. This is...wholly unexpected. 

“Is this a promotion or a demotion?” 

“Call it a promotion.”

A promotion. From Lord Commander to House Fortemps Emissary to the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. Charged with protecting the interests of the Wards of House Fortemps; overseeing all negotiations between the Scions of the Seventh Dawn and House Fortemps; strengthening inter-Alliance relationships between Ishgard and the rest of Eorzea.

“Oh Fury,” he says. “You’re turning me into a politician.”

When Estinien comes back, he will never let Haurchefant live this down.

--

The Ostall Imperative feels like home. 

 The soldiers take to him and he to them. Captain Lyna is a charming, lovely woman and an excellent training partner. It is far more rewarding than stewing at the Crystarium. Hoping the Exarch brings Nerys soon but also hoping he does not. Would that he had a fraction of her power. Haurchefant might deal with these Lightwardens in her stead.

The Exarch summons him to The Ocular and he dares not hope for...anything, truly. Better to go in with no expectations with this one. He thinks Y’shtola had the right idea, departing as she did.

He is being unkind. He does not like being unkind. 

But he also does not like the idea of these souls in peril–Y’shtola, Thancred, his beloved Urianger–and that he may not see Nerys again. Or that he will, only to send her against horrific creatures of light and terror. And what of her soul? 

When he sees that it’s Alphinaud, he is beyond unkind. He is furious. 

Everything else was bad enough but this is a boy, his family’s ward. One who has wisdom beyond his years and responsibilities equal to those twice his age but still. Alphinaud is just a lad. What if something happens to his soul?

His body may still be in Garlemald!

Haurchefant hugs him fiercely, startling him. Alphinaud makes a faintly strangled noise before returning the embrace. More tightly than he ever has before. Little wonder: when last they saw each other, their ship went down and Haurchefant’s soul left his body.

“You’re...you’re here? But you were…” Alphinaud shakes his head. “Maxima was supposed to bring you home.”

“He did.” He does have the Exarch to thank, for confirming his body made it back to the Rising Stones. “I am in Mor Dhona. And my soul is...here.”

“Of course. My apologies, I am still wrapping my brain about what has happened.”

“If I may interrupt,” the Exarch says. “There are a few things else you should know before we send you to a room and a meal.”

“Before that…” Haurchefant looks up. “Kindly use your powers of sight and tell us how his body fares.”

“It’s alright, friend.” It’s Alphinaud who speaks. Puts a comforting hand on his arm. “The Exarch assures me that my traveling companions are returning my body.”

“Your companions,” he repeats. “Gaius van Baelsar, you mean.”

“You know?”

“The Exarch has kept me informed since my arrival here.” It is one of the constants since his arrival a year prior–asking for updates about his friends and loves still on The Source.

“Yes, I mean Gaius. It’s alright.” Alphinaud walks over to the Exarch. “Pray, continue ser. What else should I know?”

The boy receives the same explanation they all had: what is to come, what they are planning for, where the other Scions are. Haurchefant remains quiet except to add clarifying details here and there. It is far too much for anyone to process but as usual, Alphinaud does admirably. When he is dismissed, the Exarch asks Haurchefant to stay behind.

“How may I be of service?” Haurchefant asks, not quite modulating his tone. Urianger has asked him to trust the Exarch and for him, Haurchefant would do anything. He truly would. But he pictures Alphinaud, collapsed in Garlemald among strangers, and wants to fight through time and space to reach the Source and rescue him. Laws of nature and the universe be damned.

“As I said,” the Exarch says, voice gentle. “Gaius will bring him home.”

“Keep me apprised, if you please. I do not trust the Black Wolf, no matter that he is Ascian Hunter now.” Bending his vows to topple the archbishop had not made Haurchefant love Ishgard any less. Gaius’ alliance is to the Garlean Empire until proven otherwise.

“I have need of you, Lord Haurchefant.” The Exarch inclines his head, one hand over his breast. “You have done great things with my guard. But what I need is to know what type of world we send the Warrior into. We need alliances to ease her way.”

“...Ah.” Haurchefant nods. “You do not need the Knight. You need the Emissary.”

“I need both. You are an honest man because you are a knight. And that is also why you are an excellent emissary–you see people as they are, you discern their motives in order to know if you need to protect your loved ones.”

“You flatter me, ser.”

“I tell the truth,” says the Exarch. “Please, I know this situation is fraught and you want to get home. The more we prepare, the quicker I send you all home safe and sound. She deserves-”

“She deserves everything,” says Haurchefant. “And I would do anything to help her and protect her. If that means playing this role, then yes I will do this for you.”

Beneath the hood, he sees a hint of a smile. “We are in agreement, Lord Haurchefant.”

“If I may...I would like to see to Alphinaud. Shall we discuss this another time?”

“Of course. Tomorrow morning?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Haurchefant agrees. Enough time to see to the boy. And then make his farewells to Lyna and the rest of the guard.  Being with them is the most himself he has felt in a long while.

He hopes he can return soon.