#i hate my life i can’t even GIF this is a fucking NIGHTMARE !!!!!!!!!!!

[crowsofdarkness]

Bucky realizes he's in love.

cw's below the cut: small mention of smut, language, but most of all tooth rotting fluff. this is written in Bucky's pov.

The soft breeze blew through our opened window, dancing with the long curtains, as I laid in bed with her head on my chest, fingernails trailing down the bareness of my skin. I held her tighter, her smell engulfing my sense of and I fluttered my eyes shut at the familiarity. 

Roses. She knew how much of a sucker I was for that smell and made everything about her that smell. 

There was a tune playing throughout the speakers in our shared home as I adjusted the sheets over our naked bodies, the actions of our lazy Sunday replaying in my mind. 

I found myself becoming obsessed with the feeling of her head on my chest and she carefully traced the scars on my shoulder where flesh met vibranium. She knew about my past, everything I had done as The Winter Soldier, and even if I hated myself for it, she didn’t. She loved everything about me, the good and bad. There were plenty of times she could have left after many nights of nightmares but she refused. 

Her love for me was bigger than the tragic memories. 

I had lost hope after Steve left to go back in time, leaving me alone. But when she came into my life, hope began to fill my veins; hope for a happy ending finally. I never believed I deserved one but she began to prove me wrong. 

Any time I began to over think any small thing, I looked into her bright eyes and I couldn't stop myself from catching a breath because she made me lose it all over again. When I look at her, that’s the end of all of the bad thoughts.

Years together and I can’t stop the nervousness or butterflies in my stomach when we stare at one another. 

Her soft lips kissed the scars, something she had always done, and I wrapped my arms tighter around her while my own lips brushed a kiss to her forehead. The smile that graced her beautiful features awoke those damn butterflies once more. 

It had been years of loneliness and heartbreak but the second she came into my life, everything changed. She worked at the local coffee shop and was there every time I had gone in for a coffee and to read. After the second time, she had memorized my order. 

Small black coffee with a chocolate croissant. 

The moment I realized I was in love with her was when she had my order waiting for me, seconds before I arrived at the shop. 

She had become everything I wanted when I thought I couldn’t find anyone. 

Her petite fingers traced the graying stubble along my chin and I fell into the touch. 

“We should probably get up,” I muttered against her hairline. “Alpine hasn’t been fed.” 

She groaned while burying her face deep into my neck. “But I’m comfy.” 

A sly smirk pulled at my lips. “How about I bend you over the bed and fuck that pretty little hole again?” 

Her eyes met mine, lips parting as she mimicked a fish, the words feeling foreign on her lips. 

God, I love the way she couldn’t find the words to say. 

Our Sunday afternoon had drifted fast into the night and we were seated on the floor of our living room, two large pizza boxes that were empty sat a few feet from us. The television played one of her favorite movies but that did nothing to stop her from fidgeting, her nerves getting the best of her. 

“Doll, you need to sit still. It’ll be alright,” I assured her with a squeeze to her knee. 

She shook her head. “I can’t! We leave tomorrow for Greece and I suddenly remembered there’s a list of things to get done.” 

We had this vacation planned for years and now that it was fast approaching, she was a nervous wreck. But I didn’t mind. I was so in love with her that I would run anywhere with her because the two of us were enough. 

“Come here,” I pulled her into my chest with my vibranium arm and she quickly melted into my embrace. 

Whenever we were in one another’s arms, it felt like home. No matter where we were. Everything I had gone through in my life, good or bad, I knew it was all worth it because it led me to her. 

We shared a deep kiss, one that others would say belonged to two people who were so in love with each other. 

[godmadeaterribleerror]

They're Never Gonna Find You A Home - A No Love Lost Bonus Chapter

Series Masterlist

Read on A03!

Author's Note: The way I've somehow made MYSELF hate Homelander more needs to be studied. The power of suggestion is very, very real.

Title from House of Wolves by My Chemical Romance.

Word Count: 3.6k

Summary/Warnings: Everyone adjusts to your life with the Boys. Request from @thegildedblogger! Takes place before Chapter 1, about two or three weeks after the Boys find Her. Usual warnings, plus mentions of depression, suicide, and SA without depiction (not by Soldier Boy).

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, angst, Ben's only mentioned.

You’ve been having new nightmares. Nightmares where everything is white and cold like before, but it’s all below your feet and running with red. And there are screams. In harmony with your own, echoing over your every ragged breath, the world is fucking filled with screams. Millions of them, high and low and musical, a choir of demons calling you back down, down, down to somewhere hidden.

Somewhere that you’ll only hear the ghost of their voices, where everything will be spotless but dirty and the only eyes that watch you will be a horrible shade of blue. Where the sky won’t see you, but won’t need to see you, because you’ll never be able to hide in dirt and mud and grass again. You won’t be permitted to bleed, or cry, or scream, and everything red will be cold leather that wraps around your throat. And you can’t move or run or hide and this isn’t real but you’re not safe. It’s all in your head, but everything is burning and too-white teeth are flashing in your vision as blue eyes watch you fall alone.

You can’t breathe. Your skin is crawling and something under it is distorting and feels wrong. All of this is wrong and you aren’t safe and you can’t breathe and no. No, no, no, you can’t breathe and no-

You hear a nervous, muffled voice call your name as someone shakes your body. They’re afraid, and it’s not your fear because they’re not paralyzed, but they are so fucking worried and afraid and it’s pulling their stomach into knots and it's alive in their throat-

Your eyes shoot open as something hits you in the gut, and you scramble back as the full force of Hughie’s fear hits your body. His eyes are wide, his face pale, and he’s afraid of you. That’s the look people give feral animals—where they’re unsure if they should help or run—and you can’t even blame him. The sound that had left you as you’d woken was almost a shriek, you’re curled into a fetal position against the wall, and you can’t look good, or stable, or healthy. You haven’t showered in almost a week, you’re probably pallid and gaunt from lack of sleep and erratic eating, and there’s a thin but steady flow of smoke rising from your body.

You’d be afraid of you.

You are afraid of you.

You’re haunted by the screams of the scientists, and the ice skaters, and the ash and rubble of the forest, and you don't know what Hughie wants, but you're stuck in the forest—trapped in your own head—so you don't know how to ask.

You’d hoped you’d have more time after that. After how horribly the mission at the ice rink had gone, after you’d seen Homelander and the air had begun to wave around you. After everything had grown blurry and loud and a scratching, overwhelming pain had started to push out of your skin. After you’d come fully back into your body in a burnt clearing, and MM had appeared from the untouched trees and told you that you’d been about to explode, so he’d gotten you somewhere safer to do it.

You’d thought you’d get to rest after he hadn’t looked at you the whole ride back to the Boys’ Headquarters. After he’d asked, in a low voice, “What the hell happened back there?”

“I,” You’d swallowed, tapping your fingers against your palms and making sure every nail dug into your flesh. “I don’t know. I’m sorry, I just, I saw Homelander, and I, I couldn’t-“

“Just Homelander?” MM had interrupted, and he’d sounded more curious than judgmental, so you’d nodded.

“Just Homelander. He,” your voice had barely been a whisper, and every breath had felt like labor. “He could’ve seen me. If I saw him, he could’ve, he might have seen me. And he, he might have tried to-“

“Okay. Got it.”

And that had been it. MM had dropped you back at the Headquarters, you’d shuffled over to your mattress, and you’d truly believed you’d have more time. To do what, before what, you’re not sure. But more time.

That obviously isn’t the case, though, because Hughie’s still watching you with a worry you’d felt deep and worming in your heart, and Butcher’s behind him with a smirk. Looking you over like he’s trying to figure out the fastest way to knock you down if you pounce, holding a hot pink tennis ball that matches the singed one on the other side of your mattress.

“Did,” you clear your throat, moving a hand to your neck in a weak attempt to pull the smoke back into your body by force. “Did you throw a tennis ball at me?”

“You weren’t gettin up with Hughie’s weak little shovin.” Butcher shrugs, placing the ball in his hand back on the desk. “Need you bright and bouncy, sunshine-“

“Don’t call me that.” You snap, your anger helping you sit up a little straighter against the wall. “Why do you need me up?”

“Mallory’s coming over,” Hughie mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. “MM, he thinks we should take a proper look at your, um…” Hughie trails off, and Butcher rolls his eyes.

“Bloody hell, lad, grow some fuckin balls and tell the lady we’re gonna poke her fucked little brain.”

Your lips part with a slight shock, and the foreign feeling under your skin starts to run up and down your spine. “You’re what?”

“Takin a really good look into that fucked head of yours.” Butcher shot you a wink, and the fire starts to sit at the base of your chest, pushing up your throat. “Seein what makes you tick, and how the fuck we can stop you tickin.”

Your attention turns to Hughie, and he sighs.

“We’re just, we need some records. To know more of what happened, whatever you can share or tell us. So we know what not to do, how to keep you, uh, not on fire.”

You nod slowly, and focus on the breathing. In and out, slow and controlled, forcing the world back into a painful focus that’s only held together by a string. Keeping yourself on the earth, even if you had to fall and choke to stay there.

“I,” you take another long breath, and make yourself sound unaffected. Bored. Casual and completely fucking indifferent. “I get it. Okay.”

Hughie’s eyes widening, his face falling into a doubtful frown. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

Hughie’s whole face relaxes, and his words fall out in frantic relief. “Thank God. Me and MM, we, um, we were really freaked out. After Vought on Ice. You looked,” Hughie pauses, voice dropping to a full mumble. “Not good.”

“MM and I.”

He blinks at you. “What?”

You shrug, pulling yourself up to unsteady feet. “MM and I, not me and MM. Just so you, um, just so you know.”

It doesn’t really matter, but it’s something to hold onto and think about that isn’t how you’ve freaked out the only people who seem to be able to tolerate you. And Hughie doesn’t seem that bothered—just giving an uncertain nod—even as Butcher scoffs.

“Well, you must’ve just been a laugh riot at fuckin parties-“

“I didn’t go to parties.” You mutter, taking slow, measured steps onto the cold floor and shooting Butcher a glare. “I was locked in a dungeon.”

If Butcher’s bothered by your words, he doesn’t appear it. He just gives you an unreadable look, puts his hands in his pockets, and says, “Save it for Grace, Love.”

You don’t know who Grace is, but you flip Butcher off and shuffle past Hughie to your box of clothing. Annie had gotten you some when you’d joined them, and you’ll never be more grateful for her prioritizing comfort over style. Especially given you seemed to burn through every other thing she bought you, you don’t have interest in simple, fun things like clothing anymore. You don’t have interest in most anything anymore. It’s all how can I help, and how do I make sure I never go back, and am I going to survive this?

Usually, the answer to that last one is yes. You’ll live through this, and find a small, pathetic, weak reason to keep going. A shred of hope to hang onto, to keep pushing and shredding yourself apart for, any single fucking reason to not collapse and scream and wither away.

They’re never sustainable. First it was food, but everything tastes bland and sometimes you don’t have the energy to even eat. Then it was sleep, but you never sleep. You always wake up screaming, often wrapped in fire, alone in the dark with nothing but the wide, cold office for company. Then it’s friends, or something close to friends, but fuck these people are complicated. Butcher’s an asshole that they all have their own weird dynamic with, and he treats you like vermin so you’re not exactly about to ask him to hang out with you. MM’s cool, but focused. Dedicated. No time for anything but finishing this, kind to you but weary of almost everything. Frenchie’s fascinating, but keeps trying to offer you drugs and you don’t think now is the best time to take up cocaine. Kimiko’s awesome, and she’s been teaching you how to talk to her and might be the closest to a real friend, but she seems to be preoccupied. With Frenchie, with her past, with the mission, and you’re not really something people prioritize. Annie and Hughie are sweet, but even more cautious than MM. Acting like you’re a stray cat they’ve let into their house, and they’re not really sure how to take care of you now. Annie buys you things, and Hughie offers you food or a crash course on the past three years, but that’s it. They won’t touch you.

No one will touch you.

And you understand.

You wouldn’t touch you either. If you didn’t have to splash cold water on your face or comb through your hair with your fingers, you’d keep your hands far from your body, or chop them off all together.

They’d grow back. Or you’d never get them off in the first place, because the skin would mend too fast and you’d only be torturing yourself.

You might deserve it. You do deserve it. So maybe, after this, you’ll see if you can cut off your hands. See if you can take away your limbs that only seem to be capable of destruction, see if you can claw out your eyes to never have to see blue eyes again. To spare yourself, selfishly, another memory charred birds and scorched grass and a beautiful, peaceful part of the world, razed by your lack of control. So you’ll be able to pretend that the forest is still beautiful, all green and bright, smelling like flowers and dirt and pine instead of ash, covered in light instead of shrouded in smoke.

Maybe when you’ll have no eyes, you’ll be able to exist somewhere beautiful in your head. Somewhere easy and safe, with all that sunlight and joy, but certain. It won’t be real, so it will be certain. You won’t be able to hurt anyone, when you cut off your hands and claw out your eyes—maybe you’ll carve out your heart as well, because right now every beat feels wasted and stolen—so things will be better.

But only after this is over.

Grace, as it turns out, is a thin-lipped, stone-faced woman who tells you to call her Mallory and gestures for you to sit across from her at a desk. Everyone’s here, mostly silent in the background, and you feel almost naked as you listen. Like an animal on display at the zoo, or a movie for them to watch. There’s a fluorescent light to the side of the desk that almost blinds your view of them, and you hate this. You don’t want to talk to anyone, or be anyone’s show, but you have to stay here. You have to pretend you’re fine and not made of poorly glued together pieces of paper, that you’ll be really useful to kill Homelander.

You need to be useful. And you don’t think you’ll stand being alone again.

So you plaster a small smile on your face, and give your full, slightly fuzzed attention to Grace Mallory.

She says your name, and you nod.

“I am she.”

Mallory tilts her head at you, looking almost amused in a very wolf-like way. “Of course. Why don’t we start from the beginning.”

You’ve told the story before in a million different pieces. In that shitty white van the Boys always drove, right after the graveyard, with only the brief held in captivity, medically abused and tortured, escaped. To different members of the team in vague detail, with small words of dungeon and fire and needles. As an explanation when you’d lost yourself with I can’t go back. He thinks I’m dead and if he realizes I’m not he’ll try and take me and he can’t take me. I can’t fucking go back, and I don’t know how to stop the fire and keep myself safe and I’m sorry.

And it was almost always met with pity. With a sympathetic, sad expression that told you they felt bad. That these people who had a career in dealing with fucked up shit felt bad for you, because you were just a small, weak thing that they needed to coddle. That they knew speaking to you—being near you—was as if glass had shattered over the floor and they needed to be careful to not let the glass cut them open, or force

This will be all of it, though. Almost all of it.

All that you can say aloud, without falling apart or becoming pitied in a way you don’t think you’ll be able to handle.

So you take a deep breath, and start.

“I, I don’t know what you’ve been told, but-“

“I am aware,” Mallory says, watching you carefully. “Of most of it.”

You pause, because this feels like a test, and something about Mallory tells you to tread lightly. That she’s not a woman to play games with, but also someone you can’t afford to be vulnerable with. It may be her stiff posture, or snake-like eyes, or how she holds her hands in a way that simply feels robotic, but it’s something, and you don’t feel human under her gaze. And you don’t like that. You don’t trust it.

So you need to be careful.

“Like what?” You keep yourself small and uncertain, and pretend you don’t see Mallory’s brows raise slightly at your question.

“I don’t believe it will matter if you start where I’d told you-“

“I don’t want to repeat things, waste your time.” You glance at the Boys, who are watching you and Mallory like you’re a dogfight. “We all have busy and, um, complicated lives. I just don’t want to take too much time.”

There’s a moment where you think Mallory might insist you continue, but she just looks you up and down with a glint in her eyes, and speaks in clipped words.

“You are a former Vought captive. You escaped about four months ago, and have been on the lam since. We were made aware of your existence by Queen Maeve, found you in Boston, and recruited you to our efforts. You’re a pyrokinetic with a healing factor, and you seem to have some form of PTSD in relation to Homelander that makes you…” Her eyes narrow on yours. “Unreliable in the field.”

You nod slowly, tapping your fingers on the table as you mutter, “I wasn’t a Vought captive.”

Mallory says nothing, but her gaze never softens as you continue.

“I was Homelander’s captive. I don’t even know how many people at Vought knew I existed. Obviously Maeve had an idea, and probably Edgar, but what happened to me wasn’t Vought. It was all Homelander. He kidnapped me, and kept me in a dungeon for, um,” something is stinging in your heart and stabbing in your skull—clouding everything in a desperate attempt to push memories of white and cold and pain down—but you force yourself through it. “His own uses. With my body.”

“His own uses.” Mallory repeats, and you taste metal as you bite through your cheek. “Such as?”

You swallow, forcing your attention to say sharp on Mallory. This will be an interrogation, there will be questions, and you’ll have to answer them. “Rape. At first. Then he moved me to a lab, and started experimenting on me with V. He shot me with it four times, and I got new powers each time. The first one was the healing. Others and I-“

“And others?” MM interrupts, frowning at you. “You can heal other people?”

“Yeah,” you mumble, giving him small smile you know looks pathetic. “But I have to touch them. And I, I can’t.” You turn back to Mallory. “That was the second one. Empathy. I can feel others emotions, when I touch them. And I can’t control it.”

Mallory hums, scanning over you in a way that makes you feel small. “Can you control any of it?”

That makes something shrink in your chest, feel a little weaker under your skin. “Sometimes. I can do the healing, but not the empathy. And the fire is, um, hard.”

“But that’s three.” Mallory says, and you know where this is going. You’re going to have to make a choice. “You said you had four shots.”

“The third one,” you pause, and decide to just fucking lie. Homelander doesn’t know, no one knows, and you don’t even trust Mallory with Homelander’s full intentions behind the rape. You’re not going to trust her with this. “Didn’t work. Nothing happened. It’s just three powers, and they’re pretty unrelated, so-“

“You’re the Anomaly.” MM mutters from the side, and you have to not flinch at the words. “Fuck, that does,” he looks to Mallory, and she’s still watching you. “It tracks, Grace.”

Mallory just nods, leaning over the table as she addresses you. “How long ago was this?”

“Maybe three years ago. They didn’t exactly give me a calendar, and I’m not exactly sure what day I escaped. It was around when they,” you tilt your head to Butcher and Hughie. “Were working with Solider Boy. I remember seeing that on the news, then his death like a week later-“

“He didn’t die.” Annie pipes in, and Butcher scowls, glowering at her.

“Oi, Starlight, she don’t need to know that-“

“If she’s staying, she does!” Annie snaps, holding Butcher’s glare. “It’s important, especially with Homelander’s relation to that old asshole-“

You frown. “His relation?”

“Solider Boy is Homelander’s father.” Hughie tells you, wincing slightly as Butcher’s glare turns to him. “And I, I agree with Annie. You should,” he between Mallory and Butcher. “She should know these things. They’re important, and I don’t really see the harm in her knowing, right?”

Frenchie nods. “Oui, it is not as if it will be consequential for her to know. Soldier Boy is in a deep nap, she is not, but it may be of,” he pauses, looking you over. “Aid to know what makes Homelander go-“ He makes a whistling sound, and Hughie nods.

“Exactly. I mean, with Solider Boy, it’s not like they’ll ever meet, right? Or like, talk. And if she’s going to stay-“

“We ain’t decided that yet, lad-“

“But my vote is she does!” Hughie’s voice is oddly pleading as he cuts off Butcher, and you don’t really understand why. “I think she could be useful! Just to like, heal us, right?”

“I’m with Hughie-“

Butcher rolls his eyes, cutting Annie off. “Ain’t that a shocker-“

"Well, I am!” Annie snaps, turning to Mallory. “My vote is she stays.”

Frenchie and Kimiko begin to agree, and you’re trying to focus on that instead of how they’d inadvertently revealed that they’d been considering getting rid of you instead of just poking your brain. You try to focus on how they’re trusting you with what’s likely top-secret information about Solider Boy—which you don’t really care about within itself, because what the fuck are you going to do with that knowledge—instead of how Butcher and MM seem to be unsure if you’re worth keeping around. In all fairness, MM seems more worried about your health, but Butcher seems to blatantly view you as a liability.

And you are. Everyone has somehow decided that you being smart and circumstantially helpful is worth how—with one wrong misstep or thought of Homelander—you might kill them all.

But Mallory gives in, says you can stick around to be a healer and extra set of hands, and that’s it. Butcher lost, and you’re part of this now. For good.

And that’s something. It’s a way to help. A way to not just be a body rotting in a white room or standing at a grave. It’s a way to drag yourself through blood and get everyone to an ending, even if you don’t see it. To offer the world a future where you’ll be covered in ash and nothing will matter, but everyone else will be safe.

You don’t really need to be safe, or happy. You just need to keep going until you collapse, and cut off your every limb until the world is happy, and crawl until they have a reason to bury you somewhere beautiful and alive.

End Note: Thank you to @thegildedblogger for the opportunity to make angst without being yelled at!

MM is God's Strongest Soldier, because can you imagine taking in a fire lady under the assumption she'll just help you kill Homelander, only for Her to immediately turn around and fall in love with your worst enemy? I'd cry.

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[kaleldobrev]

I Dream of You

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Summary: Dean dreams of a life with you, but do you?

Word Count: 1.7k

Warings: Couple Curses (4x), Mutual Pining, Fluff

Authors Note: I don’t know why, but I love writing some vulnerable fluffy Dean so much | If you liked this, don’t forget to like & reblog. I really appreciate it! Feedback is always welcome ♡

Dean rarely remembered his dreams if they weren’t some kind of nightmare; they were usually the most vivid, most reoccurring. On occasion though, he would get a dream that wasn’t full of bloodshed, loss, and torture. Those were his favorites, because they involved you and him having a life together; something he knew he’d never have.

His favorite dream involved you sitting in a rocking chair on the porch, a glass of iced tea sitting on the table next to you. You were reading one of those mystery novels you secretly loved, already half way done with the book even though you had just picked it up the night before. You were barefoot, and wearing one of his flannels – the color of it changed with every iteration of the dream. He was mowing the lawn, sweat dripping down his back and face, while you sat in the shade of the porch. He would catch you every so often peering over your book to watch him, quickly going back to looking at the pages when he caught you. When the two of you made extended eye contact you would mouth, “I love you” to him.

The dream was always too short, but it was enough for him. It was enough for him to want that: you, that life. But it was something he knew he’d never get. You were so close yet so far from this reach.

He woke up staring at the ceiling. The spot next to him was empty like it usually was, but sometimes he would dream of you sleeping there next to him. He had dreamed of waking up with his arms wrapped around you, kissing your shoulder, your neck, your cheek, your temple…your lips. “Good morning beautiful,” he would say to you, before you would smile and reply back, “Good morning handsome.” Dean clutched the sheets of his bed, wanting that moment to be real.

Getting up from his bed he made his way to the kitchen, not even bothering to look at the time. Whatever the time, he was up now, and knew he wouldn’t be getting back to bed anytime soon.

Walking into the kitchen he saw you. Your hair was unbrushed and in your pajamas; on your laptop sitting cross-legged on the chair. Your water bottle sitting next to you on the table. You looked up at him and smiled. “Hey Dean. Can’t sleep either uh?” You asked.

Dean shook his head. “I don’t even know what time it is.” He admitted.

You looked down at your laptop and looked back to him again. “2:33.”

“Fuck.” Dean replied.

You unscrewed your bottle and took a sip as Dean came to take a seat across from you. “Did you have a nightmare? Or is it just one of those sleepless nights?” You asked. You knew Dean was very prone to nightmares, and you hated that he had them so often. He would always look so tired the next day, drained. You were accustomed to nightmares as well; this life would do that to you. When you had first met him, Dean denied having nightmares, saying that there was nothing that kept him up at night. But over the years, he began to confide in you all the nasty details and you would just listen. Telling him to be as graphic as he needed to be. You didn’t want him to hold back, especially if it was going to make him feel better. You knew how rough this life and nightmares could get. Like Dean, you too had grown up in the life.

“Sleepless night.” He replied. You were happy that it wasn’t a nightmare for once. “I want to sleep but have a lot on my mind.” His thoughts were of you.

“What’s on your mind?” You asked. You always asked what was on his mind. You were his best friend after all.

“Just thinkin’ about what life would be like if I stopped hunting.” At first, he was going to lie to you, tell you he had been thinking about all the things he needed to get done, or wanted to get done. But he knew you’d see right through him; you knew his tells.

“Oh yeah?” You were intrigued. Having these conversations with Dean were some of your favorites to have because you felt like you got to know another side of him, a deeper more gentle side. On the outside he looked slightly intimidating, rugged. But deep down, in reality, he was one of the nerdiest men you had ever met in your life who just wanted someone to love him the same way he loved them. For as long as you had known him, you had feelings for him. The feelings changed over the years from lust to love. You knew Dean didn’t feel the same way about you, and you were okay with that. You were happy to at least have him as a friend.

When you weren’t having nightmares, you were dreaming of a life with Dean. Dreaming about doing mundane things that old married couples do. Going grocery shopping, shopping for a new TV for the living room, or cooking one of your moms’ recipes. Your favorite dream that you had was the two of you in the kitchen. Baking supplies were on the island in front of you: bowls, measuring cups, cake mix, eggs. You had a notebook out with a cake recipe that you had wanted to recreate for a while but never got the chance to. You had started adding ingredients to the bowl when Dean would wrap his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Badass hunter turned baker who knew?” Dean would say to you before leaning in and giving you a kiss on the lips. The kiss was where it always ended; but that was all you needed. The dream was short, but it was one you cherished and never wanted to let go of. You knew you’d never get a life with Dean; he was so close yet so far from your reach.

“It’s just little things you know? Mowing the lawn, drinking a beer on the porch, watching a Jayhawks game on the TV.” He grinned for a moment. It’s just little things you know? Mowing the lawn with you watching me, you and I drinking a couple of beers on the porch, watching a Jayhawks game on the couch together. Is what he really wanted to say. All his plans involved having a life with you.

“Are you by yourself in these or…are you with someone?” You asked, a little afraid of the answer. You didn’t want to pry too much, but you were curious.

Dean thought about your question, unsure if he was willing to reveal the truth to you or not. You had been in his life for years, always being by his side no matter what he said or did. You were there when he had the Mark: being one of the only people to calm him down, you were there when he was a demon: being a somewhat willing prisoner when he took you away from the Bunker, you were there when he came back from being gone for months while he was possessed by Michael: being the only person he would talk to about it, not even Sam. He trusted you, more than anyone. Needed you more than anyone. He didn’t want to lose you. But he needed to be honest, maybe he could spin it to being friends if you had rejected him. “I’m with you.”

You felt your breath catch, your heart started beating fast. Tears started to well up in your eyes. You had no idea why you were emotional. “Really?” You couldn’t help but give him a soft smile.

“Really.” He looked at your face, trying to find some indication that you had felt the same way. He didn’t know if the smile or tears in your eyes were a good or bad thing. “Don’t cry Sweetheart.” He said, taking his thumb and wiping away a rogue tear that fell to your cheek.

“I’m just…I dream about that too actually.” If he was being honest, you might as well be honest too.

“Really?” Your comment took him by surprise. He had no idea that you had similar feelings. But it had made him feel better knowing.

You nodded. “Yeah. I uh, dream about the two of us doing mundane things together. Like going grocery shopping or watching some shitty horror movie on TV while we have Chinese take-out.”

“Like an old married couple?” Dean asked, slightly grinning. He had liked the sound of that: being an old married couple with you. His response made you laugh a little, being an old married couple were your exact words.

“Yeah, like an old married couple.” You replied.

“I have this, dream sometimes. You’re, you’re sitting on the porch reading one of those mystery novels you like, and I’m just mowing the lawn.” He paused for a moment, picturing the dream in his mind. “Sometimes, I would catch you peering from your book to look at me. And, one of those times, the two of us would lock eyes with each other and…”

“And what?”

“You’d…You’d mouth…Fuck.” He didn’t want to say it.

You gave him a confused look. “I’d mouth fuck?” That is not what you thought his dream would come to at all. You had thought that it would be more romantic than that.

Dean shook his head. “No, no. I. If I say it, there’s no going back.”

“No going back? Dean.” You rested your hand on top of his. “If you tell me, I’ll tell you.” You had a feeling about what his next words were going to be, why he seemed so afraid to say them. Three little words that would drastically change the relationship between the two of you.

Taking a deep breath Dean looked at you. “You’d mouth, I love you.” A part of him regretted saying it to you. But another part of him needed to say it to you. These feelings of wanting you, dreaming of being with you had plagued him for years.

A smile formed on your lips. “Do you ever say it back to me?”

He nodded. “Always.”

[joeyalohadream]

I love your fics and your writing, they always leave me with a lot of emotion and a warm feeling. It's always such a pleasure to read them.

(also I haven't stopped thinking about this since I read it:

“It’s like I went away, and you got better,” Gale practically grinds the words out, voice whisper soft and Bucky’s heart breaks. Gale Cleven. Smartest, kindest, bravest, strongest man he knows. He’s sitting in front of Bucky looking guilty for voicing his pain. He’s sitting in front of Bucky and Bucky can read it in his eyes. He thinks he was the problem. He has no idea that he was the solution and Bucky wishes he had all the pieces of Gale’s life to understand how a man so beautiful and good could have such a low opinion of himself. “You can’t for one second think that I was struggling, that I fell into that pit because of you, Buck.” He pushes the words out between them, leaning into Gale’s space, pleading with his eyes. “Bad shit happened before I got here and it shook me, but it’s this place. It’s being out of the war, not even on the side lines, just fucking useless. It’s not being able to do anything but wait and not even knowing what we’re waiting for. I couldn’t stand it. But God, Buck, it wasn’t you. You were the only thing that kept me from running for the fence.” Gale’s eyes are wet and shining when he looks at Bucky. “You were mean,” Gale breathes out and Bucky feels his own eyes fill. He sounds like the child Bucky suspects he never got to be. “For the first time since I met you, it seemed like you wished I wasn’t there, wasn’t with you.” He takes a shaky breath and Bucky’s chest hurts when a single tear escapes and falls down Gale’s hollow cheek. “And then I wasn’t with you and you-” Bucky growls, cutting Gale off and he hits his knees for the second time today. He braces his elbows on Gale’s legs and grabs both of his smaller hands in his own. “Stop it,” he says, staring into Gale’s eyes. “Stop it right now. I was a bastard, you’re right about that. I know you forgave me for it, I know you said there was nothing to forgive. You’ve got the biggest heart and I love you for it, but I’m going to hate myself a little bit for a long time for all the times I hurt you.” Maybe one day he’ll believe Gale that he’s not to blame for the way he spiraled. He’ll believe that terrible things happened to him and are still happening to them all in real time and he’ll accept that it’s normal to not be okay. But he’ll never forgive himself for letting it manifest into cruelty to the man he loves. To the man that deserves tenderness more than anyone he’s ever met. He wonders how long these thoughts have been plaguing Gale. Since before they took him away? Did he sit and think that Bucky wanted him gone while he was in there? The idea of it makes his head swim, makes him feel sick.

right in my poor little heart, I want to cry every time and i love it 🥺😭😭😭)

Thank you for writing and sharing all these wonderful fics with us 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

AME! Why are you so kind and wonderful and sweet?!

Genuinely was not having a good day and I’m about to go bartend the evening shift for New Year’s Eve, which is going to be a nightmare and this message just made me so, so incredibly happy. 🥹💕❤️☺️

It brings me such warm feelings to know you enjoy my writing and I ALWAYS appreciate the time you take to comment and share your thoughts on AO3.

This even makes me more inspired to truly buckle down and get Part Three of the ‘Cooler Fic’ out for everyone who’s waiting.

Ame, you’re a bright light in this fandom and I am so thankful for you! ☀️

[iridescentxstars]

me thinks jongin

Killer!AU + “My tongue still remembers the way you taste.” + Degradation

(thinking reader who got away x killer if you wanna play w that)

killer!jongin x fem!reader || dialogue: "my tongue still remembers the way you taste." || kinks: degradation, fingering, bondage/restraints || warnings: mentions of killing, degrading names, talk of mental health, DARK so don't read if you are uncomfortable || wc: 760~

please remember this is all fictional. this work is NSFW and contains SMUT, if you are under 18+ DO NOT INTERACT

His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek when he sees you before him, the sight of you even more exquisite than what he remembers. The memory of when you were last caught in his trap seems like a lifetime ago but that was because he was young, inexperienced and you were so sweet and innocent – he was too gentle with you.

A mistake he hasn’t made since.

Your wrists are bound this time, tied to the headboard while your eyes watch as Jongin slowly undresses himself. You remember him too, a haunting nightmare that slowly started to turn into a twisted fantasy as you got older. Maybe you’re insane for liking this, maybe you should have gone to therapy but there was something about the thrill and the danger of him that had you searching for the man who tried to kill you after he made you see stars.

Maybe that was it, maybe your sex life has been so dull and bland since that night that you needed the darkness that came with him.

“My tongue still remembers the way you taste,” Jongin says in a deep voice, a low baritone that sends shivers right to your core. “I remember how sweet you sounded as you came around my fingers, how you begged for more like it was the air you breathed.” He’s naked in all his glory and you try to rub your thighs together for friction – only to remember he’s got your ankles tied too, legs spread apart. His hands trace along your body until he stands next to you, one hand massaging your breast while the other strokes his solid cock. 

“Y-you remember me?” You don’t know why you’re surprised by this but you had assumed that he would have forgotten you in the midst of all his other exploits.

Nodding his head, he wets his lips, “you never forget your first.” He chuckles when your eyes widen, “you’re the only one to ever escape. The one who got away.” Jongin moves his hand down to your core, watching your face as you anticipate the stretch from his fingers. “Such a desperate little whore, aren’t you?” A warmth spreads across your face at the way he says those words, degrading but said with such a softness that you aren’t offended – it turns you on even more. “Why’d you come back?”

Those are the words that you are wondering yourself, the words that you are thinking at this very moment as fingertips tease along your hips and have you trying to encourage him lower. You could tell him the one reason that you’ve figured out, that you want to see stars once more but anyone could do that right? Anyone who is open and willing to indulge you could have your body grow limp as you shudder beneath them but… “I can’t stop thinking about you…”

Jongin barks out a harsh laugh as his fingers unexpectedly push into your dripping core. It’s amusing how wet you are, how easy you are when you’ve been through this and know how this will end. “So eager and willing to give yourself up for one night of pleasure?” He curls his fingers and presses them against your g-spot, giving you no time to relish in the feeling as he gives you what you’ve been wanting. Craving. “You’d let me do anything I want to you, wouldn’t you? My sweet little slut, so messed up that you think fucking the man who tried to kill you once is the only way to feel good.” His words are spoken like he’s talking to a loved one but the words themselves hit you in a way that you cannot describe.

You should hate it but you can’t. You shouldn’t want this but you do. It shouldn’t make you want more but fuck, you’re crying out for it as he has you on the edge of your first orgasm.

“Pathetic.” He scoffs, pulling his fingers from you and smirking as your eyes open in disbelief, body trying hard to tip over the edge without the previous stimulation. He brings those fingers to his lips as he tastes you, humming pleasantly as he remembers your first time together. “You are as sweet as I remember.”

Maybe he won’t kill you afterwards, the thought crosses his mind as he looks down at you and thinks about how he’ll never be able to get his fill again if he does. Maybe he won’t kill you but he’s certainly not letting you go again.

Not that you want him to.

[bullet-prooflove]

Ex!Joe Part One: Left Behind - Joe Velasco x Reader

Tagging: @plaidbooks @misscharlielulu @witches-unruly-heart @storiesofsvu @magic-multicolored-miracle @rosaliedepp @cycat4077 @crazy4chickennuggets @cixrosie @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @mysoulisasunflower @legit9thlunaticwarrior @mydarkestsecretlol @the-adzukibean @wooshwastaken @kiwiithecrazybird @justreblogginfics @anime-weeb-4-life @alwaysachorusgirll @julieelliewrites @telepathay @weiwei0210 @nessamc @genius2050 @spaghettificationandpretzels @nu1freakshow

Joe knows why he goes out to bars and fucks strangers; he knows why he doesn’t form attachments with any of the women that he meets on apps like Tinder.

It’s because of you.

It’s because five years ago you broke his heart so badly that the damage felt like it was irreparable, like someone had cleaved his soul in two and took half away with them. You don’t come back from shit like that, he knows it. He still feels the loss, even all these years later.

There are times when he forgets, where he wakes up in bed and smiles before he rolls onto his side and remembers that you don’t live together anymore. He’d tried to you when he’s got back from his assignment, but you’ve moved on, taken a transfer out of the borough. He thought you were trying to get yourself as far away from him as you physically could.

The thing is that he has never been able to discern why you chose to leave him when you did. He’d been on assignment before, longer, more dangerous ones and you’d weathered it. He wasn’t sure why this one was any different. All he knows is that he came home and found a letter on the kitchen table.

“I’m sorry Joe, I just can’t do this anymore.”

The words are still seared into his brain after all of this time.

When you step into his Squad Room it sends him reeling. It’s like someone’s doused him in cold water and that carefully cultivated professionalism sails out of the window, he doesn’t even realise he’s on his feet until he hears his chair clatter against the cabinets behind him. He strides towards you with purpose despite the fact he has no idea what he actually intends to do.

It’s the shock he thinks, as he grabs your arm and hurls you into the hallway like you’re a perp. He’s causing a scene, he knows it but he can’t help it. They don’t understand what you did to him back then, how he hasn’t had functioning relationship since you left because it cut so fucking deep it scarred him.

“What the fuck?” You spit at him as you stand in a quiet section of the corridor.

“Yea.” He agrees, his dark eyes blazing as he drinks you in. He doesn’t want to admit it but you look good, your hair’s a little shorter than it used to be but so is his. He has to check himself, because his fingers are itching to reach out and run it through those pretty tresses. Instead he crosses his arms over his chest. “What the actual fuck are you doing here?”

“Your Captain called me in. You need help taking a statement for the Solovyov case.” You tell him, pointedly. “I’m not sure how many Russian speaking detectives you think there are in Manhattan but I’m what you’ve got.”

Fuck… He didn’t even know you were back in Manhattan, last time he had heard you were in Brooklyn, working on cases around Brighton Beach because of your dexterity with the language. Little Odessa was a safe distance he’d thought. You didn’t run in the same circles, no chance of bumping into each other.

“When did you even…” he begins, shaking his head.

“Last year.” You answer tipping your head away from him. “It was made very clear to me what would happen if I showed my face around Brighton Beach again so management transferred me over to Hate Crimes.”

He closes his eyes briefly. He wants to ask, it’s on the tip of his tongue but he refuses give you that, he refuses to give you anything. You don’t deserve his concern; you don’t deserve him. You walked away and left him fucking drowning. Right now he feels like he’s in a nightmare, he feels out of control and he hates it. You’re a disruption that he doesn’t need. He’s finally settling in here, he’s making friends, he’s putting down roots for the first time in his life and then you turn up….

It puts him on edge and he hates it.

“Just…” he starts before he lets out a sigh. “Don’t fuck this up for me alright? This is the first time I’ve had a home for a while, and I need it to stay that way.”

“Of course not.” You say softly as you meet his gaze and he feels the earth crumbling from right underneath his feet because even though it’s been five years, it feels like nothing has changed.

He’s still stupidly fucking in love with you. The distance hasn’t changed that, he thought it would have. That that hate and vitriol he had felt for you when he read that letter would manifest once more, but it doesn’t. Instead all he feels is yearning, it’s an ache he feels in the very core of his being and he thinks that hurts more than anything else because he sees that wedding band on your ring finger and he knows without a doubt that you’ve already let him behind.

Love Joe Velasco? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[workingforthewidow]

5:34 am I was about to start my day-

I’m alive lol! Sorry for the long wait but I’m here I’m alive. Just had to get over the flu, dizzy spells, and salmonella poisoning lol. Here is part 8 of Sun to Me! I have part 9 done as well and maybe 10 done/almost done!

This story is NSFW and not for minors- if you are under 18 go ask your legal guardian if you can watch the movie.

Warnings: kidnapping, forced marriage, dub-con, attempted non-con, abuse, Stockholm syndrome, age gap (15 years- K&C are 19 Sinclairs are freshly 34) Don’t like it don’t read it,

Sun to Me Masterlist

“Fucking hell. Where the fuck did they go?” Bo ran his hands through his hair as he paced. He had tried to keep up with the girls and the visitors but lost them when they took a turn. “Those fucking little bitches. Can’t believe they fucking tricked us. I don’t care how pretty they are, I’m going to beat her with my bare hands.” His anger was at an all time high. It had been 3 hours and they couldn’t find the girls or the visitors.

Vincent had been sitting in the house watching Bo pace as he wrote out his thoughts-

~How are you so sure they are trying to run? These last two months have been good after that last attempt. Which was deserved after that stunt you pulled. Maybe the visitors took them. Thinking they were in danger. They’re on foot they couldn’t have gotten far.~

Bo winced reading the note. He didn’t like to remember what happened the day of his birthday. He would hate himself and what he did to Caroline for the rest of his life and even in the hereafter. He took a breath and closed his eyes trying to calm himself. He opened his mouth to say something when the door opened. He turned and the sight was something he never would have imagine in his wildest dreams.

There stood his babygirl, his little innocent wife who cried when she saw Jonesy kill a squirrel and had nightmares during thunderstorms, with blood splattered all over her face, her jeans, and the shirt she had stolen from his dresser, and a knife in her hand.

“I got one of them but Katie is still running over the girl. And boy is she’s mad. I don’t think I’ve seen Katie that mad in a while.” She said it like it was nothing. “I imagine if you want to be able to use the body you should get to her before Katie’s done with her.” She turned and started walking back in the direction where Bo assumed Katie and the victim were running.

Bo finally came out of the shock he was trapped in and ran after her, grabbing her around the waist. “The fuck you think you’re doing girl.” The anger was coming back into his body full speed.

“Obviously trying to get back to my sister before she completely destroys a human body. Duh.”

“Oh no. You are going to back up to that house, cleaning yourself up, and getting my dinner ready, like the good little wife you are suppose to be.” Bo turned and started walking her towards the house. “You are in so much trouble little girl.”

“And here I thought you would find it kinda hot or are you just jealous the guy I killed was bigger than yours.” Bo dropped her and turned her to face him his hands going to her face.

“The fuck you mean the one you killed?”

“I took this knife,” she held up the bloodied knife in his face, “and I stabbed him. Right here.” She tapped the tip of the blade over his heart. “I mean I did have him on the ground after I hit him in the head with a chair. But I’m still pretty proud of myself.” She shrugged and waited for a response.

Bo’s emotions were flipping so fast he didn’t know what to do. He felt anger at her for not following the rules, pride in her that she had taken down a tourist, and she was right he was insanely hard in his jeans at the sight of her. He let the third emotion take over and grabbed her face in his hands and kissed her hard.

“We will be having a long talk about this later little girl. Show us where they went.” He released her face and she started off in the direction Katie had run.

Bo and Vincent followed and soon they found Katie looking very similar to Caroline. The body of the woman at her feet.

At the sound of their footsteps Katie looked up, it took all of his self control for Vincent not to grab her. He didn’t know it but he was having the same confusing feelings as Bo. He couldn’t decide if he was angry, proud, or turned on.

“Wow you didn’t completely chop her to bits. Proud of you!” Caroline laughed and Katie nodded.

“It was really hard. Fucking bitch got me good.” She lifted her left arm and sure enough there was a long scratch mark down her forearm.

Caroline took Katie’s arm and examined it, “I can fix that. Doesn’t look like it’ll need stitches. Should be good with a bandage wrap.”

Bo and Vincent jaws dropped (well Vincent’s would if he didn’t have his mask on) they looked to each other to see if the other had figured out what was going on and what happened to their sweet girls.

Katie finally looked to Vincent and smiled, “Hello darling. I missed you.” She moved towards him and put her hand on his chest. He grabbed her arm and looked over it, clearly not happy with her injury, “I’ll be okay, just a scratch.” She tried to reassure him but that clearly wasn’t going to be easy.

“Okay what the fuck is going on here?” Bo’s voice boomed out. “You know the rules. Stay home and don’t talk to strangers. You two are going home, cleaning up, putting on your pretty little dresses, making dinner, and waiting for us. We are gonna clean up this mess. Dinner better be on the fucking table and you better be ready to explain.”

Katie looked to Vincent who nodded in agreement with his twin. Caroline took Katie’s hand and they walked back to the house.

“Well that went better than I thought it would.”

—

Bo and Vincent walked into the house to find exactly what they asked for, dinner on the table and the girls cleaned up in their pretty dresses. Vincent took note of the bandage wrapped around Katie’s arm. Seeing the boys enter, they stood and went to them. Their nerves could be felt through the thickness in the air. They knew the boys weren’t not happy. They tried their best to impress them cleaning up nice, doing their hair and makeup, and even made them pot roast again.

“Sit.” Bo ordered, Caroline immediately did as told, while Katie looked to Vincent. When he crossed his arms and nodded Katie hurried to follow suit. Bo and Vincent took their seats and plates were made in silence. No one spoke for a few minutes everyone just eating.

“You better have a good explanation for that little stunt you just pulled. You could’ve been killed.” Bo said stabbing into a potato with a little more force than was truly needed.

The girls looked to each other and Katie took a breath explaining everything the best she could about they figured out what was going on and how they ended up out there tonight.

After her speech with a few add-ins from Caroline the only response they got was some hums and nods. Fear was starting to creep in their bodies as they cleaned the kitchen after dinner, the boys eyes falling them every move they made. Once things were cleaned the stood next to their husbands.

Vincent took Katie’s hand and lead her to their room while Bo did the same with Caroline. The girls had no idea what the night had in store but seeing as they weren’t dead and no one was crying they hoped it would go okay.

—

Bo closed the door to their room and turned to find a well welcomed sight, his baby on her knees, hands folded on her thighs, and her head down.

“I’m sorry Bo. I knew the rules and I didn’t follow them. I’m sorry. You made the rules for a reason, to keep me safe. I’m sorry.” Her voice was so small and so soft. His perfect girl.

Bo put his hand on her cheek and she looked up to him tears glistening in her eyes, “Get your pajamas on and get to bed babygirl.”

He was mad. Oh lord was he mad. It was taking everything in his power to control his anger. Luckily Vincent had had the forethought to make him burn off some anger, one of the house towards the edge of town needed new windows now but it had calmed him a little. He didn’t want, couldn’t, act like he had on his birthday. He would kill himself before he did that again. He had to control himself.

Caroline changed into one of his shirts he had given her to use as pajamas. She was swimming in it but he knew she had a motive behind it. She didn’t wear anything under it, it was a welcome invitation for him to touch her. It was her way of initiating sex when she was still to shy to openly ask for it or to start the foreplay. His sweet little babygirl, who blushed when he held her hand sometimes, had blood on her hands now. They didn’t want the girls involved, sure they would have to tell them what was going on eventually. But they had hoped to keep this quiet a little longer.

He took his clothes off leaving him in his boxers and got in bed next to her. He put his hand over hers intertwining their fingers. She looked up to him and tried to smile but he could see the fear behind her eyes. He hated that look, that he had made her have that look. All her adrenaline had faded and she was coming to terms with what she did.

“Babygirl,” he released her hand and pulled her into his lap, “I’ll be honest with you I’m mad as hell right now. But I ain’t gonna hurt you like that again. I’ll promise again baby.” She put her head on his shoulder and he could feel her shaking a bit. “We were gonna tell ya what was happening. We had plans to but we didn’t wanna do it too soon. Didn’t wanna scare ya away.”

He heard her make a small noise and he pulled her away from his shoulder looking into her eyes, “What ya say baby?”

“Why didn’t you kill me and Katie? Why, why are we alive?”

Bo smirked and kissed her forehead, “‘Cus babygirl you were meant to be my pretty little wife. As soon as I saw ya two walking into my shop I knew it. Two pretty little twins for me and Vinny. Once you left for the museum I went and got Vinny and told him all about ya. Will admit your sisters pretty but you had my eye always baby.”

Caroline’s giggle interrupted him, “We’re identical twins, silly, we look the same.”

Bo smiled hearing her sweet laugh, “Nah I can tell the difference. There’s something about you babygirl that spoke to my heart. I knew that you were meant to be a Sinclair. Be my wife and mama to my babies. Gonna be so pretty with my baby in your belly. Sweet little mama with my sweet little Chevy girl.”

“What if we have a boy first?” She asks tracing her fingers over his arm. “I always liked Matthew like from the Bible. My favorite Gospel. Call him Mattie.”

Bo nodded and smiled at her, “That sounds good baby. Chevy and Mattie.”

Talking about baby names had helped calm him down and he wrapped his arms around her holding her tight to him before laying her down. She waited him to lay back as well before resting her head on his chest where she continued to trace patterns with her fingers.

“I love you Beauregard Sinclair.”

“And I love you Caroline Sinclair.”

—

Vincent had learned quickly that his angel had a habit of crying when her emotions got too much, too happy, too sad, too angry, too anything. She held everything in for too long before finally breaking. He knew as soon as the door was closed tears would be flowing and he was right.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It just, everything was happen so fast… and I’m sorry, Vincent. I’m sorry. I…” Her words faltered and sobs shook her body. He cupped her cheeks in his hands and put his forehead against hers. His thumbs brushed the tears from her and continued to rub soft circles over her face. After a few moments he let his hands fall and took a step back.

He started moving his hands and she realized he wanted to sign today instead of speak or write things down. They had been practicing for a few months and he had gotten quite good. He wasn’t fluent yet but Katie dared to say he was pretty close.

V- I’m not mad angel.

“What do you mean?” Katie both asked aloud and signed.

V- I’m not mad. Upset? Yes, you should have told me. So I could protect you.

“You could have been honest with me in the first place. There’s enough secrets here as there is.”

V- I am sorry angel. You’re right but I didn’t want to scare you off anymore than you already were.

Then she asked the same question her twin had asked of his, “Why didn’t you kill me and Caroline? Why, why are we alive?” The tears had returned, not quite as hard as before but tears nonetheless. Vincent didn’t respond. He pulled her into his arms held her as close to him as possible. His hands rubbed up and down her back letting her cry.

She felt one of his hands move from her back for a moment than came back.

“You have always been safe with me. Since I first saw you, I knew you were mine.” His voice was a soft whisper. “The most beautiful girl in the world.”

“We look a like we’re twins. Besides the hair but that’s not much.” Her laugh was muffled a bit but he heard it.

Vincent shook his head and kissed her cheek, “Your souls are different. But yours and mine are the missing piece to each other. I love you Catherine Sinclair. My sweet angel.”

She smiled at him her eyes shining with love, “And I love you Vincent Sinclair.”

[thevampiremarie]

Treehouse, I apologize for not posting until today. Your new chapter was FANTASTIC. One thing that stands out about Reader's/Basileia's relationship with Dream is she's the first person who expects him to talk to her. I feel like Morpheus pushed so many people away that they naturally rejected him back. He didn't fight for them and they didn't see the point of fighting for him. I also think Dream wanting epic and ordinary moments is a new kind of love for him.

Hi!!! Thank you for sending me this ask!

I was a fair bit worried throughout this chapter that I was making Dream OOC by being willing to just like. Talk? And be honest? But both @cuckoo-on-a-string and @manyimaginativemuses assured me Dream was not OOC. I know this chapter may have less bells and whistles on it compared to the ones prior but I’ve wanted to write this moment since like chapter 18 or 19? I’ve always been moving Morpheus and Reader to get to this point, where Reader shows him he can dream and grow and change for the better. He doesn’t have to stay frozen for eternity, unchanging, unaging.

I know that many people who experience trauma often feel like they’re frozen in the moment that resulted in that trauma. I feel like that’s how Morpheus felt in canon - frozen, as a god, to relive his traumas over and over again for the rest of his immortal life, never being able to grow and move past them as mortals can. And especially in this fic, stuck in bad ways he’s treated partners in the past, hating how he hurts them and himself but unable to change.

Or even how tethered he is to the Dreaming, both master and slave. Stuck in place.

Anyways I’m gonna repost this passage because personally I think I fucking COOKED with this one:

“After I was released from Roderick Burgess’s glass prison, the Dreaming, my own domain, a realm woven out of every piece of myself, seemed as alien and foreign to me as Ithaca was to Odysseus. I thought the evolution of my dreams and nightmare without my guidance symbolized my redundancy. A democracy of dreams. I was no longer needed, and I did not belong in the only home I’ve ever had.”

Even the living, breathing beauty of Fiddler’s Green can’t alleviate the heartbreak you feel when you see his spirit breaking from that loss, unable to move on or forward.

“Until you showed me that film you’re so fond of, I’d been disturbed, frankly, at the changes in my dreams and nightmares. Even a dream as loyal and dutiful as Fiddler’s Green had abandoned me, and returned to my realm feeling like a foreign limb stitched to my body.”

Morpheus pauses to take a deep breath.

“You and Fiddler’s Green reminded me that I can be a dreamer, too. I can feel wonder. I can walk through unknown meadows and see a blue sky I’ve never witnessed before, and let it thrill me. Inspire me.”

The warmth of the sunlight illuminates the contours of his chiseled face and turns his eyes from icy, unforgiving sapphire to gentle, open cerulean. “Your generation dreams in the daylight and the open air, not only at night, in the secret recesses of the mind.”

You want to reassure Dream that he suits the Waking world just as much as he does the Dreaming, but you sense he needs to keep going. Not just for you, but for him, like setting down at last the burden that’s been choking the life out of him.

“It is my hope one day that I can do that for you. Be with you in the open air, walk with you through my world and yours. I know you’ve dreamt of it. I’m not sure what exactly I feared. Maybe that your feelings would disappear once you saw me as I was, that I couldn’t be the dream you deserved. So I did what dreams do and I fled into the shadows.”

[ozimagines]

thanks for the account recs! god i fucking love oz... on that note, can i request a "dating chris keller would include..." imagine? he's such a fine ass motherfucker and a dangerous mix of toxic and sexy

Oh yessssssss, Chrissy boy is one toxic bitch when he wants to be, but when he loves he puts his whole pussy into that shit. Bonnie and Beecher and I think Sister Pete at some moments. And played to perfection by the always sexy and even more crazy Christoper Meloni. I give you… (drumroll pls)…

(Also, loves, trigger warnings are hard to add for this show because like… everything is triggering😅 especially for characters like Keller so read at your own risk, we all know this guy is a walking red flag)

Dating Chris Keller would include…

Ok so let’s not pretend this motherfucker even knows how he feels for you at first

Baby boy is just caught in the thrill of the chase

He just wants to know he can have you… or more realistically, if he can take you.

Hot and he knows it. Man’s has that non-gender specific rizz

Uses his size to make you blush, leaning over you and leering down

“See something you like, kid?”🥵🥵

Subtly is not in his vocabulary, when he flirts, he flirts hard

Takes his shirt off a lot around you, like even when the situation doesn’t warrant it

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Minister Said judging you🥲

After you’re his, you’re HIS, baby

Arm always around you in public, hand in your back pocket, head on your shoulder/head (he’s so damn tall😤)

Possessive fuck

I’m talking full yandere mode at times

“Tryna make me jealous, is that it?” -he growls after seeing you smile and thank the barista☠️

Sulks for a whole day

Will go beast mode when you’re disrespected

Body positive… but like, not on purpose lol, he just loves sex and bodies

If you got a little weight on you, he’ll be squeezing you constantly (he loved his Bonnie-bear)

When you tell him you’re insecure (like he can’t already smell that shit out) he just smiles his dimply, impossibly white smile

“Why?” He husks, lips on your ear.

Presses your hand to his crotch

“See what you’re doin’ it me? Still don’t think you’re pretty?”🔥🔥🔥

Anyone else points out your “flaws”, they’re dead, no questions asked.

Like, even if you don’t ask or want it

Arguments with him last for fucking ever, over the smallest shit

Doesn’t apologize, just buys you your fave drink or rubs your leg or something

To him that is an apology 😂

His favorite sport is getting you hot and bothered in public and watching you squirm, teasing you about it in a borderline mean way

Rubbing your leg with his foot under the table or fully bending over to get something even vaguely low to the ground.

“Just can’t control yourself around me, huh?”😘

Hate to say it because he’s such a douche but the man is an absolute unit in bed

Scratching? Licking? Tickling? Slapping? D: All of the above!

Kinkyyyyyyyyyyyyyy

If you’re a virgin/inexperienced, he can be a bit much

“School’s in session, baby”🙃

To quote Stanzi Potenza, ouchie daddy that hurt my mind, body, and spirit

Teasing, teasing, teasing, TEASING

There isn’t a place or time in this world he wouldn’t drop everything to get freaky with you

Broom closet? Tree stump? Your parent’s bed?!

Shares very little with you at first, but asks a lot of questions about you

Remembers EVERYTHING but pretends he’s not interested, it’ll just come up in conversation something you said to him in passing

Says “I love you” easily before he means it… and then when he does he can’t say it😂

Says things like “he/she/they love me, alright.”

Trying to convince himself more than anything

Insecure boi, even if he doesn’t admit it

Has nightmares that he won’t talk about

Big spoon all the way, doesn’t matter with whom

Can’t see him having kids, but if you have one, I think he’d jump into the role of step-dad

Doesn’t know how to talk to kids

“So… you’re in fifth grade… cool?”

Like he said, he wants a life, and anyone that gives him that is everything in his eyes

“Hey… you know I love you, right?”🥰

Bonus round: I like to give very specific traits to guys in Oz that just fit. Chris Keller loves burgers! Like all of them. Loves to drown them in onions. I think if he had the chance to grill a burger, beer in hand and you on the other, he’d be in heaven.

[witchersmistress]

Battered and Broken

Hello my darlings, Happy Friday!!! Monster August and Walter are still in time out for being stubborn and no copperating.. bad bad boys

Trigger Warnings: the biggest one is going to be irritation with me, youll forgive me shorty i promise, blood, violence and masturbation

Word count: 7.6 K

its a long one so buckleup and hang on tight

August’s pov

The world comes back slow, like water gathering momentum. I hear voices and soft squeaks and a steady, monotonous beeping. It’s sickeningly familiar. It crashes in fast, like a wave that’s been building. I sit up, my heartbeat sending a machine into a frenzy. I start yanking at the tubes and wires in my face, my arm, my chest. So many fucking ties binding me to life. The squeaks come faster, and a hoard of nurses rushes in, shoving me back when I fight, pinning me to the bed, banging on the button to give me more meds, to sedate me. I don’t want to go under. There’s something important— And then it’s gone. When I wake again, I’m groggy, but I open my eyes this time. My brother is sitting beside me, scrolling on his phone, that damn sucker tucked into his cheek. “Where is she?” I ask. His head jerks up, his gaze flying to mine and then to the door, where our father is standing, his phone held to his ear. Baron takes his sucker out and puts a finger to his lips, turning his back to him so only I can see. “Who?” he asks aloud. Our father makes a ‘hold on’ gesture to us and then steps into the hall. “What the fuck am I doing here?” I demand. “You tell me,” Baron says. “We dropped you off at home and went out, and the next day when we woke up, we saw all these texts from Father saying you were in the ER with a concussion and a fractured skull. Again.” A little more comes back. Calling Dynamo. Meeting Colin alone at the Slaughter Pen. Throwing just enough punches to make him think I was trying. How right his fists felt connecting to my face, almost orgasmic. “When?” I ask, pushing up. I have to get her. The thought is quick and clear, a blow to the solar plexus. “A couple days ago,” Baron says, shoving the sucker back in his mouth. “Fuck,” I say, yanking the tape off my hand and jerking the IV free. Blood spurts from my vein, and my brain doubles back. Blood on Duke’s mouth. Blood on Baron’s dick. Blood on her thighs. “What are you doing?” Baron demands. “Chill the fuck out. You’re drugged out of your mind right now. Just go back to sleep.”

 “Where’s Harper?”

He glances at the door and lowers his voice. “Where we left her. She’s probably dead by now.” I shake my head. No. She can’t be dead. “I have to get her.” “You wanted her dead,” Baron reminds me. “You were going to kill her. I’m the one who told you not to. Remember?” I don’t want to remember that because then I have to remember what she did, the truth Baron showed me on her phone—hundreds of messages laid out over months, revealing the most personal, most shameful details of my life to a stranger on the internet. No, not a stranger. An enemy. She is an enemy. I don’t know why my body keeps fighting even when I remember that. But I have to get out, have to find her, have to know the truth, the reason. I yank the tube in my nose, but it hits the back of my sinuses and makes my head swim. Baron slams his chest down on mine, smacking a call button. “What the fuck,” he growls. “You’re intubated. You can’t pull that out. You’ll rupture your fucking esophagus or something.” I’m still fighting when the fucking army shows up, the nurses in pale blue scrubs that feature in too many of my nightmares already. I fucking hate hospitals. The drugs that cloud your mind, the helplessness, the way they keep you alive when you don’t want any fucking part of it. It’s all way too familiar by now. The way they think they’re saving you, but they’re destroying you. The way they keep you from saving her after you destroyed her.

Harper's POV

The first few days are hard. I don’t get out of bed except to use the bathroom, which is excruciating. There’s no point in objecting. What I want doesn’t matter. It never did. August kept telling me, but I didn’t understand. Now I do.. He never takes off the mask. He takes pictures of my face and body each day. I don’t protest. What’s the point? I sleep when he’s not asking anything of me. I appreciate, in some detached way, how little he wants, how little he bothers me, he asks for nothing, not even a response. I think if he demanded intimacy of any kind, I’d shatter completely. But he doesn’t. He barely touches me. He wakes me and dresses me and brings me to the table each day. He cooks fancy meals for me, but I don’t taste them. I eat, and when I’m done, he carries me to bed, where I curl up under the blankets. The lulling voices on Local News with Jackie fill my head as they drone on about the cost of gasoline and someone overdosing on a new street drug. I don’t hear anything about a missing girl. I fall asleep praying I won’t wake up this time. It’s around the seventh evening, as I’m slumped at the island eating some fancy herbed potatoes with glazed Brussel sprouts and salmon, when my savior and captor lays down his fork. “I have to go out for a while tomorrow,” he says. I don’t answer. I don’t care where he goes. I sleep most of the day. Sometimes the apartment is quiet, and sometimes I hear him exercising or clicking away at his keyboard in the big, open loft where he has a standing desk against one wall. I haven’t wondered where he goes or what he’s doing when he’s gone. It doesn’t matter. “Do you need to go home and get your clothes or anything?” he asks. I shrug. “I’ll buy you some clothes,” he says decisively. I don’t answer. 

“Where do you live, anyway?”

 “Mill Street.”

 My voice sounds creaky and unused. I clear my throat

 “Right.” He sips his wine and watches me for a minute.

 “I’m glad I wore a condom.” 

I don’t say anything. What is there to say? 

“Do you live alone?”

 “Yes”

He leans his elbows on the island, closing his eyes. “Thank fuck.” He always sits me on his good side, but I know why he hides under the mask. He’s a monster under the mask, disfigured and ugly. I push a bite of salmon into my mouth. It’s flaky and salty, but I don’t taste anything. The corners of my mouth have healed, and the angry red tracks across my cheeks from the ropes are gone when I look in the mirror. My body takes in food and water and heals itself. But whatever’s broken beneath the surface doesn’t change. At least you can tell, looking at him, that he’s suffered. “So will, ” he says after chewing and swallowing slowly. “Will anyone be looking for you?” I shake my head no, the only man i cared about left me for dead “Have you talked to anyone?

 “With what?” “Fuck,” he says, raising his hand like he might run it over his face. When he touches the mask, he drops his hand to his lap. “I’ll get you a phone tomorrow.” I shrug. I decide I’ll call him the Phantom, like the masked man from the opera.

 “Why hasn’t anyone called the cops?” “probably because of my job, i'm always gone for weeks at a time” 

“Oh.” He sits back on the barstool, working his tongue around inside his mouth. “That's slightly terrifying” I don’t argue.

 “I’m going up to water my plants before it gets dark,” he says, rising from the island to take his plate to the sink. “Why don’t you come? Get some air. It’ll be good for you.” He takes my plate and wine glass without asking if I’m done. I sit at the island while he cleans up. Each morning, he dresses like he’s going to an office, but every time I wake, I can hear him moving around his apartment, living. His closet is full of different shades of grey slacks and pressed dress shirts in every color. He rolls his sleeves up tan forearms before rinsing the plates and setting them neatly in the stainless-steel dishwasher. Everything here is immaculately clean and organized. I can’t imagine him getting his hands dirty. He opens a door and pulls a small tool bag from a shelf, then gestures for me to follow. I think about staying, but there’s no reason to disobey. He pulls down a drop ladder, and we climb up into a tiny attic space with exposed insulation and a door.  Opening it, he steps through into the blue evening. The door opens onto a flat roof that’s full of potted plants in different sized containers. Leaving me in the doorway, the Phantom unwinds a hose from a spool, turns on a faucet knob against the wall near the door, and starts spraying water over a rectangular box filled with curly purple and pink flowers. Their perfume lures me out onto the roof. I haven’t breathed outdoor air in a week. It’s moist and heavy, clinging to my bare arms like algae. I can hear traffic in the distance, but from the roof, I see only the same field that I can see from the huge windows in the loft below. The grass is tall and brown from winter, but green pokes up in small patches on the ground. I walk to the edge of the roof. I wonder if he’d stop me if I stepped over. There isn’t even a railing. It would be so easy. It would all be over.

I look back at the man who pulled me from the swamp, who went to such lengths to find me and bring me back. He crouches to poke in a big, round pot. His back is to me as he pulls on a pair of gloves from his bag. I could do it. It would be quick. “I got you an appointment at the women’s clinic on Wednesday,” he says. “To be tested for STDs. You can take my truck and bring it back when you’re done.” I step closer to the edge, until my toes are even with the end of the flat roof. I look down at the parking lot below. Try to remember why being up here is better than down there. I lift one foot, watching it hang suspended in the air, like a diver. He looks up when I don’t answer. His gaze moves to the edge of the roof and back to my face. Our eyes meet, and I know he can tell what I’m about to do. I wait for him to say something, to be angry or afraid. To demand to know what I’m doing, if I want to die. “I’ll bring a chair for you next time,” he says, unfolding slowly, cautiously, from his crouched position next to some sprouting plants. I watch him move, how comfortable he is in his body, how confident. He’s quick but unhurried; tall and slender, painfully elegant. He’s built like a dancer, all slim lines and measured grace. He’s at my side before I know what’s happening. His strong hands are gentle on my upper arms as they pull me back. “Good girl,” he says softly, drawing my shoulder blades flush with his chest. I know he’s thanking me for not jumping, for letting him pull me away, but in truth, I don’t have any more desire to die than I have to live. It’s not worth the effort. “You can come up here with me every day,” he says when I don’t answer. “You could use some sun.” We stare out at the overgrown lot next to his building without speaking. His breath is even, his hands barely holding on. But I can feel his heart thudding rapidly against my back with each heavy beat. I scared him. The thought registers in some distant way. He wants me to live. What I want seems equally irrelevant to both of us. There’s no point in telling him, so I don’t, and he doesn’t ask

August pov

“Where have you been?” I spin toward the voice, my hands fisting, adrenaline pumping. I don’t like being taken by surprise. “Out,” I growl. “What the fuck are you doing sitting in the dark?” Baron switches on the lamp beside the couch. Duke is sprawled across the loveseat, his eyes glassy, a tumbler of whiskey in one hand. “You’re going to get us caught,” Baron says. He picks up a sucker and begins to unwrap it slowly, his elbows resting on his knees and his eyes fixed on me. “This is a small town. It’s not New York. It’s harder to hide a murder when there are only a couple a year.” “We didn’t murder anyone,” I snap, hating that he’s the reason for that. He reminded me that death is too kind. That we don’t kill Darlings. “That’s right,” Duke says. “And I’m not afraid of the cops. They’re not NYPD. They’re hicks. What can they do to us?” “If we don’t get sloppy, nothing,” I say. “No one but the three of us know what happened.” The twins glance at each other, that fucking twin telepathy thing that pisses me the fuck off. “Right?” I grind out. “Right,” Duke says. “We didn’t say anything to anyone at work. We’re not stupid.” No, not stupid. They’ve just never done this shit before. Sometimes I forget how little blood is on their hands. And that’s by design. 

Protect our brothers. King would despise me if he knew what we’d done, what I’d let them become. I should have killed her like I wanted, kept them from her, kept myself from having to admit this truth about them—that I knew what they’d do to Harper when I finally let them have her after six months of denying them. It was both their reward for respecting my previous claim and her punishment for betrayal. But I can’t remember when they became the kind of people whose attention is a punishment. The twins look up to King, though, and I’m supposed to fill his shoes. I think of what he’d say, not because I want to be like him, but because it will comfort them. Duke needs that, at least. I’m not sure Baron has whatever it is that makes a person seek comfort. “We didn’t do anything the Darlings wouldn’t have done to us,” I point out. “We eliminated a threat to the family. That’s all. A man has a right to protect his family.” That’s not what she was, and we all know it, just like we all know Crystal’s blood is on my hands. Harper was no threat to my family. She was a threat to me. I finally, truly understand what they went through with Mabel. When it happened, I saw it from the outside, and I felt for my brothers, but I didn’t get it. I thought they were fuckwits for thinking of her as human at all. I didn’t think I was capable of caring about a Darling. But now I know what the Darling girls do to a person when they set their sights on you, when they decide to play. I know how they lie and twist everything until you start to believe that against every odd, even though you know it’s impossible, someone could give a fuck.

“Who was she talking to, though?” Duke asks. “Because he might figure it out.” “I don’t think we need to worry about him,” Baron says, sliding the sucker into his mouth. “She hadn’t talked to him in weeks. She cut him off. He won’t think anything unless it makes the news.” “So, it’s our job to make sure it doesn’t,” I remind them. Our eyes meet. He gets it. He may not have blood on his hands, but he’s got the stomach for it. “Exactly,” he says. He picks up the bottle of whiskey and pours a finger into a glass, then looks me over, his gaze taking in my wet jeans and shoes. “So, again, where were you? Because we’re being careful. But parking beside the road and walking across a huge-ass rice field into the swamp is going to get us caught a hell of a lot faster than anything we might say in the locker room.” “I was looking for her phone.” “Fuck,” Baron says, leaning back and closing his eyes. “She dropped it when she was fighting us.” I nod. Even a dead phone is easily traceable. It doesn’t matter if it is at the bottom of the swamp and will never work again. They can still track it. If the Darlings go looking for her, they’ll get the law involved. They don’t play by our rules, taking care of their own problems. They have no honor. Only a person without honor could do what she did, exploiting someone’s helplessness for their own gain. For a fucking scholarship of all things. Such a pathetic, pedestrian thing. All along, she was nothing but a gold digger. We thought she didn’t know she was Darling, but she must have known. Even if she didn’t, and she really didn’t know who she was talking to, he must have known. And if he gets the cops involved, and they suspect murder, they’ll get the FBI involved. And the FBI will find her phone.

 So we have to make sure no one else looks for her. “You didn’t find her phone?” Duke asks. “No,” I say, scowling at his drunk ass. “I didn’t find it.” “We should tell Father,” Baron says. “He’ll know what to do.” “No,” I say, holding up a hand. “If we need his help, we’ll tell him then.” “Okay,” Baron says, looking skeptical. “So, what now?” “Where’d you put her clothes?” “Shit,” Duke says. “They’re in my bag.” “That’s the kind of sloppy shit we can’t do,” I say. That, and letting her drop her phone in the swamp. If they find that, they’ll search the swamp, and they’ll find her. At least… I think they will. They’ll have a whole team, dogs and infrared gear and shit that I don’t have. I’ve been in that swamp exactly once before today, and it was night by the time we left, and I was… Not entirely present. I barely remember walking into the swamp. I was in survival mode, like those months after Crystal died that I barely remember, and the ones before that I don’t remember at all. I let the monster take care of me, take care of what needed to be done, of what I couldn’t. I was weak, and he was strong. Maybe if I put him in control, he can find her. I’ll have to go back again. But I have a good reason. I looked today, my first day home from the hospital, searching until after dark, but with only my phone’s flashlight and a vague memory of being there before, I couldn’t find where we’d left her. I couldn’t find her.

“What are you thinking?” Baron asks, sitting up straight and setting his whiskey on the coffee table. “Burn her clothes?” “Yes,” I say, stepping into the living room. “She was a Darling. We need to act like it.” I’ll burn everything that ever reminded me of her, all the random shit she left at my house, my notebooks where I wrote poems about her like some pathetic lovesick dog chasing after a bitch in heat. We should burn the whole fucking town to the ground with all the Darlings in it. “She’s one of the disowned Darlings’ kids,” Duke says. “They don’t care about her.” Duke isn’t good with the aftermath, the cleanup, the details. He’s there for the fun and games, but he forgets that after the games, it’s real. “One of them cared enough to find her,” I say. “Even if the grandfather cut them off, one of them reached out to her.” “Or he did,” Duke says. “Well, she’s an adult.” Baron says, trading his sucker for the whiskey. “And her dad doesn't give a shit anyway. Right?” “We need to act like everything’s normal,” I say. For a minute, we’re frozen in confusion. None of us have the slightest idea how to be normal. “No skipping work, though. Now that August’s back, we have to act like it was just about him.” Irritation flares in me, but he’s right. I can’t be the one to go off the deep end over this. Not when it means the twins will go down with me. I should have fucking left them out of it. What was I thinking? I could have done it myself, slit her throat and dropped her in the river. But I didn’t want her in the same river where Crystal drowned. That water is sacred. She deserved swamp water. “I’ll talk to her dad.” “What?” Duke asks, sitting up straight. “Are you fucking crazy?” “No,” Baron says, holding up a hand, his eyes on me. “He’s right. That’s what a normal person would do if his ex disappeared from work. Bring back her shit, ask her dad if she’s okay. Act like you think she went back to Faulkner High.” “And in the process, see what he knows,” I say. And see if Harper’s there. I don’t add that part aloud. I don’t want my brothers to worry. We left her tied to a tree somewhere in that snake-infested swamp. I barely made it out without being bitten by one of the vipers. She couldn’t have gotten away from the ropes, let alone gotten past the snakes and hiked twenty miles back to town without shoes or clothes. Could she? If there’s one person on earth who’s tough and resourceful enough to do that after what we did to her, it’s Harper. And she’ll be out for revenge. So, if she’s alive, why hasn’t she called the cops? And if she’s dead, why can’t I find her body?

[sisitrip]

Welp, I missed day 28 of A.U.gust 2023 (the one day I was excited to do), but life/drama/the humidity that made me enemies with my hair lol kept me from it. But, since ill editing and reading for a bit, my brain wouldn't let me do that until I posted this one. I want to thank @gallavichthings for hosting A.U.gust once again. I only got in two days, but I had fun nonetheless.

With that said, I'm offering "Will Do" with no expectations. (2,082k words)

Housekeeping:

Da: Yes (Russian)

Spasibo: Thank you (Russian)

TW: Mention of scare tactics used against a small child by our most hated sperm donor.

_______________________________

Ian pads into the dining room grappling with a helplessness he hates. 

Silent and distressed, Mickey is huddled on their bed recovering from yet another nightmare and there’s nothing he can do to stop them. Nothing. 

He paces, futility ushering him to do something, anything to erase the memory of Mickey crying in his arms, scared and curling his toes hard enough to turn them white. Desperate, he’d come out to heat some milk, the only thing he could think to do and it kills him that he can’t do more. 

He takes a few angry swings in the dark, hissing “fuck you, fuck you, fuck you” with each jab. He didn’t think his hate for Terry could grow.

“Bad dreams again?”

Ian jumps when Svet seems to materialize out of the shadows of the sparsely lit kitchen. He laughingly sags into a dining room chair, hand on his chest as orange sparks prickle his vision.

“Christ, Svet. You need a bell,” he says, unsteady. “Yeah, third nightmare this month. Night sleeping is still new for him.”

He blinks a few times and the sputtering orange lights finally fade. He needs sleep. He always sees dumb stuff when he’s this tired.

“You fixing Yevvy a bottle?” he asks.

“Da. He will shit again, but we must feed the bottomless pit.” 

Ian laughs softly. Yev’s appetite was legendary, a trait Mickey was proud of. 

“I’ll go get him. I just came to warm some milk for Mick,” he says, rising.  

“Wait!” 

He stills at Svet’s sharp tone. The delicate detente they’d reached was fresh and he’s always careful not to upset that balance. 

“Did … did I do something, Svet? I know this situation isn’t, I don’t know, ideal. But, we … me and Mickey, we could stay at my place if it makes you-”

“No, that part is okay. It’s just Yevgeny. He sleeps. I thought I would move before air raid alarm,” she jokes, sounding anything but amused as she waves him back into his seat. “I heat milk for the enfant terrible too.”

Ian smiles, relieved he hasn't clumsily ruined the truce he’s fought hard for and won. He takes a deep breath and wrinkles his nose against a warm electric smell he can’t quite place. Like burning metal maybe. 

“You were always sweet, Ian. Too sweet for this world you’d lived in with Mickey,” Svet says, rueful and quiet. A stove burner alights with a blue flame as she twists a knob. “But, it was that sweetness that let you accept Yev. What I didn’t know at the time was that you would come to love Yev like I did.”

Ian pauses in rubbing his sleepy eyes. Her past tense is throwing him off, making this moment weirdly surreal. Like an echo from a remembered conversation. 

He corrects her gently. “Like you do. Love Yevvy like you do. Here we say “do” for present and “did” for past.”

“What do you say for the future?” she asks. 

“Will do.”

“Spasibo.” Svet opens the refrigerator with her back to him. “You took good care of Yev. You were a better caretaker than either of us and I failed him when he’d needed me most. But, you never did. Even when you didn’t know yourself, you made sure he was safe. I’m betting that you'll do it again when he comes looking for you.”

There it is again. The odd use of the past tense. And did her accent just drop entirely?

Despite those disturbing anomalies, Ian’s too distracted by her clothing to focus on them. She’s not dressed in the robe and nightgown she usually favors. Instead she’s wearing some sort of reflective leggings that look metallic and uncomfortable. Her shape is different too. Softer, fuller. 

“Failed Yevvy how? And what do you mean when he comes looking for me?" he asks, watching her move slowly to the stove, like her limbs couldn’t respond fast enough. 

“Nevermind that.” She sets a milk filled pot on the flames then leans carefully against the refrigerator. “I have to tell you about my Yev. You need to be there for him.” 

The dark is doing something strange to her voice. It sounds otherworldly with a slight echo or reverb that gives it a tinny sound. Like a radio playing at night in a distant neighbor's yard. He doesn't know why, but it's freaking him out.

They both jump when a bedroom door opens and they hear Mickey’s footsteps approaching. Jesus, the whole house is spooking him tonight.

“Don’t tell him I’m awake. He’ll get embarrassed,” Svet whispers, slipping to the side of the refrigerator shrouded in darkness.

Mickey pads over, naked save his socks. 

His heart aches at the sight of those socks. Tonight is the first time Mickey’s told him why he always needs socks after a nightmare. Ian couldn’t imagine waking up from sleep as a four year old with your father gibbering like a monster under your bed and grabbing your naked toes in the dark. He finally understands why Mickey prefers sleeping during the day and it breaks his heart. 

“You comin’ back to bed?” Mickey steps between his legs, squeezing his shoulders. 

Ian’s about to warn him that Svet is up, but thinks better of it. She’s seen him naked before. 

“Just warming up some milk. You want cinnamon this time?”

He pulls Mickey close by the hips and kisses his sleep warm belly. 

“Yeah. But, I’ll make it.” 

Ian presses his face into Mickey’s stomach and runs his hands up and down the back of his thighs. He's not quite over Mickey screaming awake like he did. His protective caveman had surfaced with a vengeance.

“No, baby, I got it. Go back to bed. I’ll bring it in,” he mumbles, blowing warm puffs of air into Mickey’s navel, making him chuckle. 

“Baby.” Mickey’s soft snort is affectionate as he strokes the back of Ian’s neck. “You only call me that after a nightmare.”

“That’s the only time you’ll let me.” In the dim glow of the streetlight, Mickey’s face is still marked by his dream. Vulnerable and stricken. “I could call you that when we’re in the supermarket if you want.”

Mickey sucks his teeth and runs his fingers through Ian’s hair. 

“Let’s try it around here first, alright?” Mickey kisses him. Sweet, precious. “Hurry up. Hate layin’ in there without you.”

Ian lets him go after giving his hips a squeeze. 

“I’m right behind you … baby.” 

Mickey huffs a soft laugh and kisses his forehead before padding off, leaving him smiling. Yeah. He's going to call him baby everyday. 

The clink of a pot against a mug brings him back down to reality. Svet’s pouring the heated milk and he flushes. He’d forgotten about her. Mickey, like always, eclipsed everything around him. 

“You teach him to love. That’s good. Needed,” she says, pulling the cinnamon from their meager rack of spices. “Yev will need both of you to know love.”

“He’s taught me a few things too,” he says through a yawn, wanting their Mickey scented bed now more than ever.

“Da. How to be a father without actually being a father. I will be grateful for that later.”

Svet sets the mug on the dining room table and he has a mild shock. She looks … tired. There are lines in her face and her hair must be catching the light weird because it looks silver in some places. And her pajamas. They’re definitely reflective and have panels in the chest and along the arms, almost like protective plating. Crazier still, they’re pulsing with a warm orange light. He blinks hard, leaning forward to get a better look, but she steps back into the gloom of the kitchen. 

“Svet, what the hell are you wear-”

“Oh fuck, no. It’s too soon. The cycle’s started. I was supposed to have more time,” she says fast, accent completely gone as she backs up. A warm copper scent begins to suffuse the room. “Listen. Yevvy’s going to come to you, Ian. When he’s 14, he’ll find you. Take him in. Even if Mickey doesn’t want to. Take him in.”

Ian’s heart begins to trip as tiny orange lights flicker around the kitchen. They fizzle to life between him and Svetlana, only to wink out as soon as they appear and are replaced by more. The hot copper smell is strong now, overpowering.

“Svet, what are you talking about? Holy shit, are we having an electrical fire?!” Ian stands and takes a step forward as more sparks of orange light swirls around her. Despite the violence of their appearance, they make no sound. 

“Stop! Stay there! The intake will kill you,” Svet warns, backing into a dark corner. “Just take Yev in. He will have no one but you and Mickey until I’m released. Promise me!”

There’s a horde of orange lights swirling along Svet’s body now, illuminating her. What he sees takes his breath away. 

Svet’s older. At least 60. Her face is wrinkled and her hair is gray. She’s aged 40 years since yesterday and that’s impossible. 

“I agreed to do this only if I could change Yev’s trajectory and this is the moment that triggers you to remember later. We found that your hippocampal storage will retain this specific memory and I need you to hold onto it! Yev needs you to!”

The orange lights surge now, filling the kitchen with an unearthly glow and an odd warmth. Frozen, Ian watches Svetlana fight against an invisible current that seems to be pulling her inward. She speaks rapidly now, as if racing against some unknowable deadline.

“Take him in. His life changes for the better because you do. He won’t get radicalized. I will get to see him again if I survive this. Just help him Ian! Promise me you’ll do it! Say you will do-” 

She winks out into a cloud of orange sparks, leaving behind a strong smell of heated copper. 

In shock, he responds to her pleas while they still echo in this empty space.

“Will do.”

The air in the kitchen crackles in the silent aftermath and Ian can’t move, sure that what he just witnessed wasn’t real. He’s been under so much stress - living with Mickey and Svet, running out of money, dancing at the club. Add to that the coke he hadn’t told Mickey about, but had needed lately to keep moving. Maybe he needed to cut back like he told Fiona because no fucking way that happened.

“Ian.” 

Mickey’s standing in the dining room holding the steaming mug of milk. “What are you doing?” 

With a start, he turns away from the dark kitchen. It wasn’t real. It didn’t happen.

“I-I couldn’t remember if I turned off the stove,” he says, soft and uncertain. 

“Doesn’t look like it. Turn it off now, it smells a little burnt in here,” Mickey whispers. “C’mon. Let’s go back to bed before you wake Svet.”

Ian turns off the stove and follows him, slowing past Svet’s room. He peeks in and she’s sleeping on the bed holding Yevgeny. He lets out a shaky breath. He’d sleepwalked. It’s happened before. That’s all. Nothing more than that.  

“Ian, you better get in here before I finish this milk or you ain’t gettin’ any,” Mickey teases from their bedroom doorway. 

He hiccups a disjointed laugh and follows Mickey inside, shaking off the last of whatever that waking dream had been. 

In bed, he loses himself in Mickey’s body, emptying him twice, until he’s wet, gaping and emotional. Still unsettled by his waking dream, he seeks stability and an outlet for his need to fix. He finds both in every moan, gasp and soft cry Mickey gives him until he no longer feels adrift. Satiated, they curl around each other and Mickey presses his feet atop Ian’s, body relaxing with this anchor he seems to need. Ian holds him tight and falls asleep, allowing the dream of Svetlana to fade into memory.  

He won’t think about this night again. 

For exactly fourteen years, he doesn’t even have the vaguest memory of it. But, the day there’s a knock on their Westside apartment door and a blond teenager with Mickey’s eyes says his name is Yev, he instinctively lets him inside.

Later, after they decide Yev should stay, Mickey asks him to make up the couch. Ian smells warm copper before he speaks without thinking. 

“Will do.”

[rubyvhs]

nightmare [dean winchester]

pairing; dean w x fem! reader summary; you go on a hunt with the brothers but when it goes to shit, dean can’t help being overprotective. tags; angst, stitching yourself, alcoholic dean, some you and sam in there cause he's the cutest baby, your dad died.

“fuck! sam, quick, get the girls.” dean runs into the impala forcing the engine to roar to life and flashes his lights at the highest setting for the vampires, burning their eyes as the other four get into it and he drives off.

it's quite for the first five minutes, except for the heavy breathing. the two girls that the trio rescued are sleeping peacefully, though you think it's anything but peaceful. their faces aren't relaxed, instead covered in blood and frowning, but their breaths have slowed, at least.

five minutes. that's all it takes before the tension is broken with a, “let me drive, dean.” the older winchester lets out an exaggerated airy laugh for all of two seconds before putting on a straight face and telling him no. “you're hurt, you can hardly keep your eyes open, let me drive, either of us.”

sam is right, dean is hurt way more than both of you combined, he fought off most of the vampires on his own while you took the girls and ran, but he was mostly hurt because he hadn't expected it.

your plan was to get the girls and dip then come back in the morning to wipe them out in their sleep, but you had woken one of them up with the loudest noise you've ever made when one of the girls stabbed you in the stomach with some glass she’d found on the floor. 

again, taken by surprise. obviously the girls thought you were one of the vampires. 

“shut up. it's only a ten minute drive to the nearest hospital.”

“we're going to a hospital?” you don't usually hunt with sam and dean, opting to stay in the motels and do some research, maybe figure out a better plan, but you've never seen them go to the hospital for their injuries, they'd always come home to you bleeding out on the floor.

“for you and the girls, yes.”

“what about you and sam?”

“it's fine.” that shut you up, his strict tone, and stare in the rear view mirror made you slide down in your seat.

ten minutes later you’ve reached 'northwest tawara horspital' and sam is helping the girls out of the impala. dean, while a wanted fugitive, does the same with you. 

but you refuse. “i won't go inside if you two aren't.”

“what?” he moves a little too quickly and holds his side as he winces. god, that can't be comfortable. 

“i won't go inside, we're just wasting time,” sam comes back and stands in the drivers side to talk to you, door open. “see? sam's back, let's get home quickly so we can fix you both up, and me.”

“no, you're going in.” sam was the one to insist this time but you just shake your head and stay planted into your seat. through the corner of your eye you can see both men discussing what to do then they get back in the car with a sigh.

on the drive home it’s mostly silent until you feel your eyes flutter closed. just a few seconds of sleep— but dean’s loud shout of your name wakes you up, “don't close your eyes, we need to fix you up first.” you nod and straighten up, “and what you did back there? fuckin’ reckless, don't pull that shit again. when we tell you to do something, you do it. or you don't come on hunts with us.”

“what the hell? i was the one who decided i didn't want to come with hunts on you guys, you can't take away my choice.”

“like hell i can't!” he isn't looking at you through the mirror, instead focusing on the road because you're on a busy one, but you can still feel his eyes burning into yours. it makes you shrink down in your seat. you hate how much his words affect you, and how visible it is too. 

sam has has never yelled at you really, but even if he had it wouldn't have done much damage, he's too soft for that. dean though... he scares you sometimes, not that he'd hurt you or kick you out, just that he'd be disappointed in you, maybe give you the silent treatment. you don't want that, but you also hate being barked orders at.

“you can't, dean.” sam says to his brother, slapping his shoulder once to ground him back, and it seems to have worked. because you’re not a bad hunter— if anything, you have their back most of the time, you aren’t clumsy or unreliable and what happened had been a mistake that any other hunter would have made. this isn’t about hunting. this is about dean being too controlling.

you thought it was over now that you're at the motel but when he parks baby, he looks back at you, “i can, and i fucking will. you can't act like a child and expect us to let you come on the hunts. you listen to whatever the fuck we tell you to do.” your lips part in surprise, thinking of how to respond, but he doesn't even give you the chance and gets out, slamming the door behind him. 

you don't look at sam as you close baby's door and start walking to the motel. sam catches up and tells you to wait and because you don't have it in you to be yelled at anymore, you turn back and face him.

he says your name, low and soft, “that wasn't an order,” 

shut up before i cry “hey,” he hugs you, your head on his chest and you just let it all out. god, you feel so stupid. you can't believe you were so unprepared and you caused them all this damage. if you had just been in defense mode you would've never screamed, you've been through worst and kept quite. and though you know it’s a little irrational, you can’t help but blame yourself for not being quiet.

“hey, he's just worried about you, he means well, you know that.” you let go slightly and he kisses your forehead, telling you to go into their room and that he'll be in yours to get cleaned up. 

+

walking into the room of the man who just basically called you a two year old is nerve-wrecking. you don't want to be screamed at and god knows you don't want to be treated like a child again. every time you think you’re getting through to dean, or that you’re becoming closer, something happens and he reminds you you’re still young, naive, and only with them because your dad had told them to.

your father is— was a hunter, he used to hunt with john sometimes, and when he heard about the apocalypse that's soon to be here and all the angels that seem to stride onto earth, he wanted to tie up loose ends, so he asked the winchesters to keep you with them until further notice.

then he never came back. but all of this is something you’ve dealt with ages ago. years even. but this? dean pushing you away all the time? acting like you’re some burden? that, you can’t get over.

“hey,” you hear his voice and turn around, not even having seen him walking towards the bathroom. “how you holding up?”

it’s a stupid attempt to make amends, but it works. the second he says anything, it works. it always does.

“fine.” you mumble and notice he’s finishing supplies to stitch himself up. ouch. you know the boys prefer to do it themselves than help the other out but you’ve always found they need a gentler hand. 

you walk towards him and hold his hand in place to stop his movements, taking the needle from him. he doesn't complain, just drowns the bottle of whiskey. with one hand, the other holding his shirt up. 

when it’s done you hold my hand out for the bottle and he scoffs, as if wasting his alcohol hurts him more than the wound that just got stitched up. he hands it over reluctantly.

you pull down his shirt and decide it’s better if you take a swig too. “does it hurt?” the questions rolls off easily, no matter how angry you are at him. 

“i'll survive.” he shrugs like it's nothing. like the gash over most of his stomach is nothing.

“not what i asked.” dean half-heartedly glares at you but your expectant expression makes him think there isn’t a way out. and there isn’t.

“it's fine, my arm’s just sore.” you sit next to him on the bed, pushing his sleeve up and he hisses, muttering something under his breath and snatching the bottle from your hand to drown it. 

“dean...” it’s surreal. it knocks all the air out of your lungs. you’ve never seen the mark, the one an angel of the lord imprinted on dean’s shoulder, though sam talked about it a couple of times. you clear your throat before he notices the staring and point to the wound, “i think you need to stitch that one too, hand me another needle.”

he does and you get to work. it’s mostly noiseless but it feels like there's something heavy in the air, a confession. though it’s impossible to tell who’s supposed to make it.

“i'm sorry.” you try to hide the surprise on your face by looking down but he doesn't let you, hooking his fingers under your chin and he makes you look up at him. “i was so worried about you.” he lets go, taking a breath in, “the way i felt when you screamed? damn it, i've never felt so scared before and i've been to hell,” he lets out a dry laugh and you smile a little. god he's so perfect.

“i don't wanna hurt you, sweetheart, never, so when i ask you to listen to me it isn't because i'm treating you like a child, i just wanna keep you safe.” there are more words on the tip of his tongue but he shuts up and it doesn’t nothing to help the growing smile on your face. it's more than you thought you’d ever get out of him.

you pour a more of the alcohol on his stitches and pull the sleeve down. “okay, you officially need a shower now, you're all booze and cologne. i need to clean this place up.”

“it's fine, sammy and i will do it.”

“not happening. go get cleaned up, i'll finish here.” you knew that what you’re doing is painfully obvious, but you hope he lets it go, just this once. 

of course he doesn't, instead pulling your shirt up to reveal the various cuts that don’t need stitches, just some treatment, and the stab wound you fixed in the car when they were both too busy sulking in the tension. you’ve gotten a lot better at handling pain since you’ve started with the winchesters.

“when did you do that?”

“doesn't matter, it's done. get in the shower dean, let me clean up and go to sleep.”

“damn it, just answer me when i ask something. when did you do this?”

“car.” you’re scared, tired and you don't want to fight. but he just apologized, for god’s sake, can’t he give it a rest.

you wait for his harsh blow. words that will knock you off my feet, anything really, but he just sighs, letting the shirt go and stands up. you do the same and he embraces you in a hug that you’re quick to reciprocate. so quick you’d already had your arms around his neck before he got his around your waist.

the whiskey burns your nose but it's nothing compared to how your body burns with you so close. “dean?”

“you're so strong, you know?” he takes a beat, a breath, “but that doesn't mean shit to me, i still wanna keep you safe all the time because god knows i don't deserve you but i'm too selfish to let you go.”

you pull away just to see his face. you need to know he means what he's saying. that you’re talking about the both of you in the way you’re thinking. the desperation to convey how he feels to you, it gives you all the confidence in the world to stand a little taller and finally kiss him.

you kiss dean winchester because for the first time in ages, someone cares, someone wants you safe. someone learned from their mistake and did better, someone is fucking perfect and it's dean. 

one of his hands is rough on your waist, the other on you cheek. his tongue, his cologne, it all makes you melt into him. 

then ten seconds later, way too deep into the kiss he pulls away slowly, shakes his head and groans, “why'd you do that.”

you step away him in panic. you were ready for rejection, sure. a small ‘i don't see you like that’, not this.

“i'm sorry, i didn't mean to—”

“no, no, hey,” he steps closer “i just... i don't wanna do this if it's gonna hurt you. i don't know how good i will be if we go down that road and you deserve something good.”

“you are dean,” he licks his bottom lip and it catches you attention, forcing you to bite on yours, “you're good. you're perfect.”

one thing i will not allow in my household is the winchester brothers being insecure that they're not enough (pov it’s all they do). anyways sooo this is for the jensen-a-thon for @artyandink so excited to have my first entry and there’s another one i’ve been working on for a week (hopefully i’m almost done with it). hope you enjoyed this!

[zepskies]

Dean, on the other hand, kept busy, mostly coping with being a newborn father and managing a teenager with raging hormones. Claire’s up, she’s down, she’s sleeping a lot and simultaneously stays up all night. She hates school; she loves school. She hates Jack; she loves Jack.

Oh Dean. 🤣 He's really going from one frying pan to the next with this, isn't he? I can only imagine how he handled Claire's various mood swings, considering they share a couple of fun character traits. 🤣

But at the same time, the fact that they're just chilling together playing board games and probably getting to know each other in such a wholesome way gives me feels. 💗 Like you I wish that Dean had gotten the chance to be a real father on the show, and have a family. At least here, he's halfway there! (sort of? lol)

However, he still can’t shake the coke, although he told both women in his life that he’s clean again. But before you yell at him, just let him explain, alright? Dean can’t go through another cold turkey nightmare. He doesn’t want to be weak, especially since he has tons of work to get done and tons of pressure weighing on his broad shoulders.

Ahh the ups and downs of being an addict. 🙃 (Though I snorted at the "dust particles" euphemism.) I worry that he's not going to make it through until the end of the show without something dire happening on that front, but we'll see. 😥

Dear fucking God, if she doesn’t stop this soon, she’ll be in his office with her bare ass out and bend over his goddamn desk in less than five minutes.

😏😏 Promise?

But oooooh lord, not Benny trying to flirt with her, stirring up Dean's PTSD with camera operators. 😅 That's sure gonna be fun.

And yayy!! We got to the roller rink chapter! This was so fun. I loved the atmosphere you created in these scenes, even if the whole Benny/Reader/Dean triangle broke my heart a little bit more. 🥲

Especially with her not thinking Dean would want to have a real relationship with her that wasn't just sex. Maybe if these two properly communicated a little bit more, the'd finally get somewhere. 😂

Jo matches her smile and bashfully shrugs. “You’re welcome.”

I really loved this though. After everything that's happened between Jo in the reader, it's so nice to see them find some common ground with Jo extending a kind of olive branch. They may not totally ever mend their friendship, but this feels like progress. 💕

Plastic Hearts – Part 17

Pairing: Director!Dean Winchester x Actress!Reader

Series Summary: Los Angeles, 1985. Y/N’s a young actress without any success, hopping from one failed audition to the next until one desperate mistake brings her to her breaking point. Dean Winchester, on the other hand, is a grade A asshole and washed-up director at the end of his career, known for his godawful slasher movies in the 70s and his love for blow, booze, and women. Lost in the toxic Hollywood life, their paths cross when one hopeless little wrestling show changes their trajectory.

Chapter Warnings: +18, language, mentions of drugs and porn, fluff, pining, majorly jealous!Dean (*cackles* 😈), some angst, A+ parenting of a teenager, 70s disco & roller rinks

Word Count: 5.8k

A/N: Welcome back, babes! Batch #4 is a wild one, so grab your popcorn, settle in, and hold on to your seats! Jealous!Dean is definitely always one of my favorites to write, but I might have outdone myself with this one. We’re starting soft but prepare yourself for some major drama. Also, the women are getting more feisty and seeing through his shit. It’s quite hilarious. Enjoy! 😂🖤

<< 16 || Spotify Playlist || Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

17. Voulez-Vous

The California sun is a hot, flaming orange ball in the blue sky, beaming as brightly as the shiny, black paint of the classic beauty and the green-eyed director’s grin as the Impala rolls into the parking lot of the old gym. Everyone’s been on break for a whole month, a nice end-of-summer vacation. Some girls left the motel, visiting family members and enjoying their freedom. Even Strindberg flew east for an entire week to see her parents.

Keep reading

[spicywhenspeaking]

If I’m There: Chapter Nineteen

special thanks to @madomens for the slay Natalie tattoo edit ❤️ -> thank you bestie

read from part one here!

summary: Noah and Natalie met in high school and developed a relationship through their love of music and art. Falling in love, innocent and young, they think nothing can keep them apart. However, sometimes in the pursuit of your dreams the things we love the most get left behind.

word count: 4.8k 0_o

this is a complete work of fiction, some characters while based on real people are totally made up. :)

edited by me ....soooo if you see something spelt wrong no you didn't.

taglist : @lma1986 @cookiesupplier @notingridslurkaccount @blackveilomens @thisbicc @thebadchic @jessitpwk @samanthasgone @laurpartyprogram @myownthoughts12

“Are you fucking kidding me, Natalie?” Noah’s voice is not like anything I’ve ever heard before. “How could you be so selfish? For ten years you kept this from me? You had no right.” It rumbles out of him like thunder and he crowds me into the wall. “I should have at least stayed long enough for her to be born so we could have both gotten away from you. I could have given her a good life. Should have known you’d end up a drunk just like your mother.” 

Noah’s words bite into me and I can’t help the tears that fall. “I’m not a drunk” I try to defend myself but it’s to no avail. “Yeah right, the way you were throwing drinks back last night tells me enough. I can’t believe I had a baby with such a whore.” I gasped at his harsh remark, “Noah, I understand if you’re mad but don’t talk to me like that.” I say, trying to regain some of my strength. “Oh, does it hurt? Being finally told the truth about how much of a lying bitch you are?” He practically spits the words in my face. “Stop, talking to me like that.” I can barely choke the words out. “She’ll never forgive you for letting her grow up without a father, she’ll hate you. But not nearly as much as I do.” 

“Nat…”

“Natty.”

“Natalie?”

I feel my shoulders being shaken lighty and I bolt up in a hot sweat gasping for breath. My mouth feels drier than ever and my head is pounding.

“Natalie? Are you okay? You were talking in your sleep.” Haylie rubs my back lightly and hands me my water bottle from the nightstand. I guess we must have just both crashed in my room last night after getting home from the rave. I bury my hands in my hair and rest my head on my knees as I curl into myself.“I had a horrible dream. Noah was saying awful things.” I chug half my water bottle, “he was yelling in my face, calling me a bitch and a liar. Saying Erin would hate me for keeping the truth from her.” I lay my head back down and throw my arm over my eyes. “This is a fucking disaster,” I groan. “But you know that’s not even true? You told Erin her dad was your boyfriend in high school and that you two broke up.” Haylie offers as a way to comfort my racing mind. “Plus you’re not a liar or a bitch. I was there when you tried to tell him. I held you when you were crying because he was with some girl. You tried Natty, and that matters. I know it’s hard but Erin is getting older and you were already thinking you needed to tell her more. Maybe this is the universe pushing you to do it.” She taps my arm and hands me four ibuprofen to help with my hangover. “The universe can fucking kiss my ass,” I say taking the offered pills and taking them with the rest of my water. “It’ll work out Nat, I’m sure of it. And if he does turn out to be the mega dick in your nightmare I’ll kick his ass.” I managed out a pitiful laugh, “if he says any of that to me in real life I’ll kick his ass myself.” 

It’s a Tuesday which is my typical off day since I have therapy in the afternoon. I texted Anna and told her I was going to close my books for the rest of the week to prepare for my family coming into town. There’s always plenty of other artists that are there for walkins so it’s not like I’m leaving the shop in jeopardy. She told me it was about time I took some time off. 

Anna: Enjoy your time with the fam! And please for the love of god tell me you’ll at least kiss that beautiful tall boy you were dancing with last night. 10:46am

I roll my eyes and let out another groan, “dancing on him? Are you serious? God, I am such an idiot.” I roll out of bed and stumble over my clothes that are strewn around the room until I make it into the bathroom. A hot shower will do wonders for me right now. I need to freshen up before seeing Dr. Grady and then I can figure out how I’m going to break the news to Noah later this evening. 

While the hot water from my shower rains down on me, parts of last night come flooding back to me.

I didn’t think I was that drunk but I stumble as I climb into the Uber with not only Haylie, but also Noah, Nick, Folio and Jolly. Anna and Rachel left before us and I guess we thought it made sense for us all to share an Uber since Haylie and I live together and the boys would just continue to their hotel. “I can’t believe you guys are here,” I remember my slurred words and cringe with embarrassment. “Left us to become a big rockstar like you always wanted,” I recall Nicky’s eyes flashing to me in horror through the rear view mirror like he thought I was going to tell him right then, drunk in the Uber. “God my head is going to kill in the morning” Haylie says, rubbing her temples and leaning her head on mine. “We’re getting too old for this,” I laugh and Haylie looks up at me “oh hush mom! We’re young and hot!” She cheers and Folio who had been just watching us laughs as well, “Hell yeah!” He echoes her cheer and turns to raise his hand to high five us in the backseat. Haylie excitedly hits his open palm and there’s a loud smack. Joining the conversation it’s Jolly that asks, “how long have you two lived together?” I clear my throat and readjust my dress straps, suddenly aware of the seating configuration. Nick is in the front seat next to the driver. Folio and Jolly are in the captain's chairs in the middle and squished in the back is Haylie then me and then Noah. Hyper aware of my surroundings I hesitated before answering, “almost ten years now, we met pretty soon after I moved out here and became friends really fast.” Nodding in agreement Haylie confirms, “yeah, Natalie is the best! We’re like a little family. The three amigos.” I swat Haylie on the thigh to get her to stop talking. “You have another roommate?” Noah asks quietly and I feel bile rise in my throat. “Sort of, she’s not home tonight” I blurt out quickly and look out the window and I’ve never been happier to see the outside of our house as I was then. “Oh! This is us!” Haylie shouts and we both unbuckle and climb over across the middle clumsily. Haylie falls onto Folios lap and giggles “oh sorry,” he just winks and opens the door from his seat. “No problem gorgeous, good night you too” he says and we wave, smiling from the sidewalk. “Bye! Goodnight” we both call out before heading into the house. 

Rinsing the conditioner out of my hair I finish washing the soap off of my body and shut the water off. I stare at myself into the foggy mirror and wipe away the cloudy residue. “Okay Natty, time to face the music” I say to myself. Today everything will change. My appointment is at 1 pm and it’s 11:30 now. I’ll make something to eat before heading that way. In the past six years I’ve been seeing Dr. Grady. I've come so far. With my mom’s death, everything with Noah and raising Erin by myself. She’s always told me that there’s only so many things we can control. All I can do is make sure Erin is getting the best care I can offer. I was so angry for years, jealous of him getting to live his life free of responsibility and then having to deal with the guilt of being jealous. I love Erin and I wouldn’t go back and change anything if it meant we didn’t have what we have now. But I always wanted two parents that loved each other and I wanted that for my kids. Maybe the least I can do is give her two parents that love her. I don’t even know if Noah will want to talk to me after telling him the truth. 

Later that day I’m sitting with Dr. Grady in her office and she’s in quiet contemplation after I explained my situation. “Well I understand it’s certainly not how you imagined it going, but it sounds like you have an opportunity to put it all out there.” I take a deep breath in and lean my head back against the soft leather couch. “Yeah, I just can’t stop thinking about this nightmare I had.” The words Noah in my dream said echoed in my thoughts all day. “I see how those words would hurt. This is a stressful situation, it makes sense that your mind would be in distress. Do you truly believe any of the things this dream figure said?” Shaking my head I begin to consider what I know about Noah. It’s been years but I don’t think he would ever be that mean. I have to understand and accept that he might be angry.  “It’s been almost a decade since I had seen him last, I just hoped to have some control over when and where I would try to tell him again.” I explain to the Doctor. Humming softly Dr. Grady sits for a moment in quiet contemplation, “Unfortunately, life rarely allows us to have much control. I know there may be some fear in telling him after all these years but I do see it as being a great way to tackle the root of your anxiety.” My anxiety has been bad for a while now, I can manage it enough but I know she’s right. “I know. You’re right. Since Erin was born this has been weighing on me and now is the chance I have to finally have him in front of me. I’m just scared.” 

After my appointment I head back home. Laying on my bed I call Erin to check on her, I have been texting with Ashely’s mom and got a few pictures of the girls at the zoo. She has an emergency phone with only a few numbers saved on it, she answers quickly and is immediately telling me excitedly about their day, “oh my god mom, we got to see a baby elephant get a bottle it was so cute! And then we went into the butterfly pavilion and we had a little cup of nectar and there were so many on me Mom! It was awesome!” Hearing her with so much happiness in her voice fills me with so much joy. “That's amazing sweetie! I am so happy you’re having a good time. I miss you though, I’m thinking tomorrow when you come home we can have a girls day? We can go get manicures and get ice cream from that new shop we saw last week?” I tell her, after telling Noah tonight I will need to also tell Erin more about her dad. “That sounds so fun! I want to try the cotton candy ice cream!” She laughs and tells me more about her time at the zoo. “Okay well you girls have fun and remember to say thank you to Ashleys’ Mom. I love you sweetie!” I tell her, “I love you too mommy! Bye!” She hangs up the phone and Haylie chooses then to bust into my room and declare its time to start getting ready for the concert. “Okay, if you’re about to change this guys whole life you’re about to look sexy as fuck doing it.” she declares before tearing through my closet for something to dress me in. 

Haylie decides I need to wear a black silk slip dress and my red leather jacket and black boots, “yeah, it's sexy but like you’re not trying that hard. It’s perfect, hopefully he’ll be too distracted by how sexy you are to be mad.” Laughing lightly I turn in the mirror and give myself a once over, “yeah, I still got it.” I say to my reflection. Next we work on our hair and make up together while eating some chinese food we ordered. The concert will start in a couple hours so we will leave soon. The deadline of shattering Noah's reality is fast approaching and I am so nervous, I just pray that the food sits in my stomach long enough for me to talk to him. 

Hours later we are sitting backstage in the boys green room and I’m trying not to freak out. Nicholas is one of the first in and I grab his arm and pull him into the corner. “Nicky I need you to be my friend for five minutes okay,” Trying to keep my voice steady and my breaths even. His eyes soften as he notices my shaking hands, “I’ve always been your friend Natty. I’m sorry about how I reacted last night. It was just a shock.” Fighting to keep my food down I swallow nothing and focus my thoughts, “I shouldn't have jumped down your throat Nicky, that wasn't fair. I’m just freaking out okay. This isn't something I ever intended to keep from him, you have to understand that I tried okay, when I found out and even after. I tried. I just- life just got away from me.” Tears are threatening and I’m fighting to keep my composure. Nick surprises me by pulling me into a hug, “I’m sorry Natty. I-” whatever he was about to say is interrupted by the other guys filing into the room. “Ladies! Two nights in a row, I am a lucky man!” Folio cheers and I see Haylie smile and blush slightly, she’s always liked guys like him. Noah notices Nick and I and has a curious look on his face. Nick looks at me and with a warm smile says, “do it after the show, I know it will be a shock to him but after it wears off and the dusk settles it will be okay.” His words give me a little comfort and we all migrate to the center of the room for some casual conversation. “We’re excited for the show,” Haylie says and I offer a small smile. “Yeah, it should be a good one,” Jolly comments as he takes a sip of his tea. Noah’s attention turns to me, “I’m glad Nicky found that article, It’s good to see you Natty.” I smile but my heart cracks, my stomach bubbles and I feel sweat gather at the back of my neck. “It’s good to see you too Noah, Um Haylie will you come with me to the bathroom. We’ll see you guys after the show okay? Good luck up there.” I take her hand and we rush out of the room into the hallway outside of the green room. My footsteps quicken and I end up running into the bathroom, busting into the stall and emptying the contents of my stomach. “That chinese was a bad idea, why didnt I eat something light like a fucking salad. No one wants to throw up a salad. I’m so stupid. This whole thing is stupid. My whole life is stupid. Noah and his stupid beautiful face is stupid.” Haylie allows me to go on and get it all out before pulling me up and shaking my shoulders. “You are a hot and sexy and successful woman. A loving and caring mother and friend. You can do this, You can do anything. It will be difficult but not the hardest thing you’ve done and I will be with you supporting you through it all. I will always be here, and if he’s smart he will get over whatever anger he feels fast.” If I hadn’t just thrown up I would have hugged her. I freshen up, rinse out my mouth and re-powder my face. 

When the show starts I just try to keep up my breathing technique, deep breath in, hold for four seconds and then slowly exhale. I am focusing on my heart rate and keeping myself calm. I’m dissociating, I know I am and the thing that tips me back into reality is his voice. 

You need a new clean slate without the dents

A place to put your pain, your consequence

When you look into the mirror

Are you even there?

I don't wanna know all your secrets 'cause I'll tell

It's hard enough being alone with myself

I feel myself backing up, away from it all. The fear gripping my heart and taking over. Haylie grabs my hand. “What are you doing?” she asks and I just shake my head. “I can’t- I need to breathe, I can’t - I can’t breathe.” my voice rasps out and I see his eyes shift to wear I am. Seeing me start to show the signs of an oncoming panic attack as the song continues. 

So write a brand new page, then write again

I know your act is staged, yet you pretend

All while you're turning tables

With missing legs

I think you've overstayed your welcome in

So go the fuck away, don't come again

I'll see your face in the fire 

And burn it out

“Haylie, I can’t breathe.” I gasp out and she nods, holding my hand and pulls me back towards the backstage exit. I burst out into the hot summer air and gulped down lungfuls of air. I run my hands through my hair and grip two handfuls of it at the base as I breath heavily through my teeth. 

Deep breath in and hold. Count to four and then let it out slowly.

Repeat.

Deep breath in and hold. Count to four and then let it out slowly.

Repeat. 

Haylie allows me to center myself before speaking. “Natalie, you have come this far. I know its hard. I know, but you can’t let this opportunity to tell him go. I love you like a sister and I will support you but you cannot run away from this.” Looking up at the dark Texas sky and see the crescent moon high in the sky. “I know, I know. That's why I love you, always making me do what's right. Ugh, it's your best and worst trait.” she laughs and gestures back towards the doors. “Come on, they’ll have a few more songs left.” She says and we head back in and stand at the side stage. We’re back in time for their last two songs of their set. 

I made another mistake

Thought I could change, thought I could make it out

Promises break, need to hear you say

"You're gonna keep it now"

I miss the way you say my name

The way you bend, the way you break

Your makeup running down your face

The way you touch, the way you taste

I purposefully don’t listen to Noah’s music. I purposefully avoid this song at all costs. It oozes sex and lust and want and I have to try and forget how much I loved him. How good he used to make me feel. How in love we used to be. How much I wanted a life with him. How much I wanted him to be there with me with my life with Erin. 

They end the set with “Dethroned” and afterwards we are sitting in the green room. They walk out of the dressing areas freshly showered. “That was a great show! Yall rock!” Haylie exclaims and goes in to give Folio a high five. He returns it happily, wearing a huge grin. “Thank you! So what are you thinking? You want to grab a drink?” Folio asks us and I stammer, “um, I was hoping to get a second to talk to Noah in private. Is that okay?” I ask Noah and his eyes twinkle at my question. “Of course. Why don’t you guys head out and we can catch up?” Noah says to the guys and Haylie nods in agreement. “Great idea. I know a good place nearby.” She hugs me tightly before leaving and whispers in my ear, “you got this.” I give her a small smile and watch as they leave, Nick leaving me with a hug as well and gives me a reassuring look. 

Alone in the room I cough awkwardly and he shuffles and shakes out his hair. “Um, what is it you wanted to talk to me about?” he asks. I gulp audibly, “um would you be uncomfortable if we went to my house? I don’t mean it like that” I uncomfortably laugh, “there's something I need to tell you and there’s some stuff you might want to see.” He looks surprised and I get it. After ten years, why would I need to say or show him anything? “Oh, okay? What is it?” he asks and I trip over my own feet as we’re walking out the door and he reaches out to catch me. “I will tell you, just not here. I’ll call an uber, It’s only about fifteen minutes away.”  

One sixteen minute nearly silent uber ride later we’re standing awkwardly outside of my front door. “Okay, Um this is really hard.” I rasp out, “I just want you to know before this happens that I never wanted to hurt you Noah.” He looks at me and is very confused. “Um okay? I’m starting to get worried. What is it ?” he asks as I unlock the front door and we head in. On the shoe rack by the front entrance there are a stack of sparkly kids tennis shoes, small sandals and a pair of yellow rain boots. On the walls near the front door are a cork board full of pictures. I take off my shoes and he follows doing the same. Looking at the photos that line the wall and fill the frames. I see him notice the shoes and pay close attention to the pictures, seeing the one of the three of us, Haylie, Erin and I all dressed up for halloween.

“Cute, Does Haylie have a daughter?” he asks. I have to face this head on, I have to be honest and tell him. “No, Haylie doesn't have a daughter. That's my daughter. Her name is Erin.” Noah’s eyes flash towards me and his whole body tenses. “Oh. Wow. A kid, Wow, Natalie, that's great, I’m happy for you.” He says and I need some water. Leading him further into the house we make it into the kitchen and I reach into my cupboard for a glass. “Water?” I ask and he shakes his head, declining. “Okay, Noah.-” I start, “shit, this is hard. Okay, I know this is going to be hard. I know. Okay, Erin. My daughter? She’s yours.” I finally manage to word vomit it out and for the first time since Erin was born the massive weight of guilt feels as though it's lifted off of my chest. Noah’s body freezes, “I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you. What was that?” he asks. “Erin, she’s your daughter. She’s almost ten, I didn’t know what to do, I was alone okay, you were gone. I left school and moved here and just tried to start over.” I am feeling the anxiety leaking into my veins, terrified my dream from last tonight is about to become reality. “I have a kid? You had a baby - our baby?” Noah stares at me with wide eyes, “wait, why didn't you say anything? For ten years? You’ve kept this from me? For ten fucking years?!” volume is rising his words bristle against me. 

“ but I did try to tell you Noah,” I sigh, defeated. “I called when I found out, Alex answered the phone and she said some awful things, she got into my head- I just couldn’t tell you then. The next time  I called, your number was disconnected. I tried again even after that. I went to a show. Haylie saw online y’all would be here and she convinced me to just go and find you to tell you in person. That manager you had, Kevin? He told me you were in the back with some girl, that you’d be done soon if I wanted to wait around for my turn. I was pregnant, hormonal, and angry okay. I left.” I take a deep calming breath. “My last effort was right after Erin was born, I sent you a letter with a picture of us in it, telling you everything. I didn’t want to keep it from you but it was like every time I reached for you- you were just out of my grasp” I fight the tears that are threatening to fall. “I was alone. I was scared and I was all she had. I had to be everything for her. I couldn’t keep holding on to the idea that you’d come and save me again. I did want you there with me Noah, but I couldn’t keep doing that to myself. I had to move on and I’m truly sorry that it’s turned out this way”

He paces the small space in my kitchen taking in all of my words “Fucking Alex.” He says running his hands through his hair. “I never got any letter. You really thought I’d just ignore something like this?” His breath is labored and I can hear the emotions rising in his voice. “Why didn’t you just walk through the door and find me? You just left? What if he had been lying? He was, by the way, fucking rat bastard. You could have come back and talked to me, you just walked away.” There’s an annoyance in his voice that frustrates me. 

“I am human Noah, burdened with pride like everyone else. You wanted me to what? Wait for you to finish banging the groupie while I sat there growing our child inside me? Just bust down the door that I thought you were having sex with some other girl behind? That’s what you’d expect of me?” I’m yelling now. “You think I rejoiced in the fact that I would have to face this alone? That I hoped every time I reached out to you I would be rejected and left alone again and again.” Big angry tears fill my eyes and I do nothing to stop them from falling. “I kept trying to tell you because despite all of it, all of the hurt and pain, I was still hopelessly in love with you.” My voice quiets to its normal volume although breaking slightly. “The first boy I ever loved, the boy that promised me he would always be there, always save me, that same boy was the one crushing my heart into nothing.” I take a deep calming breath and continue, “I had to let you go. When I sent that letter I was ready to accept whatever role you wanted to take in our lives. When I received nothing…I just had to accept that our lives were on different paths heading far away from each other. Erin was my whole world and I couldn’t give her half of my heart while the other was still tangled with you. I had to let you go, Noah.” My eyes are focused on the ground as I finish and wait for him to say something. I look up to find his own eyes filled with tears as a quiet sob escapes his lips. “Nat, I can’t believe this is where we ended up, I can’t believe you had our baby and I wasn’t there. That she’s been alive for ten years and I never knew. That you did this all by yourself thinking I didn’t care. I just-“ more tears fall and I notice more of my own are coating my cheeks. “I wanted this life with you, wanted the family and the happiness and the love, I should have fought harder for you, I should have never let you go.” His voice shakes with his words, “Can I meet her?” he asks quietly and my tears fall even harder. “Of course, yes, of course you can meet her. She’s coming home tomorrow from a sleepover and I’m going to talk to her about it all. I need to prepare her for it. She knows a little but I just don’t want to overwhelm her with it all at once.” He nods and wipes the tears from his face. “I’m sorry Natalie, I’m sorry this happened like this but I can be there for her now, I know it will take time. We’re coming up on a break soon, I can come out here and we can try to figure something out. I don’t want to miss anymore of her life.”

thank you all for reading :)

divider from here (X)

next chapter ->

[delicatetragedies2]

Major Tw ⚠️ Bad Home Life and anything Self Deprecating + Death⚠️

Last post was all over the place. But here I am again… too instead talk about one thing. My home life.

For my whole life I’ve never truly had a stable place to call home. When I was younger I was a little more oblivious to this but the older I got the more miserable I became.

First it was with my mom and stepdad. They hardly ever got along and because of the constant fighting and yelling I grew this hatred and resentment. I used to tell him I hated him during the fights. It would make me feel guilty after but I 11-12 at the time. Just days before my 15th birthday I was the one to come home and find my step dad in the garage on the floor. He committed un-alive and wasn’t able to be saved. It was too late.

About a year later my mom had crawled her way back up and thought she could start over. Get a better life. She started going on dates, getting to know people. Then one day, I’m just supposed to accept and man moving it. I have no idea who he is, but oh boy would I learn. This man, my mom still current boyfriend, raised absolute fucking hell. He’s an alcoholic who thrives on putting people down. I’m 19 now. And still deal with his shit. He ruined the last years of my adolescence and minority. He’s traumatized me to the point I can’t even take my dog barking without my heart jumping to my throat.

This man has thrown things, kicked things, broken things, abused my mom, tried hurting my dog, told me if I brought a kitten home he’d kill it, etc. he’s called my mom and I a bitch. He tells his daughter and me that we’re lazy and do nothing around the house even though he’s The one that hides outside all day to drink after work.

My mom had a baby with him, so now I have a baby brother I feel inclined to protect. This whole situation has made me fall back into old habits. I hide in my room, let it go to filth, sh, can’t eat properly, and cry almost every night. I’ve grown so suicidal, but can’t stand the thought of sitting back beyond the grave knowing my little brother and mother could get abused or even killed.

This man has gotten in my face multiple times that I’ve had to kick him, smack him and scream at him to get away. It’s been to the point that my fiancé has had to block this man from getting too close to me. This man terrified me… and yet my mom says she just pushes his buttons too much. That she pushes things to this point. She blames herself and won’t acknowledge that. She keeps looking for the best in this man because when he doesn’t drink he’s a good person. What she doesn’t understand is that he always goes back to the drink. He always turns to it despite knowing he could have a great life without it. Him and those drinks are who he is. He’s not a nice guy she hopes for.

I’m so done, you know? If I had a way out I’d leave. If I didn’t have a little brother I’d leave. One way or another. But I can’t. I will never forgive myself. So here I am. Hating this man’s guts. I can’t pretend anymore that he’s family. That I like him. That he’s a good person. He makes me sick to my stomach and I want to avoid him at all costs.

What I can’t get over his how hes brought up my dead step father over and over. He always makes us feel like shit bc he says it’s our fault. And on top of that, he will purposely walk around the house with a knife to slit his wrists infront of us. He’ll saunter in a room and just do it like it’s not big deal. Then he’ll mock me and say, “how did you stop? What made you stop? You used to do it sooo much.”

He was never around for the horrid times, and I go out of my way to be miserable to hide it. Like, sorry I have scars. It’s just so triggering that I’m starting it up again. All bc of him.

I literally have nightmares now that he’s killing my mom and I can’t move fast enough or get to her room. Recently I had such a vivid one that her blood curdling screams literally had me waking up in a sweat with the cries ringing through my ear. In the dream all I wanted was for it to stop. For things to not be real. And by the time I woke up, I was in shambles.

I hate my life.

… Also. Just a little extra thing I can never tell anyone. Not even my mother. One night the dude was drunk and I had went out to the garage stupidly. I am lucky nothing happened to me but on that night I was wearing a nightgown and the dude made me sit next to him and kept telling me how I look like my mother. How I’m so beautiful. He kept holding my hands and touched the end of my nightgown. This was so long ago now that it’s irrelevant but it’s stuck with me to this day that it’s just another reason this guy scares me… (And I guess what confuses me after such and interaction is how he is so overprotective if a man even exhibits pedo like actions. Idk if I’m reading too far into that interaction.) All I know is I can hardly stand him after everything.

[no-droids]

Another Rough Day

gif credit @chrishemsworht

Part Twenty of the Rough Day Series

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 13.7K

Warnings: Angst, violence, canon-typical blood and gore, language, hurt/comfort

A/N: i wanna thank yall for sticking around during my hermit era, in the time ive been gone i am now officially a junior at a university majoring in aerospace and it’s a fuckin nightmare and i hate everything and god help us all literally kill me and I will be posting INCREDIBLY slowly because of that (I’m talkin weeks or months in between updates yall, im sorry I can’t dedicate more time to this but I am going to finish this fic within the next handful of chapters idk maybe 5 or 6 so you shouldn’t have to wait too too long).  As a heads up there will be hard angst as we enter the final arc, there will be hurt and it’ll get dark but everything is gonna turn out alright so thanks for sticking with me and continuing to stick with me. im sorry if you dont like it or your expectations were subverted or if this isn’t what you’d hoped it would be after following and waiting around for so long but this was planned a long time ago and it took me a good year or two to recognize that I started writing this fic for me and now I’m going to end it writing for me and I hope yall can respect that

ALSO I asked my best BEST FRIEND in the entire world @cptnbvcks to collaborate with me for this after we both took a very long break from creating and she drew some GORGEOUS artwork for this chapter so it will be posted at the end, everyone please go follow her and say hello

ps brittany girl you’re a fuckin menace i had to use my own two ears and listen to ethan literally say the words “the mandalorian cums, hard” what the fuck was that im actually suing

anyways chapter below the cut lets get serious yall

---

You take two of them down before they even realize they’re being attacked.

Your aim is as swift and steady as if Din were behind your shoulder right now, calmly pointing out which stationary tree to hit next in rapid succession.  You’re positioned perfectly at the bottom of the ramp to take full advantage of the ambush, the only thing running through your mind is strategy and the constant calculating of angles and ricochets.  The other three troopers are trapped inside the open Crest and you’re right next to a large boulder that you can step behind for cover, but it proves unnecessary as the rumors were apparently true.

They’re… awful.

Not a single blaster is even fired in your direction—you think you see maybe one panicked red shot bounce around in the hull, but that’s it.  The troopers fumble for their guns and trip over each other at the unexpected attack—a few scream like children through the modulators, but you’re temporarily deaf to anything besides the screech of your weapon hitting its target and the crumpling of armored bodies.

Later on, if someone were to ask you to describe exactly what happened—who died first, who ran for cover, who cried out for help—you don’t think you’d be able to.  You don’t even really feel like a person right now.  The entire thing is cold, robotic survival instinct, pure ruthlessness rising in your soul for the first time in your life.  It feels sick.  Wrong in your bones.  Born from preemptive defense in fear of your life, but that doesn’t mean you stop.  Not until all of them stop moving.

You empty the entire fucking canister for a handful of stormtroopers, firing plasma and char marks across every square inch of the pristine hull even after the last one drops.  Your heart is beating too fast, your finger keeps pulling the trigger multiple times even after the blaster clicks uselessly, completely empty and beeping a warning that it must’ve begun emitting ages ago.  Being out of ammo scares you—you suddenly feel vulnerable, even though the very far away logical part of your mind reminds you that they have to all be dead at this point and no physical threat was ever able to graze you.

Regardless, you quickly spin behind the boulder and grab another canister from your belt, giving it a spare check for leaks while the empty one slides and drops to the rocky ground.  It’s the first time you’ve ever had to reload this weapon instead of just pointing and shooting, but the mechanics are relatively simple and your brain makes up for your lack of coherent thoughts with lightning fast perception.  What's difficult is that your hands are starting to shake now that you’re not aiming, you’re not breathing correctly because you’re not really breathing at all.  You can’t tell the difference between the adrenaline-fueled dissociative silence that muffles everything around you or if it really is just that quiet now.  No more clatter of armor, no modulated voices or terrified screams.  No blasters, no footsteps along the ramp, no birds singing.

You quickly pause to lift your elbow and check the enormous eyes blinking up at you, tiny claws still holding tight to the fabric of your tunic and completely unharmed, and then you force yourself to move.  The blaster is held out in front of you while you walk forward and your finger rests on the trigger, begging to be pulled again.  It’s suspenseful and terrifying in a different way than before—now it’s less about psyching yourself up for confrontation and more about the fact that any sudden movement could mean your very swift end.

Silence.  Silence.  You’re numb and raw at the same time, walking up the ramp as your eyes fly everywhere, not even registering the blood or gore, just searching for movement.  You don’t know if you feel like a predator or prey, you’re that much more brutal and inhuman because of how fucking terrified you are.  You count four stormtroopers in the hull laying crumpled and still on the metal floor, but the one in the far corner only has blood on his shoulder.  You quickly swing the blaster around to remedy that, but then—

“P-Please don’t kill me!”

His words remind you of something.  Reality, maybe.  A world outside yourself and the kid’s survival, the living beings behind the bloody armor your enemies wear.

It’s a miracle your finger stays hovering over the trigger, and you watch him throw the blaster at your feet with a clang and scramble to show you his empty hands.  “Please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me—I’m not loyal to the Empire, I don’t want to be here, please, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die—”

Behind the mask, your expression furrows.  Stormtroopers are loyal to the bitter end, what is he saying?  They embrace their expendiality, it’s the only thing that makes them any sort of a real threat.  Kuiil told you horror stories about them during your childhood, the cloning facilities and the propaganda they’re force fed since infancy.  It’s nearly impossible to find one who hasn’t been raised from birth to serve the Empire, no matter how crumbled and trace its remaining authority may be.

No, this is a trap, it has to be.  Your expression twists with dread after hearing him speak, readjusting your aim with the blaster and preparing yourself for the years of nightmares that’ll follow—but then he cries out, “Wait!” and then removes his helmet with trembling hands.

You pause, staring down at him in shock.

It’s him, you recognize him immediately.  It’s the same face from a hologram puck you bore into your memory, spent multiple days staring at so you’d be able to spot him under any disguise or circumstances.  Oshua Ryler.  Your quarry, the fifth puck, the one Din was out Maker knows where searching for before this entire mess happened.  A stormtrooper?  His puck said nothing about the Empire, this doesn’t make any sense.  What is he doing here?  Stormtroopers don’t have pucks, they don’t have bounties or relatives or loved ones searching for them.  They’re brainwashed, replaceable, faceless soldiers in suits of armor and they don’t even have names.

“Please don’t kill me,” he begs again, staring at you with wide eyes even as he cowers.  “I have a family, I-I just want to go home, please—”

“Shut up.”  You can’t think straight with him crying like that and you’re wasting so much time just standing here trying to process when your brain had to literally shut itself down to even do the things you’ve already done.  You have to kill him and escape, you have to—you can’t trust this complication, not with the tiny claws currently digging into your back and reminding you of your purpose, but it was so much easier when he had on a helmet.  You hate looking at his face.  It’s going to haunt your dreams now, just like the man you stabbed on Corellia.

“Please don’t kill me—please don’t kill me,” he screws his eyes up and breathes over and over instead, and your stomach wrenches with disgust.  His posture and expression are so fucking pitiful, you can barely keep your eyes on him through the overwhelming nausea and aversion that climbs up your throat.  He’s with the Empire, and they’re looking for the baby.  You know what needs to be done.  Pull the trigger, just one small movement from you and it’ll be all over.  It would be the easiest thing in the world, it would be so easy.

But then instead, you ask, “Why are you a stormtrooper?”

“I’m n-not—I hate the Empire—”

“The Empire is ashes.”  You don’t know if you’re yelling or whispering with how much blood is roaring through your ears.  “They hold no power anymore.  Why are you with them?”

“Because the one thing they have left is money!”  The quarry shrills the words at you, ghostly pale to the point of turning green.  “Th-They buy troopers now—they opened up a whole new market for the smugglers, there’s a base nearby that’s used for training and…”  He stares wide eyed at you and gulps.  “C-Conditioning.”

Your brain is already going a trillion lightyears an hour and it doesn’t have the capacity to empathize or understand anything beyond the child’s survival and the relevant details right now.  “Were they expecting the baby?”

“W-What?”  He squeaks up at you.

“Was the bounty put out on you a trap set by the Empire?”  You ask him, lifting your free arm just enough to flash him the tiny child clinging to your side.  “He said they’re coming after the baby, so tell me if this was planned from the beginning.”

“Who is ‘he’?”  The stormtrooper asks, furrowing his eyebrows and looking around.  “What are you talki—”

“Tell me if the bounty on you was a trap to take this baby!”  You roar, your blaster shaking as you aim it down at him.  Your mind is acutely focused on the tiny claws hanging onto your tunic, the continued safety of the kid and the life or death situation facing him that you were given absolutely no information about.  “Now—”

“If it was I didn’t know!”  He quickly cries out, pleading with you and clamping his eyes shut in terror under the barrel sight.  “I don’t know anything about a b-baby, or a bounty!  They just put blasters in our hands and told us to search for a ship and to bring back anyone we find alive, I swear!”

You’re silent for a moment, biting your lip under the mask and caught halfway between discerning and stalling.  You could still kill him.  You should still kill him, time is ticking down and more troopers could be heading this way any second.

Shit.  “Who put the bounty out on you?”  You ask sharply.  It might not be a completely fair question, but he can’t exactly blame you for not feeling completely fair right now.

“I—I don’t know,” he gasps, clutching his bleeding shoulder.  “Could’ve been anyone—my mother, Cyra, o-or my dad, Obediah, or Thia, or Benja, or S—”

“Thia,” you interrupt his rambling, catching the slurred word and repeating it back to him.

“Yes!”  Oshua jerks his head up, tears and hope immediately filling his eyes at the sound of her name, “Yes, Thiadura Celi Ryler, that’s my sister!”

Maker, if he’s lying, then he’s fucking brilliant at it.  You look towards the cockpit of the ship, biting your lip under the mask.  Get to Nevarro, tell Karga and he’ll… something.  Din was cut off before he finished.  Help?  Know what to do?  You’re lost, but you have a clear directive and the precious seconds are sliding by.  The controls are right up there, two steps to the ladder and less than a minute until you’re rising into the atmosphere.

But then you think back to the terror in Din’s voice.  The blistering panic that made him speak faster and with more urgency than you’ve ever heard from him.  Get to Nevarro.  Tell Karga.  Get to Nevarro.  Tell Karga.

You look back at the quarry.  “How many of you are there?”

“At the base?  Around three hundred,” he immediately spills.  “Half of us are in the hole right now getting brainwashed, they do it in shifts, but they can be mobilized in a few hours.  There were a lot of bodies outside when we were ordered to split off, maybe a third of our squadron, but the rest were still shooting at whatever was—”

“So around a hundred left,”  You finish breathlessly, almost wanting him to speak faster and cut to the chase so you can calculate quicker.  “How many were dispatched on the search?”

“Uh, there were eight groups of five sent in each major direction,” he informs you, still trembling on the ground.  “Told us not to come back until we covered the entire sector.”

Of which, four you’ve already taken care of.  In other circumstances, you’d be nauseated at the thought, but right now, it’s just another number to subtract, just more panicked math in Din’s frightening absence.  That leaves at least sixty troopers left wherever the base is, minimum, and likely a couple more hours before they’ve combed the sector.  If this wasn’t a preconceived trap purposefully set for the kid, then that means reinforcements haven’t arrived yet but likely will soon.  And if this is a base meant for training and conditioning, then that also means there’s a chance not all of them will be loyal yet.

You make the decision immediately.

“Okay,” you announce, clicking the blaster’s safety switch and holstering it, sounding lightyears more certain than you feel.  “Then you’re going to help me carry out a rescue mission, and I’ll take you back to your sister.”

“You…”  He looks uncertain, blinking at your blaster and slowly lowering his hands.  “You want to rescue the men?”

Ideally?  Sure.  Realistically?  You don’t say anything in response.  Instead, you kick his regulation firearm at your feet further away from the quarry just in case your judgment is flawed, and then turn around and grab one of the bodies behind you.

Your adrenaline is still blaring so fast that you only just barely note the severity of what you’ve just done and what you’re continuing to do.  The corpses aren’t real to you right now, they’re inanimate things that you need out of your ship before you can close the doors to it.  They are, however, heavy as fuck, but the only other adult here has a wound in his arm from the gun on your hip.  Regardless, you have experience with lifting dead weight without a big, strong, capable man to do it for you.

“Help me out here, kid,” you mutter over your shoulder, and in response, you feel his claws dig in and climb up just a little bit until he can peek out in front of you.  Thankfully, the burden is suddenly lifted and you can quickly slide the dead troopers down the ramp with ease.  It takes hardly any time at all—you just yank and haul and release and all four of them tumble the rest of the way all by themselves.

When you stand back up, Oshua hasn’t moved and he’s looking at you with a pale, queasy expression.  Glancing down, you see that your white robe is now stained with streaks and patches of rusty blood.  Instead of swallowing back bile at the sight and bolting to the shower to scrub off every last remaining trace, you breeze past it, noting nothing more than a change of color.  Dirtying your white, pristine clothing with the consequences of protecting this baby—you’d rather have blood-soaked fabric with an unharmed kid clinging to you than any other combination of those things.

“Can you make it up to the cockpit?”  You ask the quarry, kicking his rifle off the ship before closing the ramp and then gesturing up the ladder.  Your voice is calm and steady but your hands are beginning to shake again.  “I need as much information as possible about the base.”  You know that’s where Din is, judging from the wall of blaster screeches that drowned him out through the comm.  Logically, you know you could be headed right into a trap, and every instinct inside you wants to find safety, but… you just cannot imagine flying the ship away from this planet without Din onboard.  It isn’t fucking happening, you’ve made your choice.

Without waiting for a response, you climb the ladder and plop down in the pilot’s seat of the Crest.  While Oshua finds some way to clamber up the steps behind you in bulky stormtrooper armor with one good arm, you hold the kid closer on your lap and begin flight checking.  Din will be fucking furious, but the scolding you’ll be sure to get is the least of your worries right now.  Following his instructions and going back to Nevarro is just making shit infinitely more dangerous for him, turning what could be a potential rescue mission into an undeniable suicide mission.  Even if Karga somehow decides to send a few guild members along to infiltrate the base, it’ll be a war you want to avoid.

Besides.  What did you always tell him about running away from him, even when he instructs you to?

It’s just… not really your thing.

---

They’re everywhere.

They crawl like flies out of the base, and for every single body that falls, three more spill from the open doors.  Rapid fire plasma beams launch from the end of Din’s blaster, melting white armor with every twitch of his gloved finger.  Their aim is terrible, as is to be expected, but the sheer number of them more than makes up for it, as is by design.

Din’s heart pounds with exertion, his breath comes in ragged huffs through the modulator as his helmet identifies and isolates which body is closest to him, which body he needs to bring down next.  His blaster is so hot it nearly burns his hand, even through the thick gloves he wears.  When he runs out of ammo, he holsters the pistol and swings his rifle from around his shoulder, spinning to catch a handful of troopers behind him in the obliterating blast.

He’s not thinking much.  He can’t think, even though your safety and that of his son is currently dangling by a thread.  If he focuses on that, he’ll be dead before he can even picture your faces.  He just reacts, he maims and kills without a single thought in his mind.  Blood splatters, screams and sirens blare as he becomes surrounded by more and more troopers.  Din can hear the sound of plasma colliding and ricocheting off his armor; every single one of them is a potential injury he could currently have but might not even be able to feel right now.

His helmet starts beeping rapidly and he turns just enough to see, highlighted in bright red on the screen, two enormous artillery turrets slowly rising up out of the roof of the imperial base.  He feels a fierce flash of anger burn in his chest, it’s like a lightning strike to his veins.

Din needs to go.

And yet… if he was another man.  If he wasn’t a father, or a husband, if he had no family and no attachments like the creed declared he should, he would go.  With just a twitch of his fingers, he could be launching into the sky and retreating as far away from this battlefield as he could reasonably get.  He’s never been the type to run from a threat, but this isn’t just a threat.  Dozens of troopers are gaining on him, they’re trampling their own dead to get within range.  Plasma pings off his shoulder, another one hits his back as they flank from behind.  He can feel the heat through the sizzling beskar, he can see them surrounding him on all sides, and the propulsion trigger for his jetpack is right there under his wrist.

Din holds his ground and continues firing, he plants his feet firmly to the dirt with only one thought in his mind.

Run, sweet girl.  Run.

---

You type in commands to scan for Din’s signal, quickly locating it through the Crest’s computer onboard.  Not far from here, three minutes or less.  The ship rumbles to life beneath you, slowly lifting off the rocky ground and rotating in place as it hovers.  It’s not on autopilot but you feel like you are, you can barely feel your hands as they move the yoke forward and the Crest takes off in the direction of Din’s blinking frequency.

“Tell me about defenses,” you instruct Oshua, restlessly bouncing your leg while the baby coos.

“Two plasma turrets on top of the base,” the quarry quickly answers.  “There’s usually guards stationed around the perimeter, but everyone who’s capable will be outside right now.”

Your mouth twists downwards under the mask.  Blasters don’t scare you much from this high up, but Din’s armor doesn’t cover every inch of his body, he’s not completely invincible.  Doubt churns in your stomach, but you have to stay focused on one task at a time so you don’t get overwhelmed.  The turrets, then.  “Are they automatic?”

“Manual,” he corrects with a shake of his head.

“Radar?”

“Old.  Only engages above fifty meters.”

You eye your altitude and dip the Crest considerably, beginning to weave through the rocky canyons and dodging crumbling cliffs while you travel.  “What about ships?”

“None,” Oshua says, “except for a passenger shuttle used for transport.  TIEs are flown in the Vesta sector, this base is remote and used for basic training only.”

“Anything else?”  You ask, stomach twisting with the knowledge that barely four questions is all you’ve got.  You’re planning to drop into an imperial base to save the man you love and you can’t think of a single other question?  

The quarry shrugs, and your heart slams, does somersaults in your chest at the mere notion that you could fucking die here.  Today, in two minutes or less, you could die here.  The child in your lap looking over the ship’s front panel with a quiet determination in his eyes could die here.  Din could already be dead—that signal broadcasts his location to this computer regardless of whether he’s still breathing or not.  He could already be gone and you’d be flying the baby right into a trap without knowing any differently.

Whelp, you think while taking a deep breath, some strangely calm existential acceptance beginning to flood your soul.  If he isn’t dead, he will be soon if you don’t make it to him on time.

You immediately lift your wrist and speak into the communicator.  “Mando?”  You have no idea if he can hear you, but you need to try anyway.  Your voice is still firm, there’s a strength to it you don’t feel in your chest, but it certainly sounds convincing.  “I’m coming to get you.  Less than a minute to your location, do everything you can to get outside.  If you can’t, I’ll just… uh.  Try to figure something else out.”

That’s it.  That’s it, improvise until you don’t have to.  Even if you’re lacking confidence, you can at least scrounge up some conviction.  Your arms gain feeling again while you veer the Crest through the stony terrain, the familiar reverberations under your feet begin to fill your body with a powerful sense of purpose.  Your breaths begin to come steady, every falling rock you see through the transparisteel feels like it drops in slow motion, allowing you to evade them easily.  It would normally be stupidly dangerous to fly this low with so many unexpected obstacles and hazards narrowly missing the ship, but considering what you’re flying into, a few boulders seems comical.

“Where’s your helmet?”  Oshua asks out of nowhere, and for a second, you don’t think you heard him correctly.

But then it strikes you all at once what he’s attempting to imply, and the sheer lunacy of the thought is enough to make you laugh while you clutch the controls.  “I’m not a Mandalorian.”

“You wear the armor of one,” he points out… rather fairly, you have to admit.  “You cover your face like one.  You have a blaster that fires Philithiorium, a rare and expensive gas native to Mandalore’s stratosphere, and you’re a bounty hunter—”

“I’m not a Mandalorian.”  Your words are short and cutting, you have a daunting task to focus on and don’t feel like having small talk right now.  “I’m not a bounty hunter, either.”

But then again, Karga made you a member of the Guild, didn’t he?  He handed you Oshua’s puck and said this one is for you to find, and you are technically part of a Mandalorian clan.  All of this seems like it happened without your knowledge.  You may be marrying a Mandalorian, you may wear his armor and mother his child and shoot a blaster with his signet branded into it, but war isn’t in your blood.  This robe was a costume when you first made it, this armor was a relic that was restored as a hobby.  In a sense, it still feels that way.  The mask covering your face lended itself to a temporary surge of bravery earlier, but beyond that, the only thing that’s keeping you moving forward now is your family.  The man you love that may or may not be alive right now, the baby holding tight to your leg while the ship sways and weaves through the stony landscape.

Your eyes quickly flick down to the child in your lap, both of his three fingered hands clutching onto the stained fabric of your knee without moving a single inch.  He’d know, you tell yourself.  If his father is gone, he’d already know somehow.  Din is still alive, and he’s counting on you.

---

There’s too many for Din to handle.

They swarmed him, overpowered his endless artillery with massive numbers and there’s nothing he can do anymore.  The backs of his knees are kicked from behind and he slams down to the ground with a clatter, his sizzling hot blasters are ripped from him, and Din folds his hands calmly behind his back even as one of the stormtroopers barks out, “Binders,” to another one, who disappears quickly in response.  In the meantime, a few of them apparently decide to just attempt holding his arms in place, and their measly combined grip is almost enough to make him roll his eyes under the helmet.  These imperial soldiers are even more pitiful than they usually are, but his silent resolve to stall to ensure your escape is enough to keep him stationary and compliant for the time being.

Eventually, a few voices call out from beyond the crowd and there’s some movement from the back.  Dozens of troopers with their blasters all pointed at him begin to shuffle to make way, careful to keep their barrels aimed at him while a path slowly forms.  The crowd of white parts and a stormtrooper with a singular red pauldron on his right shoulder saunters confidently towards Din as he kneels on the ground.

An officer, he assumes.  Conveniently missing from the firefight, the scanner inside his helmet would’ve caught the change in color and Din would’ve made sure to kill him first.

“Well now, what do we have here?”  Comes his thin metallic voice through the tinny filter.  The officer studies him curiously for a few moments, before slowly looking down by his feet, reaching out one cheap, plastic covered foot to gently nudge the body of a dead trooper on the ground with a sigh.  “What a shame.”

Coward, he thinks, his lip curling with disgust under the helmet.

“This is an imperial training base,” he turns his attention back to Din to inform him when he doesn’t immediately respond, rather stupidly he might add.  “How were you able to find us?”

Silence.  The grip on hands held behind his back is even looser now.  He just tilts his chin up slightly in defiance, the scanner inside his helmet locating each weapon strapped to the man’s body and highlighting it red.  Small text boxes blink into existence under each one with a manufacturer and classification—a BlasTech E-11 rifle, a Merr-Sonn thermal detonator, a Kolvo vibroblade—and Din is severely unimpressed with the quality.  The detonator is the only weapon that even catches his eye, and that’s only because the chamber inside that houses the explosive baradium has a release mechanism that’s completely dead.  Useless, then.  Good to know.

After a long moment of quiet tension where Din refuses to speak and the officer continues to confidently scrutinize him, in some strange sort of silent battle of egos that only one seems to have a genuine interest in, another stormtrooper makes his way to the front, shoving past his fellow soldiers to address the superior in charge.

“Commander, we’ve sent out an alert for an intruder,” he tells him, slightly out of breath from running through the crowd in the lightweight armor.  Din wants to roll his eyes, but what he says next makes him snap to immediate attention.  “The fleet informed us that Moff Gideon is currently on route.”

Gideon.  The last time someone spoke that name, it was a quarry on Coruscant and you just barely managed to stop Din from suffocating the bastard for even saying it aloud before freezing him in carbonite.  It would’ve meant half the return on a hunt that lasted nearly a month but he saw red and his hand was crushing his windpipe before he realized what happened.  But he’s dead, Din thinks with a clenched jaw and fists tightening behind his back, he watched that TIE fighter explode and slam into the ground, crushing the man inside it.  The wreck was unsurvivable, he can’t be alive.

“For what?  This Mandalorian?”  The trooper in charge scoffs in response, and Din remains completely mute.

“Yes, sir,” the other one confirms.  “Orders were to capture him, alive.”

“Hm.”  The officer turns his attention back to him, less analyzing and more musing while he tilts his head.  “I see,” he eventually says, and he sounds like he’s grinning, before strolling slightly closer as Din stays completely still on his knees.  “He must want the beskar.  I’m sure it’s worth more than this entire battalion combined.”

All of a sudden, a gloved hand carelessly catches the rim of his helmet and tugs, and Din’s movement is explosive.  He launches off the ground, arms easily slipping from the pathetic grip they were being held in and his fist colliding with the side of the officer’s flimsy white helmet, the plastic making a deafening crack against his face.

Multiple hands immediately rush forward to grab him and yank him back down again while the commanding trooper stumbles backwards in shock, and Din amicably drops to his knees and folds his hands behind his back once more like nothing happened at all.

“Binders!”  A trooper behind him roars loudly once more, and a few men surrounding him begin trotting away this time.

The officer in red stands a few feet away from him now, grabbing his helmet and twisting it back to its proper position on his head where it was skewed.  There’s a shattered hole near his jaw where the material splintered and busted like the cheap piece of banthashit it is, and while he might normally feel pleased with himself for being able to see his skin peeking through, it just fills him with more righteous fury.  It’s such a punchable jaw.

After a few awkward moments of silence, the other one clears his throat and continues.  “He… has inquired about the location and status of a child that should be accompanying him.”

Din inhales deeply through his nose and grinds his teeth.  He wants to snap their necks one by one for even just mentioning his son, but there are just too many, more than even his whistling birds can neutralize.  Still, he gave you as much of a head start as physically possible.  You should be rising into the atmosphere right now, making the jump into hyperspace towards safety.  Karga will know what to do—he’ll protect his family, separate you and the boy so the threat is evenly dispersed instead of collected all in one place, and arm dozens of trained hunters to keep watch over you both individually.  It’s the best Din can do, and it’s the only thing keeping his knees planted on the ground and his body completely motionless while they continue speaking.

“We are combing the sector for a ship with as many men as we can afford to lose,” the trooper in red says, but his voice filter is shattered and now sounds like a puny little droid with a broken voice box, “but our numbers are unimpressive.  Assistance may be required.”

It’s too late, Din thinks, mouth twitching under the beskar with a satisfied smirk.  They’re wasting their time, looking for a ghost.  You’re both long gone by now.  They’ve got no idea you even exist—

“He also spoke of a girl.”

And then he feels his heart stop in his chest.  Every single cell in his body turns to fire, it’s a fucking miracle he doesn’t move a muscle in response.  His sweet girl, the one so far removed from the nightmare of the Empire that she made best friends with the orphans of it.  How the fuck did he know?  He shouldn’t even be breathing, let alone gathering information about you, how did he know?

But then Din thinks back, remembering your makeshift bed on the floor, your panicked eyes and heaving chest as the quarry taunted him with a sick little smile.  Who’s this, Mando?  She’s just darling, isn’t she?  Does Gideon know your crew has a lovely new addition?

“A girl?”

The trooper nods.  “Moff Gideon insisted that if the Mandalorian did not have a child with him, then a girl would likely be protecting him instead.”

He’s going to kill them, Din decides.  Every single one of these imperial pigs, every single soldier standing right now is a dead fucking man.  The blood pumping through his body suddenly turns to acid, deadly black hate poisoning his soul.  His heartbeat morphs into a war drum, the armor strapped to his limbs is the barrel of a gun.  He’s going to fucking kill them and leave an imperial base full of bodies to greet his old nemesis upon his return, and he’s going to enjoy every single second of it.

Except, then—

“Mando?”  The sweetest voice in existence suddenly crackles through the earpiece under his helmet.  “I’m coming to get you.  Less than a minute to your location, do everything you can to get outside.  If you can’t, I’ll just… uh.  Figure something else out.”

And, as Din kneels there in surrender, surrounded by a crowd of enemies he thought he destroyed long ago, all the anger—all the fury and defiance and murder surging through his veins—suddenly morphs to fear.

The emotion is so foreign and old to him, it feels like a face he barely recognizes and a name he can’t remember.  He’s panicked before.  He’s been in situations where a threat has made him blind with rage, he knows what it’s like to look death straight in the eyes and say that he’s busy and to come back another time.  This is different.  This is ice cold that freezes over beskar.

He can’t speak out loud to warn you—he can’t move his hands to press the button on the back of his helmet and allow him to talk without detection.  There’s plasma turrets on the roof of the base, he can see them right now.  The helmet’s scanners say they’re manned and engaged, and though he is outside and this is how you retrieved him before whenever he needed a quick escape, he has fifty fucking imperial blasters trained on him and you know absolutely nothing about this threat.  You’re flying right into a war zone and if either you or his son dies, he won’t ever be able to forgive himself.

Behind the helmet, his eyes fly to each and every trooper, wondering which blaster will be the one to do it.  Which weapon is going to be the one he can’t block in time when you descend, the one that’ll kill him right in front of you.  Which turret will be the one to obliterate the Crest with you and his son inside of it.

“Maker, where are those fucking binders—” he hears someone behind him snarl, but the white noise of pure terror roaring through his ears drowns them out.  His chest starts heaving against his will, sheer panic begins to blur his vision.  For the first time in his life, his armor feels too heavy, his lungs feel like one of these boulders are sitting on them instead of beskar.

All too soon, his helmet starts making a familiar sound that signals quietly in his ear, alerting him of an incoming ship, and the only thing he can physically do is count down the seconds to prepare himself for what is to come.

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two…

Like lightning, Din breaks the grip of multiple troopers and surges up, tackling the officer in red to the ground.  There’s a clatter as they both slam into the rocky floor, but in the ensuing scuffle, he easily snatches the thermal detonator from his side holster and holds it up for everyone to see, before pressing the red button on the front and hearing it begin to beep rapidly.

---

You’re right on time.

The Crest rises up through the rocky cliffs surrounding the base and you spot the turrets you were warned about.  Weapons controls are already engaged and you’re too low to be detected by radar—you fire once, twice, and blast both of them to smithereens from behind before they can even rotate around to target you.

Alarms start wailing but the guns are destroyed.  It’s not comforting, though; blasters won’t touch you up here, but that doesn’t mean they can’t fire at Din on the ground.  Your eyes dart across the sea of white, looking for a flash of silver anywhere, and then you spot him instantly in the chaos.

For some reason, the troopers in his vicinity all seem to be bolting away from him.  Their rifles are down, clutched in their hands while they nearly fall over each other to run away as fast as possible, and your heart soars when you spot his jetpack firing up.  Din launches into the sky while another trooper is revealed underneath him, seeming to juggle something in his hands and then throw it into the crowd of retreating soldiers, but the sight of the man you love rising into the air while a flurry of blaster shots from the far edges of the imperial structure follow him gives you the confidence to immediately turn the guns down towards the horde of troopers.

“Which ones are in charge?”  You ask Oshua breathlessly, who leans forward and points out the transparisteel.

“Red pauldrons—” he barely has time to say it before you aim and fire at one of the troopers wearing red that was closest to Din, the plasma beam launching from the Crest so powerful and devastating that it outright obliterates the surface he’s laying on.  Pieces of shattered armor fly and a smoking crater of rubble is all that’s left behind, but your mind is whirling and you’re already onto someone else wearing red at the edges of the complex, and then two more near the doors, and then another—

To their credit, you think the sixty or so soldiers in training seem to figure out that you’re not aiming into the enormous collection of them.  If you were, the damage would be catastrophic and spraying everywhere, but you’re precise and meticulous with your shots, and the only ones who are loyal enough to the cause to hold still and raise their blasters at the incoming threat tend to be the ones you need to mow down anyways.  The rest of them scatter in all directions, scrambling over each other to escape and then disappearing into the distant boulders surrounding the base—but you notice that not a single one of them runs back inside the safety of its open doors.

The hull dips with the weight of Din dropping in, and relief floods your soul even as you continue raining hell down on the superiors in charge.  Any flash of color you see is a target, your eyes lose focus of everything, your vision blurs and turns monochrome as you just search for red.

“Lift up!”  You hear Din’s voice roar from the hull.  You can hear his rifle unloading through the open door.  “Now!  We have to go now!”

You press the button to shut the hull door with Din inside and punch it, rising so fast that the shove of gravity makes it difficult to keep your head up.  Through the sudden surge of downward force, you just barely manage to raise your incredibly heavy arm to push the button that pressurizes the Crest and ignites the launch boosters, preparing the vessel for space travel.  Outside the transparisteel, the gray sky begins darkening as the atmosphere eventually disappears.  The ship’s engines roar, burning so much fuel at once that you’re actually accelerating through the climb, you’re boosting through the gradual ease of gravity as the planet’s curvature and glow becomes softer and softer below you.

As soon as the blackness of space begins to fill the windows, the slight subsiding of force allows you to plug in the coordinates for Nevarro with less difficulty, but you’re still moving, still rising, still escaping.  You can’t find it within yourself to slow down, but then something catches your attention.

Claws suddenly dig sharp into your thigh, sharp enough to sting and cause you to wince, and you look down to see that the kid has gone incredibly tense.  Deadly tense.  Your heart is still pounding even though you’re away from danger, you’ve got Din in the hull, everyone is safe, and yet—

It flickers into existence all at once.  One second it’s just space, just the endless depths of nothingness spread out for light years in front of you, and within the blink of an eye it’s suddenly there.

A star destroyer.

Your body freezes in horrified awe, having never seen a ship so fucking big in your entire life.  It looks like a massive satellite, the size of an enormous asteroid instantly appearing in your vision and dwarfing the vastness of space around it.  All the stars you used to dream about are suddenly blotted out within a fraction of a second, terror so immense seizes your soul that you stop thinking.  You stop calculating, you stop being yourself for a split second that lasts an entire lifetime.

Before you can move a single muscle, the computer beeps quickly and lurches the Crest into hyperspace.

---

The stars streak across the transparisteel like so many times before.  Utter silence nearly deafens you with how abrupt it is after so much noise, but the peace it used to bring does nothing to quell your fear.  Everything is the same as it always was, same bursts of light as you hurdle faster than it towards Nevarro, same quiet, same rumbling hum of the ship.  But now, everything has changed.

You hear the quarry next to you suddenly inhale and exhale loudly, and it shocks you a little bit, reminds you that there’s a person next to you and another is on your lap.  Other people exist outside of the vision of death that just flickered out of existence just as quickly as it appeared.  They’re breathing, Oshua is shakily unbuckling his seatbelt, life is continuing on in the quiet cockpit but you can’t seem to move like he is.  You can’t seem to breathe like he is.  It’s only when the baby slowly maneuvers himself around on your thigh and blinks up at you, placing a tiny hand on your stomach that you finally feel air enter your lungs.

After a moment, you reach down and click open your seatbelt with trembling fingers, scooping the kid up in your arms and slowly attempting to stand.  Everything feels wobbly and dreamlike, you have to brace yourself on the headrest to prevent yourself from falling back into the chair again.

“That was…” Ryler mutters, his voice sounding foggy and distant, “uh.  A close one.”

You look over at him, recognizing that he’s speaking but not quite able to understand the words right now.  Red catches in your vision, and you blink down at the way he’s clutching his left shoulder, the smear of blood darkening the white armor he’s wearing.  You blink a few more times at the sight of it, and though it feels like you normally would be sickened at the wound, somehow shocked out of your state of shock, it does nothing to you.  When you look back up at his face, his expression seems strangely grateful, even when it’s screwed up in what you know must be excruciating pain.    You did that, a quiet voice whispers in your mind, even though the rest of it seems incredibly blank.

Instead of responding, you stumble a few steps over to the ladder, spinning around and hesitating for a moment.  You’re severely lacking in coherent thought, but one thing seems to break through.  You’re not sure if you have enough coordination to do this safely right now.  However, when there’s movement in your peripheral and you look to see Oshua gently offering his right arm to you, seeming to understand you’d like to use both hands for this, you snap back to your senses just the slightest bit and hug the baby tighter to your chest.  Carefully, you begin making the slow climb down the ladder with the kid, still trembling with the aftershocks of adrenaline.  Your limbs feel extra heavy, but eventually the floor meets your feet.

Din is standing there when you slowly turn around, armor gleaming and still as a statue, but he has his back to you.  His helmet is tilted down at the ground, and when you follow his gaze, you’re met with the sight of the bloodstains of dragged bodies that leave dark red streaks all the way up the ramp.

You feel something this time.  It’s… cold.  A burning, searing cold that creeps into your skin.  Like your heart decides to pump nitrogen through your chest instead of warm blood.  You did that.

There’s a sudden urge inside of you to speak, to address him and inform him of your presence, tell him everything is okay, everything worked out, but you can’t find it in yourself to say a single word.  You can’t find a single word to say.  The kid twists as best he can in your clutch, his ears drag against your chest to greet his father, but for some reason, there’s still a strange sense of fear in your bones.  It’s enough to wake you up slightly, it’s enough to tell you it’s not over yet.  There’s a terror in your heart that hasn’t left since he first called over the comm and begged you to run, a crippling dread that you thought climaxed after seeing that star destroyer appear, but it’s somehow only increased after laying eyes on him like this.

You watch as his helmet turns, slowly meeting the pauldron on his shoulder, and for some reason, you feel yourself harden.  Your feet brace against the metal floor like this is another threat you have to face, you let its unyielding metallic strength transfer up through the souls of your boots to your heart in your chest.

But the second you hear cheap white armor clatter as the quarry steps down the ladder behind you, Din bursts into movement.  He suddenly spins and storms up to you in one single step while catching your holstered blaster on your hip.  It’s out and aimed in the blink of an eye, and it’s a miracle you remember how to speak before he remembers how to kill.

“Mando—” you warn, just in time for the quarry to land on the floor of the hull and turn around to reveal his face.

Din holds there for a second, his helmet locked on Oshua’s features.  His gloved fingers twitch wildly on the trigger of your gun held over your shoulder, like he has to remind himself multiple times not to.  You hear Oshua’s armor clack while he likely raises one good arm in surrender, but then Din’s helmet moves a fraction of a millimeter to your face and holds there.  He just stares down at you, and the air feels heavy, your body feels heavy, the feather light child in your arms feels heavy.

Slowly, he lowers his arm, lets it fall while he continues looking at you from behind the visor.  You look back at him, unblinking, unfeeling, and there’s a few seconds that last an utter eternity where nobody moves.  Nobody speaks, nothing happens, but then a soft coo comes from your arms before you can finally break eye contact, knowing there are still some things that need to be done.

You eventually turn around and lift your chin to address Oshua.

“You have to go into carbonite,” you inform him quietly.  Your voice sounds strange, like it’s coming from outside of yourself.  “We’re taking you to Nevarro, and then you’ll be transported to your home planet. When they unfreeze you, your sister will be there to collect you.”

He looks uncertain, one hand still raised while the other hangs uselessly at his side, and you don’t blame him.

But you also don’t feel like saying anymore, not unless he decides he doesn’t want to go in willingly.  Normally you might’ve tried to empathize, offer him further reassurance beyond just a couple short sentences, but you don’t.  Speaking feels difficult, thinking feels difficult.  You’re still in survival mode, not active but reactive.  There’s also no reason for you to lie to him about this, and you can see him glance at Din standing silently behind you, who hasn’t moved a muscle.

He eventually nods and you walk him over to the chamber without another word, watch him turn to face you as he backs into the opening while you reach up towards the control panel.

But then there’s a moment.  One where you hesitate slightly, one where your vision flashes back to the sight of those bloodstains on the floor, and that burning cold fills you again, so cold it feels completely numb.

“I’m… sorry,” you whisper quietly to him, though your voice sounds so empty.  There’s so much emotion that should be there but isn’t, so much regret and pain that should break through but can’t.  “I’m sorry I… killed your friends.”

Later, you’ll think about how you felt absolutely nothing saying it.  Your heart doesn’t constrict with remorse at the mere words leaving your mouth, guilt doesn’t flood into your soul, pain doesn’t wrack through your bones.  You could’ve been saying anything at all and nobody would be able to tell the difference.

He blinks at you, flicking his eyes between yours for a second or two, but then you press the proper button and watch the gas quickly freeze him where he stands.  He’ll be conscious the entire time, but Karga will send him to the correct location and you have no doubt that this elemental purgatory is leagues better than where he just escaped from.  It’s a benefit being the last quarry to be retrieved—he’ll only have to spend a few days trapped in here before being reunited with his family.

When that’s done and Oshua is a complete statue in front of you, bulky white armor now colored a dull metallic gray and frozen in time, you will yourself to finally turn around to face the enormous mountain of a presence behind you.  The baby gently reaches out for him, but Din doesn’t move from where he’s stood.  Your blaster is still clutched tightly in his hand, and he isn’t looking at you.

Slowly, you walk over and stop directly in front of him in the middle of the hull, blinking at him while the helmet subtly moves to lock onto your face.  The kid begins wiggling in your arms, making soft impatient noises while you both stand in complete silence across from each other.

After a few moments, you hear him flick your blaster’s safety on by his side and then toss it carelessly to the ground.  It skids along the floor, light enough to be mostly quiet.  Gloves reach out as he carefully takes the kid from you and settles him in the crook of one arm, and then he looks you up and down, still not saying anything.

Your eyes follow his movement, watching his arm slowly reaching out to you, and you think he’s going to cup your jaw, or brush your hair back.  Give you some sort of physical reassurance since he hasn’t spoken a single word of it.

Instead, Din suddenly grabs the armor clinging to your chest and starts ripping it off you with one hand.  It clangs to the floor so loudly in the silence of hyperspace, the kid’s ears twitch and flutter with each shattering bang.  You hold still while he does it, you barely respond except the unavoidable movement your body experiences as the pauldron is yanked from your shoulder and thrown against the ground.  The ammo belt is tugged over your head and hurled away, the thigh braces are snatched from your legs and they clang to the floor, and the pearly, opalescent fabric revealed underneath is stained in dead man’s blood, rusty and in such great quantities that it shows up as brown instead of red.

“Are you hurt?”

He sounds… dead.  So monotonic that you can’t possibly gauge his emotional state.  He doesn’t move.   His fists don’t clench, he says every single word like it means the same exact thing as the last.  If nothing at all was a person who could speak, they’d use his tone of voice.

“No,” you eventually whisper.

The helmet nods once, and then he spins around and walks away without anything else.  Without saying anything, without touching you, or double checking you for injuries in case you were lying.  You stand utterly still while Din climbs the ladder with the kid cradled in one arm, and you don’t even flinch when the door to the cockpit slides shut behind him.  You have no idea how long you stand there in the splitting silence afterwards, numb and unmoving.

You feel… nothing.  Absolutely nothing.

The hard defenses you strapped to yourself today to reconcile the things you had to do are still high and strong, guarding your soul even if he stripped away your physical armor.  Self preservation is still animating your body, and your facial expression barely changes.  Your first thought, as soon as you remember that you can have one, is that there are things that still need to be done.  Tasks to complete.

Alone, you shower the lingering traces of blood off your body, the normally clear and refreshing water running a sickly, toxic brown.  Alone, your stomach rolls and suddenly decides to empty itself of the very little that was in it as the scalding drops rain down over you—mostly liquid and bile that easily rinses down the drain.  The water is too warm, it beats down on you like blazing hot sand pelting your skin in the desert.  You feel like you did those first few months with Din, where the silence was suffocating, where you’d only interact with the baby if he was on a hunt or if you could tell he didn’t know how to calm him when he was fussy.  If you were in hyperspace, you usually spent time by yourself in the hull while he lived in the cockpit, and if he decided he needed to be in the hull for whatever reason, then you’d trade places with him.  It was… isolating.  Lonely by yourself.  The quiet used to haunt you before it became your cherished friend, but now it’s a betrayer, a ghost that whispers memories and nightmares in your ears.

When you finally finish rinsing the blood from your skin and get dressed, you see the sheets that used to make up your bed now have fried holes in them from your charred plasma marks, the inside of the hull is covered in them and the trails of dried blood where you dragged the bodies down the ramp.  Your armor is still strewn about the hull, the kid’s hovering shield lays dead in the corner.  Everything you meticulously cleaned and organized and collected and created, now the scene of a bloodbath.  One committed by your hand, your blaster still laying uselessly on the floor forever linked to this atrocity.

You spare a glance towards the ladder, but you don’t want to come face to face with Din yet.  You already knew he’d be furious, but… you had hoped that he’d at least…

What?  At least what?  Comfort you?  Coddle you after you deliberately ignored his instructions?  What exactly, in the past year or so of learning Din’s inner workings and intricacies, would ever give you the impression that he’d come give you a big hug after you purposefully defied him?  You flew the kid directly into an imperial base after being told to protect him, you ignored every order he gave to you in the moments he thought would be his last, and though you did it to save his life, you have a feeling that Din has never valued his life even a fraction of what you do.

The misery stabs at your soul, but your mind is finally beginning to process things logically.  He’s alive, the kid is alive, the quarry is secure, and you’re all onboard the safety of this ship hurtling through hyperspace where nobody, not even the Empire, can touch you.  You weighed the consequences before making your decision, you did what you had to do.  If he wants to be mad, then he can fucking well be mad and you’ll find some way to comfort yourself.  At least he’s here being mad, at least he’s alive and safe and breathing and mad, and your rare act of disobedience is to thank for that.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you realize it’s probably easier than it should be to reconcile the punishment.  Right now, you welcome the exclusion, the negativity and sorrow beating itself into your soul.  Four innocent people died today on this ship, gunned down under your blaster while they panicked and ran for cover.  You keep hearing their screams.

So you start to clean up the hull, needing another task to focus your thoughts on.  You work to erase every inch of the evidence of your deeds, make it disappear like the pool of blood Din once cleaned up while you were sleeping and never acknowledged again.  You only allow the bloodstains to fuck with your head for a single moment, and then you swallow back the nausea until you’re a blank slate again and sink to your knees with a rag in your hand.  After that, your vision stops focusing and it just becomes red contrasting against gunmetal gray, and you work tirelessly to get rid of all remaining traces of it.

Then you start on the blaster marks, you need them gone.  After a few informed attempts at mixing cleaning chemicals, you find one concoction that allows you to wipe them away like they’re nothing more than dirt that got tracked in.  The Crest’s oxygen recycling system works overdrive to constantly purify the air so you don’t get high or pass out, but your nose still stings.  It’s fine, it’s sterile, it burns a bit but it smells sharp and metallic and keeps you hyper focused on the task at hand.

After that’s done, you pick up the charred blankets and ball them up to throw into the trash vent.  You don’t feel anything as you do it.  You don’t think about how long it took you to collect these over months and months of being stuck on this ship, how comfortable they were when everything else was industrial and rigid, how many nights you spent with Din curled up in their softness while he breathed easy and warm.  Sheets are just luxuries, they can afford to be lost.

Next, you gather your armor and wipe it down with the rag, put it away along with your blaster.  The stained robe goes in the trash, along with the sheets and the blood soaked cloth you used to clean everything.  They’re all ruined, you’ll never be able to make them right again.

The hull is sparkling clean when you decide to take another shower.  Nothing on you is dirty except your hands, but you feel filthy.  Wrong, cold, numb, cold, stained, cold.

After scrubbing your skin raw under the water and changing clothes again, since you don’t really know what to do with yourself anymore, you slowly climb the ladder to the cockpit, keeping perfectly silent.  When you reach the upper platform and come face to face with the closed door, you can just barely hear Din’s whispered voice speaking quietly to the baby beyond it.

You raise your hand for a moment, hovering your knuckles over the metal, but then it eventually falls.  Instead, you look over and spot the corner, the same corner Din bunched himself into when he snapped at you for even suggesting going on a hunt with him, blew up at you for the mere notion of something happening like what happened today.  You back yourself into it in defeat and slowly sink down on the floor, resting your head against the metal and hugging your knees to your chest since you don’t have a tiny baby to take their place.

You can’t sleep.  You don’t even try, it’s pointless.  The concept feels foreign the longer you sit here by yourself.  You don’t hear Din or the baby anymore, but you feel… so fucking awful that it’s fitting that you don’t knock or go looking.  You don’t want to hold that sweet child with hands that were covered in blood just a few hours ago.  You killed more people than you can count on your fingers today, and of the ones who had done nothing wrong…  They screamed like younglings, ducked for cover and were able to fire off one single useless shot in the mayhem before you closed their eyes forever and left their bodies to rot in armor that wasn’t ever their choice to wear.

You didn’t know they were kidnapped and smuggled and forced into that situation.  You couldn’t have known, but that isn’t the point.  In this case, knowing doesn’t make one bit of difference.

You also can’t face Din yet, not like this.  You don’t want him to see you cowering, shattered with guilt over the decisions you made under pressure.  How will you ever get him to forgive you for not listening to him when you can’t even forgive yourself for the result of your choices?  Din is a hardened man who grew up in blasterfire and bloodshed, just because you love him doesn’t mean he’s going to magically become someone he isn’t.  You’re here letting guilt sink sharp claws into your chest over four dead men when he had a good fifty or more corpses scattered on the battlefield around him.  You decided to wear that armor, you decided to fly into an imperial base with the kid on your lap, and this is now your penance.  You’ll accept it with your back straight and your chin held high.

Figuratively, of course.  Physically, you’re smaller than you’ve ever been.  Crumpled up into a ball, taking up as little space as possible, curling up as tight as you can like an animal protecting all your vulnerable parts during a brutal attack.

So, since he isn’t here to comfort you himself, you just try to think about what he would tell you.  A long time ago, what would he tell you?

Din would tell you… that you killed someone.  Multiple people, this time.  He’d also tell you that it doesn’t matter what he tells you, what you could have reasonably foreseen or what you should have done.  The end result won’t change.  You own this now.  You’ll carry their deaths with you.

You take a few deep breaths, self-soothing with the undeniable truth that would be murmured matter of factly from his quiet voice.  He wouldn’t argue with you.  He wouldn’t deny the decisions you made or the consequences of them.  It happened, and at the end of the day, you either learn how to handle that, or you don’t.

And, for the four you did shoot, you were responsible for freeing ten times that amount.  You’re responsible for reuniting Oshua Ryler with his family, even if your place in yours is momentarily shunned.  You’d rather be out here alone than in there with the kid, wondering where his dad is or if he’s even still alive.  You rescued Din and now he gets to be here to shut this door on you, hold his son, and whisper calm reassurances to him.  If you listen really hard and imagine, you can pretend they’re for you, too.

That’s it.  Focus on them both, alive and well together.  Focus on the bodies wearing white armor that were moving, the ones that were bolting away from the imperial training base as fast as they could, free from the torture of imprisonment and conditioning.

Finally, you close your eyes and slip into unconsciousness.  It’s not a testament to your exhaustion, but rather just how long you’ve been left to sit here by yourself.  Hours, maybe.  Time is strange in hyperspace.

You dream of a faceless man ringing bells.

---

When you wake up, a small baby has been placed in your arms, and you’re being dragged into a strong, secure beskar hold on the floor.

“Din,” you suddenly lift your head as soon as you’re conscious and nearly bonk it into solid metal, apologies rising in your throat before you even remember where you are.  You did what needed to be done to keep your family alive and together and you’d do it a thousand times again if necessary, but that doesn’t mean you won’t apologize anyways.  After the deeds you’ve committed today, regret feels as natural on your lips as speaking your own name.  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I know you’re mad at me but I—”

“Shh,” he whispers, running his gloves through your hair.  He’s still wearing his helmet, he hasn’t taken anything off yet.  “Don’t say anything.  Just… stay here, stay right here with me.”

“I tried to save you,” you croak, tears instantly flooding your eyes.  You did save him.  You saved him and the baby and yourself but you’re so physically and emotionally exhausted that all you can recall is your intent.  “I tried.  Wasn’t gonna leave you there by yourself.  I tried to be brave, like you—y-you wouldn’t have left without me.”

His arms tighten around you, cradling you in such a strong embrace that you burrow into him, you find a place for your head on the hard metal strapped to him and bury yourself there, wishing that you had shovels of dirt being piled on you to justify the death you still feel staining your soul.  Your heart is starting to pound now that you’re remembering, your body is starting to shake with tremors of shock now that you’re aware of your own skin again.

“I was so sc-scared, Din, I didn’t—didn’t know what was happening,” you lament through watery eyes, gasping it out in hopes that it’ll relieve the slightest bit of the gut wrenching guilt just mercilessly crushing you.  It caught you before you could protect yourself against it, that armor you built around yourself isn’t on when you first wake up.  “I-I didn’t want to kill them, but they were already on the ship and y-you said—you said they were coming after the kid s-so I had to, I had to—”

“Stop,” Din whispers, voice so quiet that you can barely hear him.

“I-I cleaned up the blood,” you turn your face against the cold beskar to let all the positives you listed for yourself before scrape across your throat.  They don’t sound comforting anymore, they just sound like excuses.  “It’s gone, it’s like it never happened, everything is okay now, I got the quarry, I protected the baby, I saved a bunch of people, you’re both safe—”

“Stop,” he chokes out.  The modulator cuts off before you can hear his next breath, but you feel it shudder under your body.  “St-Stop it, please.”

Your eyes clench shut so tightly you feel like the streaking stars outside are behind them, tears drop down against his pauldron and you press your face tighter to it like it’s a wound, like the pressure will somehow ease the bleeding.

“Listen to me,” he says very quietly, and you instantly brace yourself.  The walls you just let down shoot right back up, your body physically tightens in preparation for another pain, another trauma, another scar you’ll carry, and you stop shaking.  You stop breathing, even when his hand comes up to ease your face away from his armor.

“You,” he whispers, holding your chin so you’re staring right at him, and your eyes flick fearfully in between his behind the visor, “are a sweet girl.”  Din’s leather thumb brushes along your skin, dragging over the tears below your puffy eyes.  “Not,” his voice catches, “a Mandalorian.”

Your heart goes cold.  Again, everything turns numb.  It doesn’t matter that you already said this yourself out loud earlier today.  It doesn’t matter that you acknowledged this fact, verbally insisted it more than once to hammer home the truth and felt some sense of comfort in it.  For some reason, hearing the words from his mouth is a fucking knife to your chest.

“I taught you how to fight, how to shoot a blaster,” he murmurs, thumb catching every single tear that continues to fall as he speaks.  “I taught you everything I know, everything that’s been taught to me.  I taught you how to defend yourself, how to protect yourself when you’re in danger.  I gave you your blaster, I gave you my armor, I gave you everything I could give you to keep you safe.  And when I thought you were ready, I let you loose on Sanctuary II.  Do you know why I did that?”  The helmet tips forward the slightest bit at the question, probing deep into the most shattered part of your heart.  “After all those months of fighting, and shooting, and training, do you know why I told you to run?”

You blink silently at him, a shaky breath quaking through you, and your expression wants to crumple under the reprimand.  You’re so fragile right now, taking hit after hit after hit to the softest parts inside you, and you want to just give up.  Let the guilt and remorse take you, let it wash you away.  But then, instead…

There’s a flicker of something inside you.  Something strong, endlessly strong, and it makes you want to revolt against what he’s saying.  It replaces the hurt and fear and desperation for comfort with a strange sense of insurgence, like it did earlier when you were hiding behind a boulder, cowering and trembling and not wanting to die.  You’re filled with a quiet urge to defend yourself in the face of this, stand up for yourself and refuse to be beaten down any longer.

“Because you needed to know how to escape danger,” he answers himself when you don’t.  “You needed to know how to disappear, how to outsmart any pursuer and find safety, even the trained ones.  Especially the trained ones.  Anything else was meant to be your last resort.  Not your choice.  Not something you chose.”

“I couldn’t leave you,” you admit to him quietly, voice shaky and tears still coming even as you try to speak up for yourself.  The regret you carry has nothing to do with this, and you decide right now that you won’t feel bad for saving him.  Your hurt comes from the meaningless things, the ones without any need whatsoever, not the necessary ones, and you tried.  You repeated his words to yourself over and over again, told yourself to run, told yourself to get to Nevarro, and it wasn’t going to happen.  “I couldn’t do it.  It wasn’t a choice.”

“It was,” he tells you.  He says it softly, whispers it like it’s the gentlest thing in the world, but the power and inherent distance of the armor strapped to his body finds its way into the words.  “And it was the wrong one.”

“What was I supposed to do?”  You ask, just a hint of that rebellion swimming to the surface now, rising out of the waves of self doubt, the one that feels like a spine growing in your back, an energy coursing through your veins that makes your heart start to beat faster.  Din’s hand slowly drops from your cheek but you don’t care.  “Was I supposed to run away and just let you die?”

“Yes.”  It’s quick and blunt and completely emotionless.  Delivered like a punch to the vulnerable parts of yourself he taught you how to protect, and the utter silence following this single word is comparable to the physical pain you learned to defend against.  It jabs hard against everything good and sweet and tender inside of you, and you’re left speechless even as he continues impassively.  “That’s exactly what you were supposed to do.”

It takes a second, but then that unfamiliar feeling suddenly surges up, breaches with the power of an entire ocean.  Your voices may be nothing more than whispers in the dark, you may be clinging to each other, holding each other with the softest, gentlest love in your hearts, but the strength of your conviction on this would rip metal apart.

“No.”  The word holds the might of your entire being, and it stands alone and defiant in the face of everything you fear, everything that threatens you, him, and this child.  Never.  You’ll die before that happens.  “I love you, and there’s nothing in this galaxy that would ever make me do that.  Not fear, not danger, not the Empire, nothing.  Not even you.”

Din stares at you.  His visor reflects your hardened expression back to you, the force in your soul and the purpose in your eyes, and you don’t even realize the gravity of what you just said because like your love for him, gravity is a constant.  It’s a fundamental truth cemented into the rules that govern your actions and it stays true no matter where you are, no matter what terror you face, or how scared you become.  You have him, you have this little boy in your arms, and if that’s all you have, then you have everything.

After an eternity of this, of feeling his eyes pierce deep into you from behind the helmet while you refuse to wither under his stare, you watch him slowly turn and look down, landing on the sleepy child tucked between you both.  He holds there for a long time, before finally whispering, so quiet that the modulator barely picks it up, “It was the wrong choice.”

You stay quiet.  It happened.  What’s done is done, you can’t change the past.  He can scold and reprimand you about this as much as he wants, but you did the right thing and that decision is the only reason he’s even here to be able to do so.  This exhausted child was reunited with his father because of your choices, and this exhausted father was reunited with his child.  You won’t argue anymore, but it’s a certitude that lives deep in your heart now, builds a home there right alongside the both of them.  Din eventually looks up, his eyes find yours again behind the visor, and his hand rises once more to gently cup your jaw.

“I… thought I’d enjoy seeing you in my armor,” Din finally whispers.  It’s not what you expected, but his voice sounds… weak.  Broken.  “You wore mine once before, and it was…”  He brushes his thumb along your cheek, and then his head shakes slightly, pushing the thought away.  “It wasn’t real.  It didn’t fit.  It dwarfed you, it made you look out of place, it made everything soft and innocent about you stand out.  I liked it because it wasn’t real.”

“Was it… really that bad?”  You whisper back, partially to ease the tension just slightly but quickly breaking eye contact with him when you realize it doesn’t land correctly, it just sounds self conscious and sad.  You try to find that conviction again, that strength and assurance that propped you up so sturdily before, but…  Not a Mandalorian, he’d said.  Of course not.  Of course not.

“It wasn’t the armor.”  Din gently tugs up on your face so that you look at him again.  “It was you covered in blood.  It was you purposefully putting yourself in danger.  You killed multiple armed soldiers of the Empire, you dragged their bodies off the ship.  And then you flew into an imperial base, where you killed the officers, too.  You…”  He shakes his head slowly at you while speaking, and although you can’t see his face, you don’t need to in order to hear the horror in his voice.   “You… collected a quarry… in the middle of a massacre, sweet girl.”

Not a Mandalorian.

“You don’t chase down bounties,” he tells you.  “You don’t fly into war zones.  You don’t kill imperials, you don’t collect quarries, you don’t sacrifice yourself, or our son, to save me.  You said you tried to be brave… like me.”  His fingers tighten against your cheek, he dips his helmet to make sure you understand.  “I’ll never ask you to be brave.  I’ll ask you to survive.”

“I’m… sorry,” you finally whisper, and his arm drops from your cheek to join the other in wrapping around you and holding tight.  They hug you and squeeze, encasing you and the baby in a beskar shield and staying there for a long time.  Long enough for you to tuck your head back into its proper place under his helmet, long enough to start to feel okay with the silence again.  It brutalized you the last time you were surrounded by it, it made you feel alone and desolate and barren inside.  You greet it warily now, settling into it for an unknown amount of time until it’s forgiven once more.

After a while, Din quietly breaks it.

“How many?”  He murmurs to you.  You already know exactly what he’s asking, there's no more clarification necessary on his behalf.

You slowly close your eyes and think back to the smoldering craters, the blood soaked ramp, the fear in Oshua Ryler’s eyes as he begged you not to kill him.

“That didn’t deserve it?”  You ask, clenching your eyes tighter at the memory.  “Four.”

And maybe, maybe six or eight months ago, you would’ve begged for some guidance on how to reconcile that.  Hell, maybe a few hours ago, you could’ve used his arms around you exactly like this, his low voice repeating the same things he’s already told you before, over and over again, if only for some semblance of stability when everything feels turbulent and uncertain.  You’ll never be able to change it, though.  This belongs to you now.

This time, all Din says is, “I’m sorry, too.”

And that covers everything.

The silence envelops you both again, but… there’s something else.  Something that still sits deep in your worries, an image that isn’t a scar of what’s happened but a dread of what’s to come.  You need to tell him.  You don’t feel like saying it, you don’t want to speak it aloud for fear of bringing it into existence, but you need to tell him.

“Din?”  You breathe out, and he makes a soft noise in his throat while cuddling you on the floor.  “I saw…,” you whisper, every word sitting tight and reluctant in your throat.  “Right when we made the jump, I was looking through the window and I-I saw…”

“A star destroyer.”  He says it like… like it’s the worst thing in the world and also completely expected at the same time.  He says it like he already knew, yet can’t even imagine.  You lean every bit of your weight against him since you can’t hold him in return, squish him as best you can against the small corner and curl up even tighter in his arms for comfort.

He takes a deep breath, a shuddery sound you don’t think you’ve ever heard him make before.  It holds untold anxiety, unsaid conflict, uncertain action, an unknown path forward.

“I don’t know what to do,” Din eventually whispers to himself, to you, to the baby in your arms.  His voice is barely a breath through the modulator, his fingers digging into your skin with how many emotions he’s repressing.  “What do I do?”

He sounds so distressed that you automatically feel your soul find the floor—instantly, you become steady and calm and you locate all that rationality that kept you going today.  All your worries still twist deep down, all the guilt and the turmoil wrestles with your soft, easy nature until you can only find bits and pieces of it in the most vulnerable places inside you, but if he’s struggling this terribly, then the least you can do is offer some good, true, unwavering faith in times of uncertainty.  You’re in hyperspace, everything worked out, and it’s going to stay that way for right now.  If he doesn’t know how to talk about it yet, then you trust him enough to wait for him.

“It’ll be okay,” you tell him with a newfound confidence and purpose, carefully easing the baby into one arm so that the other can find its way to the other side of his helmet and pull him closer.  Din tucks his head and allows you to brush your lips against the metal, whisper the words soft and steady to him.  “We’ll figure it out together.”

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@cptnbvcks thank you so much for the incredible art!