#i would just love to stop feeling so fucking suicidal and just bone deep exhausted and negative with myself

[frogbi]

.

[whirlybirbs]

— CAN'T WE BE SEVENTEEN? ; shoto todoroki ; 焦凍

summary: he's loved you since he was seventeen. pairing: f!reader x pro hero!shoto ; reader was a 1-A student tags: mutual pining, heavy make-out, thinly veiled sugar daddy shoto, reader does not go pro, touya might be a dick but he's a hero now, shoto is bad at feelings wordcount: 5.6k a/n: i do not fucking know what came over me, enjoy your food my little todorokinas. yes the title is what you think it is. no i will not elaborate.

You never did go pro.

Truthfully, you thought there would be more pushback when, in your senior year, you announced your plan to pursue a degree in early childhood education with a focus on non-conforming quirk development. 

The War changed a lot. It changed you, your classmates, and the world. But, through it all one thing stuck with you:

What if someone helped Tenko Shimura?

How different would his life have been? How different would history have spun? 

You graduated at the top of your class and joined the faculty at Chiba Prefectural Preparatory School for Quirk Specialties two years ago. 

Chiba Prep was opened eight years ago in response to a societal cry for more infrastructure around what was dubbed "non-conforming quirks": a nice way to say quirks that can injure, maim, or kill. Maybe even all three on a bad day. Some parents still see their child being labeled as a non-conforming quirk user in the national database as akin to social suicide. 

You see it differently.

Your quirk allows you to manipulate emotions — anger, sadness, betrayal, love, hatred. If you can feel it, you can sink it into another's psyche deep enough to drive them to act. You can even imbue things with feelings. For example, a cup of warm milk can transform into more than just a simple comfort, now it can hold the feeling of home and safety, or even exhaustion strong enough to put even the biggest foe to rest. 

You could easily use your quirk with nefarious intent. 

You could steep hatred in someone's bone so deep it drives them to harm themselves. You could sew fury so solid into someone's mind it drives them to violence. 

Just a touch and you can control others with something so intrinsically personal it only exists within themselves: their feelings.

What makes you any different from little Asuke, a shy little girl with a quirk that allows her to see people's greatest fears, and then manifest and control them? You're convinced she can use this for good, if only with practice. In your mind, her future is bright and glimmering. Perhaps she will become a therapist, focusing on exposure therapy? Or, maybe the most prolific horror novelist in their time? 

Or, bright and sunny Tao — a transplant whose parents sought out Chiba Prep's specialized education — whose heteromorphic quirk makes his bodily fluids, namely saliva, eat through nearly anything but his own biologics. A sneeze is quickly the most dangerous thing in the world for the cheery, lizard-bodied class clown. 

He's just a boy given a quirk that needs more care. 

He isn't a villain-in-training. 

None of them are.

It's important to teach them that young — and as their teacher for Year 3 of their elementary schooling, you aim to hammer that in as much as possible. They deserve to feel normal. To feel loved and supported. They aren't scary, they're children. 

So, you take it upon yourself to insist on pushing for privileges like field trips. There aren't many public spaces that welcome the classes of Chiba Prep with open arms. Over the years, there have been plenty of incidents. But, a day trip into the city to visit Tokyo's Hall of Heroes is green-lit with bubbling excitement from both faculty, the children, and their parents. 

You usually keep your history as a graduated member of Class 1-A quiet. 

After all, you never did go pro.

And even still, Shoto Todoroki never stopped thinking about you.

He remembers that weekend everyone moved back in for their last year before graduation. He remembers you smiling at him, and helping him drag up a duffel of luggage from the common room to his dorm. You made a joke about how you're sure he got taller over the summer, and how his hair is longer now. You said you liked it. 

It was the beginning of the end, then.

His crush was a silent, smothering thing. It made it hard to think. Shoto had enough on his plate thanks to Touya's acceptance into the Villain Rehabilitation Program and his father's insistence on staving off retirement. Not to mention his parent's divorce — no matter how amicable, it was still a separation. Add on training, tests, studying, finals, and j-term classes... And a desperate, writhing, burning crush on the nicest girl in class? 

Touya's elbow digs into Shoto's side.

It drags him back to reality — to the stifled quiet of the historical Hall of Heroes. 

Suddenly, the doors to the wing squeak open, and a tour guide ushers in the elementary school class. The buzzing excitement and wonder are visible on each of their faces as the attendant — one of the HoH's lead tour guides — excitedly explains the newest, in-progress addition to the Hall:

Endeavor's wing. 

There's a whisper of awe that ripples through the children as their teacher and co-teacher follow, and as the class moves through the large, open space. They're staring up eagerly at the gilded statue in the center of the room. It's larger than life and intimidating. Years ago, Shoto might have had to fight the odd tremble in his knees at the reminder it brings: to be small in his father's shadow again. But, things are different now. 

Very different.

Touya scoffs. "I thought this wing wasn't open to the public yet."

"They're just children," Shoto hums, turning his back on the gaggle across the way to inspect the large mural winding along the back end of the installation, "I'm sure it's—"

"Oh, ho, no way!"

Shoto quirks his brow at his brother's outburst. His elbow digs into Shoto's ribs again. 

"Ain't that the pretty girl you never got the balls to ask out your senior year?" comes the rasped drawl of his older brother's voice. Touya is clearly amused, his white hair hanging in his eyes as he leans forward to squint, "She is cute, Sho'—"

"Shut up," Shoto grits, turning his head over his shoulder; he tries to bite back the flurry of nerves that ignite in his gut, "Stop talking."

It is you.

You look... good. 

Happy. 

You're crouched by a small, timid girl in the back of the crowd. Your hand is in hers, and you're pointing upwards at the large paneled screens replaying Endeavor's most historic fights. You're explaining something to her, your knees bent as you squat. You look... the same. As if in the six years since they graduated, you sat still in time. 

For a second, it's like he's seventeen again.

It's his senior year, and he's stuck at the corner of the gym's edge with a half-empty glass of punch in his hand. The lights are low, and there's slow music playing. His tie feels too tight. Bakugo keeps telling him to 'ask her to dance already', and Kirishima is considering bashing his head through the wall. Even Midorya is trying to persuade Shoto. 

"It's prom, man! C'mon, this could be your last chance—"

Touya is about to be a real pain in the ass — his favorite pastime — and make some comment about your ass, but when he turns to lob the one-liner at his baby brother, Shoto's gone.

Shoto is on the move.

The crescendo of gasps draws your attention first.

Then, the cry of "WOAH, IT'S SHOTO!" leaves you dumbfounded. The rippling murmur of excitement bleeds into the children as their eyes — and the eyes of the tour guide — widen at the sight of the approaching Pro Hero. 

Shoto Todoroki.

He looks... good. 

Really good.

He's a bit older, and a bit more filled out than when you were both teenagers. You can see the strength in his arms and shoulders — it's a distant echo of his father's physique, though Shoto is so much more elegant and much... prettier. He's always been.

For a second, you're seventeen again.

It's your senior year, and you're sprawled across Momo Yaoyorozu's bed.

They had finally wrangled out of you who your crush was: something they hadn't been able to do in all their years as classmates.

There's a sticky, Miss Midnight-themed face mask clinging to your expression as you try to flip through the large magazine in your hands as nonchalantly as possible. Mina's voice, as she paints Ochaco's nails a bright pink on the floor, is sweet and saccharine as she looks up at you.

"I think you and Shoto would be, like, the cutest couple ever." 

You're still crouched when the tour guide nervously — like she was caught doing something naughty — introduces The Pro Hero Shoto to the already-aware crowd of elementary school students and their teachers. It's like igniting a match; the uproar of excitement leaves you laughing as three of your boys push forward to bombard him with questions about his quirk. 

Asuke is smiling shyly, now. That's a small win. She's intrigued by the appearance of a real hero, not the "scary statues" — and her big, fat tears stopped rolling the moment you laid a gentle hand on her to quell her anxiety over the new environment with a push of comfort through your quirk. She unhooks her pinkie finger from yours as you guide her towards your co-teacher. 

"Boys," you call with a crisp air of authority as you stand and lead Asuke toward the bulk of the field trip group, "What have we learned about personal space?"

"It's fine, really, Insight," comes Shoto's voice; as warm and placid as you remember. 

"Insight?" mutters your co-teacher at the presumed hero-name; a look of confusion plasters itself on her face, and her big, feline ears perk up. She leans in to whisper in a way that borders on conspiratory, "Do you two know one another?"

"Old classmates," you confirm, not daring to get into the finer details.

Shoto's attention is entirely rooted in the way you manage the kids. There's something beautiful about the ease with which you handle the bouquet of students; you quell the excitement into a manageable decibel like it's as easy as breathing. 

"Shoto," you start as you gesture to him, "Has a very special quirk — Toyamai, he has ice like you. And, fire like Tojiro. He can regulate his temperature. Can anyone tell me what that means?"

There's a wave of hands shooting up, a few me, me, me's rise from the gaggle. 

You're using him as a teaching moment.

Shoto's smile is soft.

You nod at Ogomi, excitedly nodding as the reserved child speaks up. Normally, he hates public speaking. But, recently, he's started working with the speech pathologist during lunch. The boy bounces a little as he answers. "He doesn't g-get too hot, or too c-cold."

"Exactly! Isn't that cool?" you grin at the lazy attempt at a pun, "This is why it's important to learn about our quirks as much as we can!"

Touya thinks this whole thing is just too cute. 

You're different than he remembers — but, granted, things were sorta different last time he saw you. He was a little too busy tryna kill his old man and lil' Shoto. He's different now, too. A changed man! A real licensed hero. Support items and all. 

He hangs back. 

He... I mean, he is a jack-ass but he isn't gonna ruin this for Shoto. 

...It's kinda cute.

Just about as cute as Fuyumi said it was. 

Apparently, Shoto had opened up to her and Natsuo about his feelings after graduation — about how he regretted not doing anything about it. Fuyumi then told their mum, who then off-handedly mentioned it to Touya... and well Touya dug in because, duh, he is a whore for good gossip. He might be the family's black sheep, but Shoto is the glue that binds. 

And he deserves to be happy.

Your co-teacher is ushering the kids to the next installation — a viewing of All Might's Legacy, a new documentary following the retired pro's teaching career. It will be a good wind down for them, in comfy seats and the dark. It's hardly the sort of content an elementary school student would find riveting, but it is All Might. And they love him.

You hang back. 

Shoto's heart is hammering in his chest.

"Hey."

"Hi," you greet back, closing the door to the theater and stepping forward as you weave your arms around you, "Long time no see."

"Yea," Shoto breathes, his hands in his pockets as he meets you halfway across the museum's marble floors, "I... I see you're teaching."

His eyes are as pretty as they were back then. Slate grey and piercing turquoise. "I'm in my second year," you confirm softly, fiddling with the material of your sweater, "Congrats to your old man."

You gesture up at the statue, then wave around to the rest of the installation.

Shoto inhales, then nods; he's staring at your face, blissfully realizing you're just the way you were all those years ago. Kind. "I'll pass it along."

"How's he handling it?" you ask, your eyes raking across his expression and trying not to stick to the sharp slope of his jaw, or the bob of his Adam's apple, "Retirement, I mean."

"He's happy, I think. Touya and I are working together and... things are...  good."

Last month, Endeavor finally retired. He cited his age, and his dedication to passing his legacy to his two sons: Shoto and Touya. Shoto has planted himself firmly within the Top Ten in the last year or so, and shockingly, Touya isn't far behind. People love an underdog's redemption story, you suppose. 

And the underdog in question can read a room. 

This is getting a little too sexually tense for even him.

"Heeeeey, girl," he rasps out, staggering backward with a thumb over his shoulder, "Nice t' see ya. I'll let you two catch up, yea? I'm gonna go pop my head into the theater, see how the kids are handling the snooze fest on screen—"

You jump.

How long has he even been there?

"Hi, D— Touya," you strain, wincing a little; the rehab'd villain doesn't seem to mind.

"Hi, teach'. That cool with you?" he asks, wobbling his thumb and quirking a pierced eyebrow; it's comical, like he's trying to disarm you with humor, "Don't want you thinkin' I'm corrupting your youths—"

"It's fine," you breathe, ignoring the sting of age-old mistrust. You know better. Shoto wouldn't be here, with him, if Touya Todoroki hadn't changed. Endeavor wouldn't be entrusting his legacy to the ex-League of Villain member if he didn't believe in his capacity for good, "Just don't be disruptive."

Casting judgment on someone whose life was nearly destroyed by his own non-conforming quirk would go against everything you taught the kids anyway.

"Touya's whole thing is being disruptive," Shoto grits as his oldest brother slips silently through the doors, "I apologize for him—"

"No," you wave him off, laughing a little, "Don't. It's... nice to see you two together."

Shoto's expression is soft as he wanders a little closer. "It took time — and a lot of therapy — but we've all managed to come out the other side."

"That's great to hear, Shoto," you breathe, your eyes flitting across his face, "I'm really happy for you."

There's a long silence, then — and you can't help but ignore the roil of butterflies in your stomach. The eye contact is heavy with some unspoken thing, and both of your tongues are weighted by secrets-never-turned-confessions. 

It's like finally this dance you've been doing around one another for years breaks — and the two of you throw caution to the wind at the exact same moment. 

"Would you like to—"

"Are you free—"

Hesitant, slow grins bloom on both your faces.

"Dinner?" is all he manages after a sweet moment of soaking up your soft smile, "If you're available...?"

You make yourself available.

Yaoyorozu almost dies when you call her that night — winded from tearing through your entire wardrobe. You explained you had nothing to wear a-and you needed something nice, and you only have an hour to get ready, because Todoroki — yes, stop screaming, Todoroki — is picking you up at 8pm.

Little bro is nervous. Touya can tell. 

From his spot on the sofa, the white-haired ex-degenerate scoffs. Natsuo is digging around for some cufflinks in Shoto's dresser.

"Seriously, Sho'? A suit?" 

"It's a nice restaurant," his brother says tightly, adjusting the collar of the black button-down, "I booked the upstairs dining room for privacy." 

"Who the hell told you t' do that?" Touya quirks a skeptical brow.

"Father was the one who suggested it."

"...That old dog." 

Natsuo rolls his eyes at the exchange before throwing his hands as he emerges from the closet. "Do you have any links that aren't emblazoned with U.A. High School's crest?"

The ones in Natsuo's hands have his graduation year on them.

Shoto winces.

"Want me to ask dear ol' dog of a dad?" Touya snarks from the corner, his posture becoming less and less upright as he scrolls on his phone.

"Already did," comes the soft voice of Fuyumi; she's smiling, padding into Shoto's room with a velvet box, "He offered up his nicest pair. He also says not to screw it up with Insight. He likes her."

Of course, he likes her. You worked under Endeavor for a brief work-study period during your third year. Shoto remembers hearing grumbled praise over dinner one night about your talent for de-escalation.

"You told him who I was seeing?" Shoto asks incredulously, taking the box and working the cufflinks on. He's starting to feel exasperated.

Fuyumi nods, popping down beside Touya. 

"He asked. I'm not gonna lie to him."

"Did y' tell ma?" Touya rasps, peeking up over his phone to inspect Shoto's outfit. Not half bad, honestly. He looks good in all black. A man after his own heart, "M'sure she's gonna be real excited—"

"Yes," Shoto grumbles, "I called her earlier—"

"Chiba Prep is a really good school, y'know," Natsuo buts in as he tries to find a tie that matches Shoto's outfit. Ultimately, though, the middle brother decides against it and tosses the options over his shoulder, "They're, like, on the leading edge for quirk therapies."

"Hey, nerd? Quiet down. The big kids are gossiping," Touya shirks, turning back to Shoto, "What did mum say?" 

"She wants me to call her after—"

"One, you're gonna call mum the morning after," Touya raises a finger, "Because if you don't get laid, I'll be so fuckin' disap—"

Fuyumi slaps Touya's chest. He lets out a pained yelp at the solid smack.

"Uh, ow," he rubs his sternum. "An' two, take a deep breath. You look like you're gonna shit yourself. Those are my pants and they're expensive."

Shoto lets out a long breath. 

Fuyumi's smile is sweet like honey. "Aw, Sho'! It's gonna go great. You two have known each other for such a long time, and catching up is going to be amazing. Just be yourself! Confident and kind—"

"—Hold the door open for her, and pull her chair out," Natsuo adds as he adjusts Shoto's collar for him, "Car door, too—"

It's Touya's turn. He's dead serious. "—And do not chicken out on kissing her at the end of the night. I swear to god."

Easier said than done.

You never did go pro.

Those years of hardened battle instincts have lost their edge. You try to remind yourself this is just Shoto, not The Shoto — but you're a little lost in the whole celebrity of it all when he picks you up in a very nice, sporty little car with ENDVRplates. 

You answer the door and he forgets how to breathe.

He has flowers for you. They're blue and blooming and beautiful. 

Fuyumi's contribution. 

You settled then you were going to kiss him at the end of the night.

The restaurant is... nice. Really nice. The sort of nice you could never aspire to experience on your teacher's salary. Even the valet is a concept that has your head spinning. But, Shoto handles it all with cool ease. The entire time, his hand is settled on your lower back. 

It feels like you've been lit on fire.

You're glad Momo was able to create a dress fitting for the occasion. It's sleek and black. Comfortable, too. Not much can be said for your heels on that front, but it's fine. 

Somehow, Shoto managed to book the entire upper floor of this place in all its glimmering glory — it's just the two of you alone in a sea of tables. 

The waiter is pouring you a glass of the chef's suggested pairing of sake.

You thank him, smile, and take a sip as Shoto unbuttons his suit jacket and watches you. 

For a second, you're seventeen again.

Sero and Kirishima were always in cahoots when it came to parties back then — somehow, between the two of them, they always managed to smuggle enough booze onto campus to obliterate any semblance of promised sobriety from even the most stoic members of 1-A. 

You remember one night, after a lot of hounding, you finally gave in and joined a few of your classmates on the back lawn for a few drinks. 

A few beers turned into a cup or two of wine, and then another big gulp of whatever deranged jungle juice concoction Kaminiari managed to cook up. It tasted terrible, but you were too drunk to really care. Shoto was no better. He was nursing his fourth drink of the night — a rarity he was even drinking at all — and seemed completely fine with the way your arms brushed as the two of you sat close in the grass. 

He was always so nervous around you. Now, he just seemed... happy. 

"I can't believe there is only one week left until graduation."

Graduation day was the last time you saw him. 

Until this morning, that is. 

You smile into your drink. 

"What?" you ask when his eyes never leave your face.

His fingers twitch towards his own glass. Shoto blinks, then rolls his jaw. He was caught staring. He clears his throat, looking a bit shy. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" you press playfully, cocking your head to the side.

"You..." he starts, then bawks. You're stunning, and it's making it hard to even think straight. He thought these feelings might have mellowed out over the years but seeing you again has just reignited everything. He feels like a hormonal teenager again, "You look beautiful."

Your expression falters into something lovesick. You chew your lip. "You're not so bad yourself, Todoroki."

He manages a half-smile. "Touya had me worried the suit was a bit much."

The idea of Touya offering him advice on his outfit strikes a chord in your heart. It makes you smile even bigger than before. "Well, you can tell Touya that I like it. A lot."

You rake your eyes up and down him. On purpose.

He notices.

Shoto's face feels hot. 

He tries to shake the bone-deep want that has swept his entire body up in its grip, but it's difficult when every single word out of your mouth reminds him just how in love he was with you back in school. You explain, excitedly, why you chose to teach at Chiba Prefectural Prep and catch him up on where you've been living since graduating. He's pleased to learn you're still in the area, living in the city, and decidedly in love with the commute to the school. 

Shoto's always been a good listener — but you can see how much he's changed when he begins to speak about his career. He seems so much more sure of himself than he was all those years ago. It wasn't that he was... unsure... but, no. He was shy. Quiet.

Now, less so. 

It's adorable. 

Dinner comes and goes with conversation over sushi that is far too good for you to even process. It's easy talking to him. It was easy talking to Shoto back, then, too but... Things are different. You're both different. Not in a bad way, but in a way that feels like coming home. 

While you both wait outside for the valet, Shoto shrugs his jacket off and puts it over your shoulders without a single word. Suddenly, you're cradled in a warmth that's very Shoto — his cologne clings to the collar and you bury yourself a little deeper into it. 

Shyly, you step closer and steal his hand. It's calloused and warm. He laced his fingers with yours as if practiced. You bite back a grin. You give his hand a little squeeze when you spot the car coming around the corner.

His silence is calming — and he squeezes your hand back. When you look up at him, you realize he's already looking at you. 

His face is close. It's so... intimate. Very. Nearly better than a kiss. 

But, you've wanted to kiss Shoto Todoroki since you were seventeen. 

The valet driver interrupts the moment with a respectful call of Shoto's name and offers the keys with a shake of the hand. With a little bit of hesitancy, Shoto remembers the thing Natsuo said — the car door, too — and moves around the passenger side to open the door for you. 

It's sweet.

Really sweet. 

The car ride back to your apartment is punctuated with easy conversation — you ask him about Bakugo and Midorya, and you're pleased to hear they're both doing well. He asks about Momo, and if you still keep in touch with Mina and Ochaco. He smiles to himself when you admit you did call Momo for help with an outfit. 

"She did a beautiful job," Shoto breathes, a palm moving from the gear shift to brush over the dress' fabric on your thigh.

His hand settles there. 

Your stomach does a flip. 

You chew your lip, swallow down a sudden burst of nerves, and let your hand rest over his. You squeeze it. Shoto tries to focus on the road. His gaze drifts for a moment at a red light, his heterochromatic eyes dancing across your figure. 

Keep it together. 

He isn't seventeen.

He's twenty-five. He's a Professional Hero. One of the Top Ten in all of Japan. He's more than capable of keeping it together in the face of physical touch from the woman he's dreamed about for years. 

...Right?

Green light.

His hand is still on your thigh when he pulls up to your apartment. 

The touch is relinquished in favor of putting the sports car in park. 

It makes your chest ache.

Shoto swallows thickly.

Do not chicken out on kissing her at the end of the night.

He'll never forgive himself. But, admittedly, he's bad at this. He's not good at reading body language, or even knowing himself enough to realize he looks mildly terrified as you blink up at him in the passenger's seat. His heart is hammering a mile a minute.

What if you don't want to kiss him?

When would he even kiss you? Now? Or at the door?

Why does he feel like he's going to die?

"This was really... Shoto, are you okay?" you ask as you unbuckle your seatbelt; you pause, your brows knitting tightly. 

"What?" he asks, blinking back to the present moment. The look of fear disappears, "Sorry. Yes. I'm fine."

You're working his jacket off your shoulders, gently leaning to fold it neatly in your lap. Your voice dips low, into something playful. "You didn't look fine..."

"I—" Shoto clamps his mouth shut as he leans an elbow on the center console, "Sorry. I suppose I'm just nervous."

"Nervous?" you grin, a little giggle punctuating your words as you wriggle in the red, leather seat, "Why?"

Your expression makes his expression crack. He ducks his head as he huffs out a laugh. You continue to egg him on via expression alone. "I... Stop it."

"Stop what?" you push some more, your back pressed to the door as you face him in the car, "You're the one being weird—"

"I'm not being weird—"

"Then what's wrong, Shoto?" you tease in a sing-song voice.

"I'm nervous because I want to kiss you."

His words are punctuated by a slow look that takes in every inch of your face. Butterfly wings kiss your stomach walls. And your knees. You feel a little tremble in your chest. 

It feels like someone has sucker punched you square in the sternum. Shoto's no better. He isn't entirely sure what the expression on your face means. Is that... good? Are you happy?

Your voice is a little quieter now. You duck your head and fiddle with his suit jacket as you lean back against the seat, a little closer now. 

"You don't need to be."

Shoto's breath catches at that.

So, he makes his move.

His hand comes first — his calloused palm settles nicely against your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone as his pointer finger brushes the underside of your jaw. Shoto is slow. Methodical. It's like he's trying to ground himself in the moment. 

Truth be told, he thinks he might be blacking out.

Your eyes flit up his wrist — a dark leather band around his wrist with an expensive watch face, a dark dress shirt with glimmering cufflinks, strong arms and a broad chest, and you can see the dip of his collarbone where the top two buttons of his shirt remain undone. 

He looks so damn handsome with his sharp jaw, pretty eyes, and his trademark white and crimson hair. Even his scar is beautiful. 

The touch pulls you in like he's got his own personal orbit.  

Your elbows are braced along the center console, your eyes flicking across his face as his fingers continue to brush along the soft expanse of your cheek. You wring your fingers together. 

Then, his eyes stick to your lips.

"Can I kiss you?" he whispers, his breath fanning across your face. 

You never did go pro.

But, Shoto did. 

It shows. 

Because, at this moment, all you can do is nod feebly before you're swept into the sort of kiss people go to war for. It's the sort of kiss that sticks to your ribs, that feels like warm, fresh food. It's the sort of kiss that would drive you to the brink, that would make you nod and agree sure, let's get married and have three kids, let's name one after your father, and paint the house blue like your mother's favorite flower—

His mouth is eager, but not in an overbearing way. It's gentle. Slow. As if he needs to remind himself this is real and not some midnight fiction that leaves him aching and alone. Shoto reminds himself to be tepid, pliable, and easy, which is easier said than done when somewhere deep inside of him there's a seventeen-year-old screaming in victory. 

It's better than anything he could have ever imagined. 

And then you whimper. 

It's a sound tied between bliss and relief and it's muttered against his mouth as you lean in and let your fingers brush the fabric of his dress shirt. The tips of your fingers brush his abdomen and he flexes, the feeling foreign and warm. It warrants his other hand to drift to your face and you break for a breath; he doesn't care that there's lipstick smeared across his mouth. He's kissing you again — this time a little bit more feverish, a little bit more aching. 

You melt against him, this time your hands trembling to grip his wrists.

He needs to slow down.

He is not having sex with you in his father's car.

That's shameless.

He needs to slow down.

He has to, or he'll lose himself in this and he refuses to fuck this up. 

Shoto's breath is ragged when he finally peels himself away, his lip parted and eyes half-lidded. His grip on your face is still so soft, so gentle. It's very him. 

You're glad you didn't do this when you were seventeen.

It would have permanently altered your brain chemistry, you're sure of it. How could you ever kiss someone else again after that? 

He's rubbing your cheek with his thumb. You swallow, and try to level out your breathing. It's hard when he's still so close, when he's so... perfect. 

"I've wanted to do that," he murmurs against your cheek, "Since our last year at Yuei."

A well-kissed smile breaks across your face. You reel back, your nose wrinkling as you shake your head in disbelief. Shoto is smiling. A real smile. The sort that's so rare you can count on one hand the amount of times you've ever seen it in person. 

"Are you serious?"

"Very," he says, chastely pressing another to your other cheek as he leans back.

"Me too," you admit shyly, "Can we... do it again sometime?"

Shoto's eyes widen incrementally. Then, his smile eases back onto his face. 

"Are you free this weekend?"

"I can be," you reply easily with a honeyed look, "And I will be. For you."

"I get off patrol on Saturday around seven," he explains before asking timidly, "We could... do dinner again?"

"Works for me," you breathe as you move for the handle of the car door, "After all, I never went Pro. Weekends are free."

Shoto scoffs. 

Then, as you open the door and swing a leg out:

"Oh, and tell Touya I thought the suit sexy."

Shoto's laugh is dry. You leave his jacket on the seat and scurry into your apartment with a lovesick wave. He swears he sees the silhouette of a familiar ponytail greet you at the door, but he doesn't dwell on it. He waits until you're inside and the lights to the front door are shut off.

Then it hits him. He has another date with you this weekend. 

Not so seventeen anymore, Shoto Todoroki. 

[saidrabbles]

now i know

warnings: mentions of suicide, self-harm

part 1 | part 2

it's been several months since your encounter with the dark haired reaper, convincing yourself that it is better that way. you frequented the hidden roof garden, seeking solace from your colleagues, stress..him.

tonight was one of those dreadful nights, you could feel it in your bones. just as you entered the rm office, phones rang the stressing alarms, indicating a high risk case. heart in your throat, you rushed the other two to make it in time. unable to rationalize his choice, joong-gil found himself going after you three, wanting to make sure you don't endanger yourself again. he didn't hate how he felt like he was starting to embrace feelings more honestly.

standing in-front of a young brunette, too young to be standing this close to the edge of the bridge, her tears obstructing her view. "hello," you tried to start "leave me alone!! move the fuck away from here!" you can tell that her feelings are overwhelming her, unable to look around without frustration seeping through the thick misty air.

"i will leave if you take a deep breath for me, hm?" the brunette seemed to shift her focus to the railing and steady her standing. "feel the coldness of the iron rail?" you gently ask, your voice almost coming out as a whisper. you could see her fingers tighten around the iron as tears welled up in her eyes. "she's gone..." her sniffles grew louder "she was cold to the touch...lifeless...blood seeping through the tiles." she was sobbing at this point. you started taking cautious steps towards her.

"my only sister, i did not realize her sadness, pain in time...it's all my fault !!" "it's not your fault, it never will be" you got closer. alarmed, the brunette screamed "i have to do this! i have to jump! i have to go see her, she needs me!!" you stopped in your tracks. you tried regulating your breathing, the scene feeling all too familiar.

"but won't you be doing the same thing?" finally, the young teen turned to face you. "what would you know?" she scoffed, seeming determined. next thing joong-gil sees, is you holding onto the girl as she tries to pry her hand off of yours. he froze.

"suicide is the greatest crime you could commit, ending the chances for a loved one to help you before they even tried. do you know how hard it will be for your loved ones to go on living?? the pain never goes away. some days are bearable, others are so unbearable that they won't be able to breathe" you were screaming at this point "you've taken responsibility and carried this weight all on your own, are you confident that you won't regret this choice?" jong-gil felt knives stabbing at his heart.

with the help of your teammates, you were successful to pull her back onto the sidewalk. she cried in your arms, calling out her sister's name. feeling tears rush through your eyes, you were reminded of a similar past you can never forget.

.

as exhausting as the tears made you feel, you were hungry. you opened the door to your second home at this point, huddling snacks since you haven't eaten much since the morning. one minute you were trying to balance the food in your arms, the other was them falling altogether and you staring wide-eyed at the scene before you. there he was, in his tight-fitted suit that complimented his majestic figure. he was standing with his back to you, only to turn and look at you with those dark brown eyes...you could not decipher the look he's giving you, regret? yearning? but there was also a shine to his eyes that only seemed to grow in the dark, green setting.

.

"hey."

.

his deep, soothing voice...was he always this attractive? it must be due to detaching from your surrounding for so long that made you feel a sudden, giddy roiling in the pit of the gut. for making you feel like you want to wrap your hands around him and feel his warmth radiating through you.

.

"(y/n)?..."

.

snapping out of your thoughts that had no clear explanation to them, your face reddened as you realized that you were staring all this time. you couldn't be more thankful for the dark setting because the blush has crept from your neck to your ears and cheek.

"how did you know about this place?" you started, not liking how your voice was softer than you'd like it to be. scratching the back of his neck, he forgot to form a solid story. after all, joong-gil had seen you at your worst and he knew that would get you running as far away as you can from him "i was trying to hide from the piling papers on my table, and my wandering led me here somehow." he secretly punched the air for the nice save.

the awkwardness in the air thickened, both knowing what to say to the other. "have you eaten yet? i didn't realize how much food i'd bought until i started struggling holding them in my arms" you slightly smiled as you looked down on the pile of wrapped stuffed bread and drinks. "actually, i haven't eaten yet." he gave you a smile. he should smile more often.

and that's how you both sat down on the wooden bench, with adequate space between you as you ate in silence.

"how is your injury?" you asked him, still not really looking at him. his heart swelled. you still cared. "i'm sorry." joong-gil started as he put down the grape flavoured drink and started rubbing his hands together for warmth. "i did not mean what i said in the infirmary." "it's okay, joong-gii-" he looks at you with pleading eyes, "please" that's when you turned to him, seeing the same expression from before. you just nodded in response. he continued.

"i think you are one of the most empathetic people i've met, which was hard to grasp in the beginning. i have been in this world for so long, that i had to bury any empathy left in me. i escort elderly people who have been left on their own, veterans who fought for their countries yet ended up working harder to make a living after." he can feel your intense stare and as he turned to you, he noticed how focused you are on him, it made his heart flutter. "thus, i wasn't able to meet you eye to eye, and was trying to justify that by saying that you were weird...and...

i never understood how people seemingly gain and lose the will to live easily, but it hit me like a truck, the night on the bridge, what you said...the complex feelings engulfing your words knocked the wind out of me."

this is the most vulnerable he's ever been. unable to look at the (h/c) girl next to him, he was fiddling with a loose thread hanging from the sleeve of his white crisp shirt. you hummed, taking in all that he's said. "he was always smiling." you stared ahead, "his golden locks shined under the warm sunlight, curls bouncing around as he walked around."

you could feel the confused yet intense stare on your side, "my brother." you took in a deep, painful breath. "he was 12 when he decided that he was unlovable, worthless, wanted to rid the world of his immensely beautiful soul." you were shaking, pulling at the material of your pants to stop it when you felt a large, warm hand over yours. joong-gil's hand sent heat waves throughout your body, announcing the new yet familiar touch of another human.

you did not realize you were crying until his other hand reached gently, so gently as if your skin was made of glass, to your face as he slowly wiped away your betraying tears. you absentmindedly leaned into his hand, closing your eyes for a brief moment. "i blamed myself so much that i convinced myself that i deserved punishment." you opened your eyes to meet a softened, sad and weirdly loving pair of eyes mirroring your own (e/c) eyes. he nodded in encouragement.

"it started out by purposely missing meals, feeling the physical pain of hunger. and when that wasn't enough i," your breath hitched "i started inflicting pain on my own body. however, the pain in my heart never ceased...it felt like i had to make this useless heart of mine stop. to feel better." you realized that joong-gil was sitting much closer to you now. "my parents were devastated. my first real punishment is them finding me. my second punishment is never being able to see any one of them, ever again."

before you started crying again, you felt joong-gil pull you into him, holding you so tightly in his embrace, moving his hand in comforting circles around your back, his other hand around your waist. slowly, you put your hands around him, feeling indescribable warmth run through your veins. something about the way he held you so delicately made you melt into him, feeling a growing feeling overpowering your sadness. love. you are falling in love with the infamous reaper, devouring a side that you hoped only you would see.

you both reluctantly pulled away, still close, but just enough to look at each other. he quickly glanced at your full, plump lips before he looked into your eyes again, and he could've sworn you did the same. he slowly started closing the distance between you, giving you enough time to pull away. only you moved in too, breath hitching as your noses almost touched. he looked at you before desperately closing the distance between your lips.

your lips were like the missing pieces in a puzzle, fitting perfectly together. your tongues danced together, devouring each other. pulling away for air, he rested his forehead against yours. "i didn't know why my heart beat quicker the first time i saw you, but now i know." he looked into your soul, "i love you, (y/n). deep down, i always knew i will. i'm sorry it took me so long." breathless, you smile as you pecked his lips.

.

"i love you too, my god given solace."

.

[monstersfear]

fire in the sky // rhett & emilio

TIMING: immediately after muzzle. PARTIES: @ironcladrhett & @monstersfear SUMMARY: rightfully concerned that emilio might do something dumb if left alone following levi's confession, rhett drags his surrogate brother back to his motel room for the night. emilio is not pleased with the arrangement. CONTENT: suicide ideation, parental & sibling deaths (past events, referenced), alcoholism

Emilio was fighting for his life, that much Rhett could tell. Or maybe it’d be more accurate to say he was fighting for his death—a death that the warden would absolutely not accept. Not now. Not like this. Keeping a solid grip on the other hunter as he let himself give in to the rage, the expression the warden wore was a mixture of anger, fear, and sadness. He understood, truly he did, but— “Knock it off,” he hissed as quietly as he could. “Calm down. Hey. Hey.” He forced Emilio to look at him, raising his eyebrows. “I get it, but this isn’t the way. Don’t fuckin’ get yourself killed over this guy. Not worth it.” The demon seemed to be taking its leave, anyway. Thank fuck.

He didn’t let go, not even when Levihad finally disappeared into the dark distance. “Emilio.” His voice was softer now, less harsh, and the pain of seeing his surrogate little brother in such a state was much more visible in his eyes. Talking through emotions wasn’t exactly the warden’s strength, but he didn’t care. This was Emilio, and that mattered a hell of a lot more than any amount of embarrassment over the fact that he never knew the right thing to say. He had no idea what had happened in the brief minute or two that he’d lost track of him, but whatever it was had clearly had an immense impact on the man. 

“Talk to me. Please. Can’t—don’t like seein’ you like this.”

—

Rhett’s grip was firm and strong and well-meaning, and Emilio fought against it with all the desperation of a man fighting to keep his head above the water of a raging current. His heart was pounding in his chest, so hard that Rhett must have been able to feel it where his arms were locking the slayer into place. He continued spitting threats and curses, only vaguely aware of what he was saying, of Levi’s expression. Rhett was trying to calm him down, but it wasn’t until the warden forced Emilio to look at him that his presence seemed to register at all. “I’m — I’m gonna…” He was panting, limbs heavy with an exhaustion that went bone deep. When he glanced up again, Levi was already gone. 

Like a puppet whose strings had been cut, Emilio slumped against Rhett. How did it always come to this? He pulled one over on Levi, he managed to snag himself a win, and it was snatched away in a heartbeat. He tortured the demon in its home and it forced him to face a twisted chimera made up of everyone he’d loved and lost. He got out of the bind that had given Levi full control and it took some back, anyway in the form of revealing exactly how far it would go just to break Emilio into pieces. Like Sisyphus, Emilio made it to the top of a hill only to tumble down and be forced to start over from scratch. And he couldn’t keep doing it. He had nothing left, nothing. 

“You should’ve let me kill it.” His voice was hoarse and hollow, and he looked up at Rhett and felt emptier than he had since the day after Etla. “You should’ve just — It’s not gonna stop, Rhett. It’s never gonna stop, and I can’t… I can’t do this anymore. I don’t know how.” He fell silent, ducking his head out of view. His face was wet, and it wasn’t hard to understand why. 

When he spoke again, it was quiet. “It killed my friends,” he said, closing his eyes as the words settled in. “Two of them. A necromancer and…” He trailed off, remembering Rhett’s question when he’d first come to White Crest, when Emilio led him to his apartment and let him have a look around. They still around? He cleared his throat, bringing a trembling hand up to run his fingers through his hair. The other one was still gripping the knife, and Emilio spun it absently, adjusting and realigning his grip the way he’d shown Silas how to do a million years ago. Before the promise bind, before New Orleans, before the whole goddamn world turned to shit. “It killed them just — Just because they knew me. Just because I cared about them. They died because I’m —” He cut himself off with a choked off sound of frustration. “You should’ve let me kill it,” he said again. “I don’t care what happens to me. You should’ve let me kill it.” 

—

Relief washed over him as Emilio finally tired himself out and slumped into his grasp, and it was with steady assurance that Rhett propped the slayer up and held him in something that resembled a hug. 

You should’ve let me kill it.

He sighed, chasing away his own struggle with the idea of losing Emilio, despite the fact that he knew it would happen one day. Just not today. “It is gonna stop, mate. I’m here now. Not lettin’ this motherfucker eat you alive, not while I draw breath.” Releasing the man from his grip, Rhett allowed them both a bit of space to recover from the altercation, but only an arm’s length. He still regarded Emilio with a worried expression, lips pressed firmly together. It certainly didn’t improve the more his friend spoke, the more he illuminated the situation for Rhett. His heart was on his sleeve, whether he meant for it to be or not. 

You should’ve let me kill it.

“And what would that have gotten me, eh? Another dead brother? I care about what happens to you.” The warden sighed, shaking his head. Losing people was life for hunters like them. It was why, outside of the unexpected kinship shared with the family of slayers, Rhett didn’t make friends. Acquaintances, sure. Allies for taking down serious threats, definitely. But not friends. Most people couldn’t stomach him, anyway. Which, of course, made Rhett a hypocrite for being so adamantly against Emilio throwing his own life away, but there wouldn’t be any time spent on introspection into that matter. Of course keeping people distant was easier said than done, it was always easier said than done. As if realizing that this harshness was probably not appreciated at this moment, he set a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’m… sorry, mate. Sorry for everythin’ that’s been taken from you. Wish it didn’t have to be like that.” Glancing in the direction of the car, Rhett gave a jerk of his head. “C’mon, let’s go. No use in wishin’ it’d gone down different. Long as I’m ‘round, you’re not allowed to check out.” 

—

Later, Emilio might feel bad about this. He might remember being on an interstate outside of New Orleans, listening to someone he loved give up on his life, or in a car on the way back to White Crest listening to him mourn the fact that Emilio hadn’t let him die, wouldn’t let him die. Emilio had stood where Rhett was now, had been the person desperately trying to save a friend from himself. He knew firsthand just how painful it was. 

And in that moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Rhett promised him that he wouldn’t let Levi tear his life apart any more than it already had, but what did it matter? Everything was already in pieces. Nothing Rhett could do would be able to undo the damage the demon had already inflicted. Javi and Silas were still dead. Emilio still saw the burnt remains of that chimera every time he closed his eyes. His paranoia was worse than it ever was, and even with Rhett’s hands grounding him to the present he knew it was only a matter of time before the past flickered in again, before he was back in Etla, back in New Orleans, back in that cave, back here in this clearing listening to Levi recount how easily it had killed people Emilio loved, how entirely it was his own fault for antagonizing a thing that was never happier than it was when it was causing him pain. 

“It already has,” he said, feeling more like a ghost than a tangible thing. “It already has. There’s nothing left to save.” At least, nothing that anyone would consider worth saving. 

Rhett’s words should have landed harder than they did, because if there was one thing Emilio understood, it was loss. He’d lost two brothers in Etla, too. He’d lost something damn close to one in White Crest, now. He’d lost everything, and Rhett knew how that felt. Emilio should want to keep his surrogate brother, the last family he had left, from feeling it again. He should want to live, for the people he loved if not for himself. He should want that, but he didn’t. He didn’t want to live more than he wanted vengeance; he never had. “I’m tired, Rhett,” he admitted, scrubbing at his face with the hand not still gripping his knife for dear life. “I’m so fucking tired. I don’t — I can’t keep this up. I can’t promise you anything.” He couldn’t reassure Rhett that he wasn’t going to check out on him when checking out was all he wanted to do. He understood Silas a little more in that moment than he thought he ever had when the kid was alive. And that hurt, too. That hurt more than anything. 

After a moment, Emilio sighed, nodding his head and turning back towards the direction Rhett had come from, towards where the car was parked somewhere at the edge of the woods. “Yeah,” he said, voice flat and empty. “Let’s go.” He couldn’t bring himself to look at Rhett. 

—

It was too much to ask someone who’d been through as much as Emilio had to stick around for his own sake. Rhett knew that. It’d been a shot in the dark, but maybe it’d stay his hand some lonely, miserable night, if he had the clarity to recall the warden’s words. “I know,” was all he said in response, giving the other man a somber nod. “No promises. Just chew on it.”

Leading him back toward the car, Rhett willed his frightened heart to calm down. He hadn’t realized Emilio was no longer with him until he was nearly all the way back there, and had instantly felt the dread squeezing his chest as he took off running. He’d been so afraid that he’d find the man’s body—either killed by that fucking demon, or killed by the promise when he slit its throat. Finding them the way that he did hadn’t allowed him the time to move on from panic to relief, so even after his voice had steadied and softened, his pulse still raced. 

Once they’d reached his van and both dropped into the front seats, Rhett stared ahead with his hands on the wheel for a moment before looking at Emilio. He didn’t know what to say to make the man feel better. There probably wasn’t anything he could say that would change a damn thing, so he just frowned and reached out to pat Emilio’s shoulder with one gloved hand. 

There was really only one thing left to do, but having an audience would be far from ideal this time. Without saying where they were going, Rhett drove them back toward the Bend—back toward his shitty motel room at The Traveler’s Rest, where they could have a drink or ten in peace, or just sit in fucking silence. All he knew was that he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Emilio alone after all of that, so there was no way in hell the younger hunter was going anywhere without him, at least for tonight. 

—

The walk back to the van was a quiet one, but that was hardly a surprise. Emilio wasn’t sure his throat could operate well enough to form any more words, and his mind was a whirlwind of the same phrases on repeat. Guilt, grief, rage… It all swirled together within him, making it impossible to think of anything but Levi’s smug expression and the glint in its eyes as it had taken joy in telling Emilio just what it had done. The way it had spoken about Silas, about what it did to him… Gone was the hope that he might catch a few hours of much-needed sleep tonight; Emilio wasn’t sure he’d ever sleep again.

He didn’t realize they’d made it back to the car until his hand was gripping the seatbelt, knuckles white where he held it. He could feel Rhett looking at him, but he still couldn’t bring himself to turn towards the warden, still couldn’t muster up the courage to look his brother in the eye. This must have been what Silas felt, he thought, on that hours-long drive back from Louisiana. Sitting next to someone who’d saved you during a time when you desperately didn’t want to be saved was a strange place to be. 

Rhett didn’t say anything as his hand found Emilio’s shoulder, but he didn’t particularly have to. Emilio understood the gesture for what it was; a promise, however unwanted, that he wouldn’t spend the night alone. An acknowledgement, maybe, that he couldn’t be trusted to spend the night alone. It wasn’t unwarranted. Even now, the part of Emilio that wanted nothing more than to find Levi and put an end to the both of them at once was far larger than he’d care to admit. 

The drive back towards the Bend passed in a haze. Familiar landmarks seemed foreign as his eyes flittered over them, mind teetering on the edge of something far away. It wasn’t quite as bad as it had been after the warehouse fire, when he couldn’t get the stench of burning flesh to leave his nostrils, but it was far closer than he’d care to admit. It took him longer than it should have to realize that, though they were in his neighborhood, Rhett wasn’t taking him home. “Missed my apartment,” he said flatly, as if the warden didn’t know that already. Then, after a beat, “You don’t have to do this. I don’t need a babysitter.”

—

“Right,” Rhett grumbled, “n’ I don’t need a shrink.” He was angry—angry that what was supposed to be a win for them had been ripped away so quickly. Angry that Emilio couldn’t catch a break from this asshole, and now there was nothing he could really do about it. Getting Emilio free from the debt had been the primary concern, anything that came after was barely even considered. They deserved to die; the demon and the fae had no redeeming qualities that Rhett could see, and they’d fucked with the wrong slayer. 

He regretted that he hadn’t found Emilio sooner, but how could he have known? He’d thought the kid was dead—by all accounts, he should have been. He’d already mourned his loss, and though it had been years ago, the memory was still fresh in his mind. He knew what Emilio was dealing with, and he hated that he could do nothing to fix it. 

Pulling into the parking lot of the shitty motel, Rhett turned into a space and turned the van off, letting the silence settle over them as the engine quietly popped and hissed. He wished he was better at this: better at being a comforting presence, less awkward, maybe… anything. He’d never needed to be any of those things before now, he didn’t have any experience. 

Climbing out of the van, the warden opened the rear door to pull a couple paper sacks from a box that sat there, circling around to Emilio’s side to open his door and passing him one of the unmistakably ‘booze-shaped’ bags. “Carry that inside for me,” he offered the other with a knowing glance. Leading the way to the motel room, Rhett slipped out of his jacket and threw it over the nearest chair, waiting for Emilio to follow before nudging the door shut with his foot. “That other friend of yours,” he began quietly, stealing a glance at the slayer, “it was Silas, wasn’t it?” It would make sense based on the reaction alone—then and now. Rhett had of course heard the way the man was screaming with everything he had before the warden was able to arrive on the scene. You didn’t break down like that for someone you had a drink with once or twice, that was reserved for loved ones. It was the same scream that’d brought Rhett to his knees when he realized that his whole family was dead—the Tangaroas and the Cortezes.

—

“Wow. Congratulations on getting your head screwed on straight, then,” Emilio replied, the words a quiet murmur soaked in bitterness. He was lashing out, and Rhett didn’t deserve it, but there were only so many places for his anger to go. And maybe some of it was directed at the warden, anyway; for being one of the reasons he’d paused with his knife against Levi’s throat, for breaking up the fight that would have ended in both the demon and the slayer dead, for saving Emilio when he didn’t want to be saved, didn’t deserve to be saved. Rhett didn’t deserve it, but the anger was there, anyway. 

Emilio sat in the van with his arms crossed over his chest, brooding in silence like a petulant child. He couldn’t decide if it was a good thing or a bad one, the fact that the warden wasn’t taking him home. There was still so much of Silas in between those four walls, even months after his death. It was the only place where any part of him was still alive, and it was the place that had gotten him killed, too. If he hadn’t been there, if Emilio hadn’t insisted the kid stay with him after New Orleans, there was a good chance Levi would have never known who he was, a good chance it would have never realized how important he was to Emilio. It was being important to Emilio that had gotten him killed, after all. 

Lost in thought, Emilio didn’t realize the van had stopped until the door was swinging open and Rhett was pushing a bottle of alcohol wrapped in a light brown sack into his hands. He stared down at it for a moment, eyes darting over the wrinkles in the paper bag. When he looked back up, Rhett was already halfway to the motel room, a clear indicator that Emilio was back to losing time. 

This was supposed to be over. He was supposed to free himself from the deal and be better. In his mind, it was meant to work like a switch; Marina would unbind him, and everything else would fall away with his chains. His mind would stop jumping between past and present, his heart would stop pounding when he was doing nothing but sitting still, he would stop zoning out for long periods and resurfacing only to find that far too much time had passed. He would mourn the way normal people mourned, would grieve in a way that wasn’t violent or angry, would ache in a method that Silas wouldn’t have been disappointed to see. In his mind, it was supposed to be simple. He didn’t know if it would have been, had Levi not dropped a guillotine on his head. Past experience seemed to suggest it was always going to be like this. Something in Emilio’s head had been broken for years now; everyone knew it but him.

Slowly, he forced himself from the van, slammed the door a little harder than he needed to, and limped towards the motel room. He ducked inside behind Rhett without a word, clinging to the paper bag in a way that said the warden probably wasn’t getting the bottle back until Emilio had poured a fair bit of it down his own throat. He tore the bag open at Rhett’s question, unscrewed the bottle’s lid and took a long swig. Rhett knew the answer. Emilio wished he hadn’t asked it. “Yeah,” he said roughly when he finally brought the bottle away from his mouth. He didn’t even know what kind of alcohol it was; he hadn’t stopped to read the label, and he hadn’t tasted it when it went down. “It was Silas. The demon saw him coming and going. Figured out he was living with me. Figured out I cared about him. And it killed him for that. It killed him because I couldn’t —” 

His throat burned, eyes stinging to match, and he brought the bottle to his lips again, gulping down more of the alcohol inside like it was oxygen, like he needed it to breathe. When he pulled it away, he was shuddering, shoulders shaking. He thought he might be crying. He thought it was strange that he didn’t know for sure. “I got him killed, Rhett. I got him killed, and you won’t even let me take out the thing that pulled the trigger.” Maybe it was more convenient, this new deal that wouldn’t let him kill Levi without killing himself, too; it would let him take out everyone responsible for Silas’s death in one fell swoop. The thought crept in without him meaning for it to, but he made no move to push it away. He couldn’t pretend, now, that he didn’t want to die. There was no one in this crappy motel room who didn’t already know it for a fact. 

—

“No,” Rhett answered bluntly, “I won’t.” He knew he’d never convince Emilio that it wasn’t his fault. Caring for people was dangerous for both parties. That kind of thing could always be used against you, but it could be used against anyone, really—hunter or not. Did that mean that everyone was supposed to isolate themselves? Did that mean that no one was permitted to have a family? 

If you’d asked him a few months ago, he would’ve said yes. Probably wouldn’t have believed it, but would’ve said it out of spite. Because he was angry that he couldn’t have those things. Angry that Emilio, who was likely a more honorable and deserving man than him, couldn’t have those things. It wasn’t right, but then, when was life ever fair? 

“Lovin’ someone… comes with risks,” the warden offered, gesturing at the foot of the bed. “Sit.” Once Emilio had, Rhett sat beside him, pulling the bag off his own bottle of dark alcohol and breaking the seal on the cap. He kept his gaze focused on his hands as he spoke, noticing the way his fingers trembled against the cool, textured glass of the fifth of rum. “But y’can’t… shut it out. Much as I wanna say y’can, cause god fuckin’ knows I’ve tried… well, I’d be a hypocrite.” Something he was normally more than fine with—those who would take the time to call him out on it usually ended up dead, anyway. But this was one thing, one person that he just couldn’t blow off. He had to be honest with himself if he was ever going to be honest with Emilio, and the slayer really needed some fucking honesty right now. 

“I just got you back, mate,” Rhett said quietly, voice barely above a whisper. He paused to take a long swig of his rum, shaking his head as he lowered the bottle. “N’ your friend… got a feelin’ he woulda loved you whether you wanted it or not.” It’s not your fault, he wanted to scream. He wanted to grab Emilio by the shoulders and shake him out of his grief-induced malaise, but it wouldn’t do any good. “It’s not—” the warden had to pause, feeling his throat tighten. “—wrong to care about people. This thing that’s after you, that’s a… unique situation. But I wager… the people that really give a shit about you won’t be scared off by somethin’ like that. And you can’t pretend you don’t love ‘em. No demon is gonna buy that.” He took another drink, grateful for the moment of respite, however brief. “Pretendin’ never begets honest feelings, mate. Sorry, but…” He couldn’t help it. He knew Emilio would rebuff him but he just couldn’t help it. “... there was nothin’ you coulda done different that woulda changed the outcome. Not with somethin’ like this.”

—

Rhett’s words were simple and firm and matter-of-fact. He wasn’t going to let Emilio kill Levi because he wasn’t going to let Emilio kill himself. And that shouldn’t have made him as angry as it did. That shouldn’t have made that burning heat in his chest flare up hotter, shouldn’t have made him want to scream until his lungs gave out, but it did. He thought of Silas’s surly silence on the drive back from New Orleans, thought of the way he’d kept those mittens taped to the kid’s hands for days after they were back in White Crest despite the glares and despite the harsh words, thought of how he’d been too damn relieved to care about any of it even if he hadn’t known how to show it beyond tying the kid up and letting him complain. He knew what it was like to be in Rhett’s shoes, and he was angry anyway. 

He glared at the warden as the words settled between them, fire in his eyes doing little to hide the pain lurking just beneath the flames. His hand gripped the bottle Rhett had handed him so tightly that it was tremoring, knuckles white with the force of it. For a moment, there was silence, heavy and thick. Rhett broke it, and Emilio almost wished he hadn’t. It was true, what he said; it was true, and Emilio didn’t want to hear it.

He settled onto the lumpy motel mattress, still glaring darkly at his own feet. His leg ached, but so did everything else. Emilio wasn’t sure he could remember a time when it hadn’t now. Maybe it was rigor mortis stiffening his joints and muscles. Maybe his body was finally catching on to the fact that the rest of him had been dead for years now, that he’d died so many times now that he couldn’t tell if he was already rotting or still working on bleeding out. “You’re a hypocrite anyway,” he muttered petulantly, taking another swig from the bottle. If their roles were reversed here, he thought, if Rhett found the thing that tore his life apart and couldn’t kill it without killing himself in the process, the warden wouldn’t have hesitated. And maybe Levi wasn’t responsible for what happened in Etla, but it was the reason for a good fucking majority of what happened after. For the chimera in the cave that Emilio saw every time he shut his eyes. For months of acting like a puppet on a string. For Javier. For Silas. 

His eyes stung as Rhett brought up the zombie again, stated another fact that Emilio didn’t want to hear. Silas would have loved him anyway. He would have parked his ass on that couch whether Emilio tied him to it or not. Emilio just wished there were a version of the story that didn’t end with that stubborn love being the thing that killed him. He wished there were a version of the story where everyone got exactly what they deserved, even though he knew it’d mean he wound up with nothing more than a violent, bloody end. “I could’ve let it kill me,” he said quietly. “I could’ve let it put a knife in my chest the first time it tried. I think I should have.” He thought again about Javi, who probably hadn’t even known why he was dying. Levi’s words echoed in his head again. Stuck him in the chest like I shoulda stuck you. He wanted to go back to that moment, wanted to scream in the demon’s face, wanted to ask, why didn’t you, then? 

“I want this to be over, Rhett. I just want it to be over.” The story was always going to end in tragedy, but at least if it ended he could finally stop telling it. He closed his eyes, bringing the bottle back to his lips. Some of the alcohol — whiskey, he realized at last, which Rhett had probably bought specifically because he knew it was what Emilio preferred these days — spilled onto his chin as his hands shook, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. He mulled things over for a moment and then, without knowing why, said the thing that didn’t need saying. “I think I want to die. I think I have for a long time now. I think… I think I’m still trying to figure out why I haven’t, yet.” 

—

You’re a hypocrite anyway.

Yeah, well, that was true. Still, living as long as he had doing what they did, Rhett felt he’d earned a bit of hypocrisy. He probably should’ve died at least a decade ago, and while that was an age that Emilio was fast approaching, the warden couldn’t stand the thought of it being because he’d given up. And yet… what was he to do? There were no words he could say that would convince the man otherwise. No wisdom he could offer that would suddenly make life worth living. The only thing he could do was empathize. 

“E mohio ana ahau, e te tuakana,” he breathed, “I know. It’s—” It’s not easy. It’s never fucking easy. Everything hurts all the fucking time and there’s no good way out of it, short of—Rhett stopped the train of thought, squinting his eyes closed. 

“When I thought—when I went back to Etla, and you were all…” He couldn’t even finish the sentence, but he knew he didn’t have to. “I felt… this. I felt… should have been there. Shouldn’t have let my damn… was always gettin’ in the way…” Grimacing, Rhett lifted the bottle to his lips. “I know. And I know it’s selfish to say, but I’m glad you’re a stubborn bastard.” The warden’s eyes gleamed with tears as he stared straight ahead at their dark, blurry reflections in the old television across from the bed. 

Emilio needed an outlet. They’d find that, maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day. But not now. Now all Rhett could do was watch him in the reflection with a deep unease in his gut that didn’t dissipate in the slightest when he lifted a hand to settle it on the slayer’s shoulder. 

“Let’s just focus on makin’ it to tomorrow.”

—

Rhett knew. Of course Rhett knew. If there was anyone on Earth who could understand what Emilio was feeling, it was the man in front of him now. Rhett, too, had lost everything twice. And if the world felt a little less heavy, if Emilio felt a little less hopeless, he would have apologized for that. He would have told Rhett he was sorry for the two years he’d let the warden think he was dead. He would have said he was sorry he’d tricked Rhett, even for just a moment, into thinking that assumption was the wrong one, too. Losing everything hurt. Thinking you got something back only to lose it again hurt more. Emilio knew that. 

“If you’d have been there,” he said quietly, “you just would have died with the rest of them.” And Emilio would still be alive, because that was the constant. His parents died. His siblings died. His nephew died. His friends died. Silas died. And Emilio didn’t. No matter how much he might want to, Emilio didn’t. He was still trying to find a way to breathe around it. 

A hand settled on his shoulder, and the stubborn, angry part of him that wanted to shrug it off went to war with the sad, vulnerable part of him that wanted to lean into the touch. Both notions felt childish, but freezing under the touch didn’t feel much better. The air in the room felt too heavy, weighed down by the things they’d said and the ones they hadn’t. Emilio sighed. 

He wanted to hurl more insults, wanted to ask if Rhett regretted coming back into those woods yet, wanted to keep going until the answer was yes, but he was bone tired and too selfish to really want to be alone. So instead, he let himself drop backwards to lay on his back on the dirty motel mattress, staring up at the stained ceiling. He’d focus on making it to tomorrow, because Rhett wasn’t giving him much of a choice. He’d live, because he always did. For better or for worse. (Usually, he thought, for worse.) “I’m only staying ‘til the whiskey’s gone,” he warned lowly, even though they both knew Rhett would find a way to keep him around longer than that. If Emilio was stubborn, so was Rhett. Maybe even more so. 

—

Calloused fingers trailed after Emilio as he pulled away and leaned back onto the bed, lingering in the air for a moment before returning to the warden’s bottle. Rhett frowned and nodded, taking another swig before speaking. “Aye, sure. ‘Till the whiskey’s gone,” he agreed, very much of the same mind that there’d be no way in hell he let Emilio leave tonight. He’d lock the idiot in the bathroom sooner than he’d let him take off, and though he hoped it wouldn’t come to that, he’d have no reservations about doing it.  

Again, it made him nothing more than a hypocrite, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t going to lose the last vestige of his happiness again, not if he could help it. Was it fair to Emilio? Probably not, but Rhett just had to hope that someday far in the future when this pain was just a faint memory and things had gotten better for Emilio, the slayer would be thankful. Silently thankful, of course, but Rhett wanted for him to have that. Sure, their kind was generally short-lived, but if Rhett was any kind of example, spite could get you pretty far. And as long as Rhett was around, there wouldn’t be a damn thing allowed to touch his brother. So… there was hope, still. Hope for the future. It was all Rhett had, and so he clung to it—white-knuckled and shivering, much like how he gripped his bottle now.  Outside, crickets chirped happily on the asphalt, a mockery of the despair that was separated from them by nothing but a flimsy door. The world turned without them, oblivious to their plight, leaving them to rot. So it went.

[alwaysahiccupandastrid]

How Bad is Sia’s “Music” really?

I watched it illegally (because there was no way I was paying for that bullshit) and found out. It’s not as bad as we thought... It’s worse.

TW for ableism, Sia, drugs, alcohol, just in general a terrible movie, meltdowns, blackface

Literally the first thing you hear while they’re showing the production companies is THOSE stereotypical noises. If you’ve seen the trailer, you’ll know what I mean.

And yes, she does this for the WHOLE fucking movie

What was the need to show her in her underwear? Maddie Ziegler was 14 when this was made, so what was the need??? And why did Sia prolong the scene by having her hitting herself?

Less than a minute in and my reaction was already “what the fuck is this shit?”

So the opening number not only had stereotypical exaggerated facial expression, it has Maddie in BLACKFACE?!? And with culturally appropriated hair?!?

The exaggerated facial expressions are literally constant and I took photos during the film to show it, more later, but I’ll keep mentioning it

ITS LITERALLY THE WHOLE FUCKING TIME SHE IS ON SCREEN

Even her way of walking is fucking offensive, Jesus Christ

The vocalisations just had me cringing so hard, I cannot describe how awful it made me feel

Why do all the neighbours need to be paid off and help her when she goes for a walk? I don’t-

Yes, by about the five minute mark I was already seriously debating all my life decisions. It was that bad.

Kate Hudson really didn’t give a fuck that her grandma died

I will keep saying it but WHY are the facial expressions/vocalisations CONSTANT?!! Literally they do not stop at all. I work with a child who is actually similar to this in that he’s nonverbal and he makes similar noises/faces, but the way they’re in this movie is so over-exaggerated?!? And even the kid I work with doesn’t do it 24/7?!?

Sia, calling your characters Zu and Music doesn’t make them interesting in the slightest. They’re still painfully terrible and one dimensional

Literally ONE minute after being left alone with her autistic sister, Zu calls the mental health service asking if they could “theoretically” “pick up” her sister?!? Like she wants to get rid of her already?!?

“A magical little girl” - autism isn’t a magical power?!? And Music is a young woman, not a little girl?!? Why are you infantilising her?!?

Okay I’m not being funny but this choreography is NOT hard. ANYONE can do it, so claiming that you needed to hire a dancer to be Music because of the numbers is literally bullshit (and even so, there are so many amazing autistic actors and dancers?!?)

20 minutes in and I wanted to give up

So she had her first meltdown because her hair didn’t get braided immediately and that’s... certainly interesting??

The fact that Leslie Odom’s character says “I’m going to crush you now”?!?

AND THEN HE FUCKING PICKS HER UP AND FULL-BODILY PINS HER DOWN ONTO THE FLOOR

“I’m crushing her with my love” - oh fuck you, just fuck you

So Sia lied, the restraint scenes were NOT removed and there was no warning. She’s a fucking POS liar

I have no idea why he’s called Ebo or why he has such a cliche African accent?!? I might have missed out on why because I was busy trying not to bang my head into the table while I watched this film but just... yikes

“He (his brother) liked to be held” - YEAH, HELD. NOT FUCKING CRUSHED

“He is dead now” - IM NOT FUCKING SURPRISED IF YOU CRUSHED HIM LIKE THAT

The constant babying and patronizing of the autistic character is so exhausting to watch. I’m so tired

“Planning on sending her to the people pound but I guess I’ll keep her a little longer” - SHE WAS JOKING BUT THAT WAS NOT EVEN REMOTELY A FUNNY JOKE. NOT EVEN IN AN AWKWARD WAY

STOP THE FACES IM-

^ YEAH, Sia, totally a fucking love letter to the autistic community here ^

So Zu finds this necklace she made as a kid that had a little dog on it, and she says to Music, “He had seizures too, just like you”... MELTDOWNS AND SEIZURES ARE NOT EVEN REMOTELY THE SAME FUCK THIS MOVIE-

It’s like Sia is trying to make the movie funny but it’s really not at all

Is Zu implying that Music is autistic because the mum was a junkie?!?

For real though, the dialogue in general is so fucking awful and cringey. Whoever wrote this should never be allowed to write again

Did she seriously leave her autistic sister alone to talk to who I’m presuming was her dealer or loan shark?!?

Also why is he - a white dude - wearing cornrows?!?

So who is the film really about? The autistic girl or the older sister saviour? I think we all know the answer to that one

WHY IS SHE WALKING AROUND WITH HER TEETH JUTTING OUT LIKE THAT ALL THE TIME

The musical numbers are literally so painful to watch. The overly bright colours, the flashing... my eyes were hurting and so was my brain

Autism representation aside for a second, the musical numbers/choreography are all fucking atrocious. Ditto for the costumes

LIKE WHAT THE FUCK WERE THE PINK OOMPA LOOMPA FRUIT THINGS?!? THEY LOOK LIKE THE PINK VERSIONS OF VIOLET BEAUREGARDE THE BLUEBERRY

I wanted to cry by this point, this movie is far more awful than I thought

“I’m not saying she doesn’t want to change, I’m saying she can’t” - FUCK YOU. Why is it okay for him to assume what she can or can’t do

Can I just say that autistic people aren’t constantly in a coked up wonderland state?!! We don’t see the world as a wonderland fantasy world 24/7?!!

“She can hear you from two rooms away” / *shows her listening through two brick walls to a conversation* — Also, we don’t have super fucking sonic hearing?? WE CANT HEAR THROUGH FUCKING BRICK WALLS?!?

“She can understand everything you’re saying to her” - she’s autistic not fucking deaf

Less than 45 minutes in, there’s another meltdown in the park

“I’m not climbing on top of a small screaming white girl in public” - yeah please fucking don’t

So Zu fucking pins her down with her weight 🤦‍♀️

“She doesn’t know who she’s hitting” - IM SORRY WHAT

EBO LITERALLY SAID “TREAT HER LIKE A BEAR” when talking her through the prone restraint, I fucking CANNOT

“Tell her she’s safe” - NOT IF YOU FUCKING RESTRAIN HER LIKE THAT SHE IS NOT

The fact that she gets up, smiling and happy after a meltdown and immediately is excited to get a snow cone... I can honestly say that after a meltdown, I am in no way happy or smiling. I am often not very verbal and I’m withdrawn/not myself for at least several hours, usually the rest of the day. Fuck this film

This film is literally just about Zu, and Music is there for a plot device to give her character development. That’s all she’s there for.

Love how Sia shoehorned Zu being suicidal in there. You know, just to try and make her more easy to sympathize with (it doesn’t work)

This film is literally just a 1 hour 47 minute Sia music video with ZERO plot

WHY WERE THEY WEARING PILLOW DIAPERS IN ONE NUMBER-

I really did not feel into the side plot with that guy who was fighting but it was still better than the actual movie so...

I am SO DONE with the NON STOP CONSTANT vocal shit. So tired.

LOJ’s only role in this film is to be the stereotypical wise black guy who assists a white woman’s story. There’s like hardly any other depth there

The Ebo/Zu romance is so fucking stupid and pointless and out of NOWHERE. I couldn’t even tell if they were into each other or not

I was already so bored of the musical numbers by this point. They added NOTHING to the plot but they pretended they did, and I was so over it. And it’s not because I’m not “creative enough” or anything to understand, I love musicals and I think it could have been cool if done right... but it wasn’t. They were a mess. It’s just bad.

Sia really tried to pretend her movie was deep but really it’s a shallow mess

So Zu is meeting rich drug clients and says to Music “try not to have one of your freak outs up there” and “if you could try to get it out now”... FUCKING YIKES. It’s not an on/off button, shut the fuck up

YEP THIS WAS THE SIA CAMEO FUCK THAT BITCH

The fact that she just calls “DRUG DEALER?!? DRUG DEALER IS THAT YOU”, fucking end this please-

I fucking hate this bitch I’m dead serious

“We’re gonna send them to Haiti cause there’s been an earthquake. All these buildings fell down, children’s bones were dislocated” - WHY WAS SHE SO CHEERFUL ABOUT IT

“Gonna buy a shit load of pain meds, gonna but them on my private plane” - FUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOU

“Pop stars without borders” - Sia thinks she’s so clever but I would give anything to punch her I swear-

ANOTHER MUSICAL NUMBER JUST STOP IM BEGGING YOU

There’s this awkward conversation/bit with Zu and her drug dealer/loanshark about his outfit that was clearly meant to be funny but was just flat and painful

Yep, Sia really showed Music eating chewing gum off the underside of a park bench. Of course.

Look, the kid I work with does similar stuff by putting literally anything and everything in his mouth but like... why would you put that in your movie?

And there’s no indication before this that Music puts everything and anything in her mouth, she just randomly decides to get on her knees, under the bench and eat chewing gum, like she calculates that it’s there and gets it???

She has a THIRD meltdown after an allergic reaction to a bee sting and her sister just yells at her before realizing... I’m not here for this movie, I feel like I drifted off and was not really there

So Zu got angry because she left the drugs at the park but she’s not that upset that her sister had an allergic reaction???

Zu gets absolutely drunk because a) she lost Sia’s drugs and b) she’s stressed out by her autistic sister... wow, great message, Sia!

She really fucked off and left her sister alone to go clubbing/on a bender

The less said about the musical number here the better

Sia’s movie also checks the box of having stereotypical Asian parents, specifically stereotypical Asian dad being harsh/angry and hitting his wife!

ALSO HE PUSHED AND KILLED HIS SON WTF IS HAPPENING

Less than 3 minutes after the last, there’s a musical number that I think was about this side character going to heaven... another shitty Sia-esque number

The patterns during the number made my brain hurt.

Also there are so many autistic actors who can also dance, and yet Sia chose the neurotypical one because ✨ N E P O T I S M ✨

I just want to know how it was deemed necessary to show the fact the autistic character peed/wet herself? I mean... ??? It’s just so undignified and not at all necessary to the plot. Nothing happens after that, it just moves onto the next scene and it didn’t do anything

“I have no one” - 1) YOUR FUCKING SISTER. 2) GEE I FUCKING WONDER WHY, couldn’t be that you’re a shitty human being?!?

There’s a scene where Music is walking and she does ALL the stereotypical behaviours at once... just YIKES

Zu somehow stopped another meltdown just by grabbing Music by the shoulders and sitting her down???

Aaand yep. Another shitty musical number

Zu really goes to put her sister in a fucking facility and claims it’ll be “better for her” - BULLSHIT. Better for Zu, maybe, not Music.

Ah yes - the girl who the characters have said has problems with routines being changed/change in general... you’re now going to fuck up her routine by dumping her in a facility. Perfect Plan.

The nonverbal autistic girl suddenly speaking to say “don’t go” - you can just predict it from the off, can’t you?

Love that as soon as Music starts talking, Zu is like “fuck it, I’ll keep her!”

Zu really went and crashed Ebo’s brothers wedding... in a fucking bralette... YIKES

“I almost gave Music away” - SHE IS NOT A DOG YOU DONT GIVE PEOPLE AWAY

“We should sing a song” - PLEASE DO FUCKING NOT

Also that kiss/romance montage between Zu and Ebo was the CRINGIEST fucking shit ever

This movie seems to be implying that Music has locked in syndrome or something, like she’s locked in her own head or whatever it’s called, and I just... *sigh*

Oh and now Music magically fucking sings in a room FULL of strangers... this is literally embarrassing, please let this end

I mean it, this movie was fucking painful to watch on ever level

She got a service dog puppy which... okay?

Oh look, it’s the only decent song on the soundtrack but with an absolutely shitty over-stimulatory music video with the credits!

I can only name 5 characters in this film. Maybe 7 at a push, but even then I would be guessing

AND YEP SHE THANKED AUTISM SPEAKS OVER THE CREDITS. FUCK YOU SIA 🖕🏻

Let me reiterate: this is a movie about a neurotypical former drug addict whose character development comes from the autistic character, from having an autistic sister she has to take care of. I’m so tired.

We are NOT plot devices or tools for character development. Not once does anyone in this film treat Music like a human being - she’s treated as a burden, a problem, and then like a pet that they decide to keep. Not once is the film focused on how she is feeling - it’s always about Zu or Ebo. The performance itself was so over exaggerated and it made me want to cry when I watched it because this is how the world sees us, and this movie will make it ten times worse. It’s stuff like this that made me think “I don’t want to be labelled as autistic because people will think I’m a certain way”, that made me wait so long before going to the GP to get a referral.

As I said, poor autistic representation aside, the movie is just so appallingly bad. It truly is one of the worst films I’ve watched. If you’re going to watch it, please don’t - or, if you want to because you want to see how bad it is/to raise awareness/critical posts, at least do it illegally. Do not give Sia your money.

[beskarberry]

The Roar of Thunder

Bargaining with Beskar, Chapter 12, Book Two Finale

(The Mandalorian x f!reader) (+18)

He couldn’t console Grogu, or even get him to eat most days, and that made him just as worthless as Imp scum. The last bounty lay at the end of the wormhole, a pathetic bail jumper that should take no time at all to capture, and once that was complete and the credits collected maybe…

Maybe he should take Grogu home.

<- Previous

Rating: Extra Explicit

Word count: 24.2k SORRY

Content warnings: *deep breath* Dark themes, self loathing, depression, thoughts of suicide, implied parental abuse, drug induced abductions, use of needles, auditory and visual hallucinations, extremely graphic descriptions of violence, blood and gore, stupid amounts of murder. Oh, and smut! Yay!

A/N: THE EPIC CONCLUSION (???) OF BARGAINING WITH BESKAR! Holy shit I can't believe we've made it this far! I know those tags are super fucking intimidating but there is a light at the end of this tunnel, it's just a very long, dark ass tunnel and you're gonna have to work to get there! THANK YOU ALL so much for joining me on this wildass ride that I already said I was finished with once before lol. There's a lot that I'm leaving off with so there's a very good chance I'll come back to this story in the future, but for now, enjoy!

The Crest had been silent before, for years actually, but never like this.

When it had only been him aboard the old gunship, long before the child and much longer before you, silence had been the Mandalorian’s only companion. In the wake of betrayal, the eerie quiet of hyperspace had returned like a plague; creeping in on innumerable, chitinous legs through the Razor’s solid walls, taking up space like something alive.

Or maybe something dead.

Silence was heavy, viscous and rotting in Mando’s ears. It slithered through his ear canals and down his throat, seeping over his heart like melted tar. It hurt, the silence. Somehow both burning like acid and freezing like ice in his chest and it hurt. It made his bones ache. It made his ears ring in place of the lack of noise, the lack of life and love that he had grown so fond of.

But the silence was better, a hundred, thousand times better than the crying.

Grogu wailed whenever he was awake, sobbing and choking on the tears that streaked down from his cosmic eyes and stopped up his teensy tinsey nose with snot. The little terror never made so much noise in all his life, and he would frequently cry so hard he would tire himself out and fall into a fretful, restless sleep. Din would try everything he could think of, holding the baby, rocking him and shushing him as sweetly as a mountain of metal could; but the child only cried harder for his efforts.

The child wouldn’t eat, barely slept, and wept relentlessly. Din’s shattered heart broke a thousand more times with each fitful sob that tore it’s way out of the tiny toothy mouth of his adopted son, and every day that it continued he thought the agony would kill him.

He knew why Grogu was so heartbroken, though he refused to accept it, still tasting the bitterness of betrayal on his tongue. Dirty Imp. He wanted to be so angry, he still was, but the exhaustion of trying to comfort his son drained every ounce of fight from the mighty warrior’s body. Din’s decision was final, even if it was starting to feel like the worst decision he’d ever made in his entire life. He wasn’t going to let any goddamn Imps near his son, no matter how lovely they were, how beautiful… how wonderful.

Grogu was just going to have to get over it.

But...what if he never does?

Din was cradling the child against his bare shoulder, trying, and failing, for the thousandth time that week to get Grogu to calm down. The Mandalorian rocked slowly, holding the child’s head to his shoulder and petting him softly, running his thumbs over his ears in the way that used to make the little beastie coo and hum. Made him close his eyes and sleep. If… if he could just get the child to sleep, to relax, maybe he could think straight.

When she was here, what would she do? Din didn’t want to think about the monster that he had let into his life, let into his heart, but he couldn’t stop the train of thought as it left his mental station. She would sing. She would sing him a lullaby and he would conk right out. They were his favorite. He groaned, blinking up at the hazy cabin lights as if the Maker was up there with better answers.

They were my favorite, too.

Din sighed heavily against the weeping creature he loved so dearly, then started to hum one of the songs he thought he remembered. Low and slow, a deep, rumbling baritone that once was as warm as honey, but now felt cold, lifeless and dull.

There was the briefest of respites in the child’s crying, only to pick back up with a vengeance at the memory of his lost buir’s lullabies. Assaulted by the uptick in the wailing, Din wracked his brain for the words to those songs. Stars, there were so many, but there was one that sort of… stuck.

“Hey, womp rat, let me see you.” Din pulled the soggy baby from his shoulder, fishing the edge of his cloak around to wipe the child’s flooded eyes. “There he is. Um, how does it go… I have sailed the… no that’s not… I went sailing in the midnight sea, something something…navigator... wait, please don’t cry. Fuck.”

Singing wasn’t one of his strong points, no matter how many times you had told him he had a lovely voice, soft and dark and velvety. No, it was you whose voice was spun from gold, not his. You had brought music into his world, that very first day, sitting in the passenger seat with the child in your lap you had broken into a star-shanty that dissolved every barrier the Mandalorian had erected around his heart and sang love into his world.

Your voice wasn’t just powerful, it was a siege weapon.

Nothing had ever had that kind of power over him, made him want to rip his helmet from his skull and throw it overboard just to hear your voice as it was meant to be heard in all its glory. And then when he had gotten to hear it clear and true, without the modulation of his audio intake processors, he knew he would never hear anything more beautiful again in his entire life.

His Starsong.

Din tried to bring himself back to the very first song, something about a navigator, guiding a mighty ship through the stars. So long ago, when Grogu had fallen asleep from your lullaby and you were just humming the last verses, you had caught Din staring at you and abruptly cut the song short; thinking that the Mandalorian was ready to slit your throat for being so close to his precious cargo. It wasn’t until later, after a victorious but near-fatal hunt that you had been asked to finish it.

You were cradled against his side, tucked into the crook of his arm with your head on his chest, tired and breathless from critical bloodloss and a foolish bout of lovemaking. You had nearly died, and his son had saved your life, given you back to him like a precious keepsake. Din had felt your breathing slow way down, watched your eyes close from behind his visor, and suddenly he just had to know.

How does the song end?

Mmm? Why, do you need a lullaby too?

No, just curious. When you leave, my foundling might ask me about it.

Din stopped rocking the child, struck fast by the memory. Grogu was starting to tire himself out, but the tears still flowed, dampening the flack under his squishy baby face.

When you leave.

He had made a deal with you, one hunt and you were off the hook, spared from carbonite and the Guild’s vengeance; but everything about you enchanted him so much that he nearly broke his own Creed just to feel your body against his, feel your lips on his face, your hands in his hair. Even before he heard your singing his ears had fallen in love with your voice. Maker, the sounds that you had made; the soft little pants, the choked cries, the moans. He had to have you.

He had to hear you.

Ensorcelled by your siren tongue he took you for himself, gave himself to you in the sacred way his Creed demanded should have come after riduurok, but he didn’t care. The first time he filled you was heaven, an addiction more fixing than spice. In that moment he was too far gone to try to explain to you that The Way dictated he was bound to you now as your protector, but would have understood if you had told him no. Told him to leave you alone, let you get back to your life. But you had only sunk your claws deeper, given yourself more, entwining yourself with him more closely than the beskar that had been forged around him.

When you leave.

You’d become protective and caring and dangerous, a weaponized testament to the love you’d grown for your two boys. You hunted with the fury of thunderstorms, defended your kin with your own life, loved them like no one else ever had and it was beautiful. Din’s foundling became your foundling, and soon you’d become the foundling’s buir, bound to his little clan by the sacred ceremony of riddurok. Indivisible, inseparable. A pack, a clan, a family.

A lie.

A dirty, filthy, soul crushing lie.

A fucking Imp had been right under his nose, in his fucking bed, whispering in his ear that he was loved, that he meant something. Anger burned behind his eyes at the memories that he once cherished, making their corners sting. Grogu picked up on it instantly, his almost-closed eyes flying back open with another shriek. Din gave up. He couldn’t take it anymore. The child was gently lowered to his pram, still sniveling but at least tired enough that maybe he would fall asleep soon.

With squinty, flooded eyes the baby glared up at his adopted father, his ears nearly falling off his head with how droopy they were. He sank his adorable little talons into the fabric of Din’s wrist, keeping him hostage so the tiny green terror could break his fathers heart just one more time.

“Bubu?”

“Yes?”

Grogu grumbled with a scowl, looking away from Din’s exhausted face, trying to find somebody else. “Bubu.”

Din had heard the baby use the shorthand of buir for the first time when he was storming up the Crest’s ladder after abandoning you on Elgon Station, hatred and disgust deafening him to the sound of his son's first almost-word. When he was blasting away from the sudden starcruiser, he had heard the baby shouting the sweet phrase over and over and over again, his little voice choked with desperation; and he knew that it wasn’t meant for him.

It was meant for you.

Din shook his head, unhooking Grogu from his sleeve. ”Sorry kid, It’s just me now.” Fighting the mist forming in his eyes, he closed the lid, sealing the pram with an ugly hiss at yet another betrayal. Sorry kid.

For everything.

Exhausted and broken, Din flopped down in the little sleeping nook that he had once shared with you, sinking into the bedroll. The Tatooinian bed roll. You had picked up the soft, plush foam mattress on your shopping excursion through the desert bazaar, spitting fire about the quality of the bed he had grown used to.

It was your bed roll.

Din was too tired to yank the thing off and shred it like he had been meaning to, at least that’s what he had been telling himself for the last few cycles. The reality was that it still smelled faintly of you, a scent that was losing its strength with each passing jump through hyperspace. Sleep made him just as restless as his son usually was now, often waking him up in a flop sweat that was slowly replacing the scent in the mattress with wallowing anguish.

Not even an hour after he had laid down he woke up in one such panic, sweat turning to ice on his brow and down the expanse of his chest, and on instinct he reached for you.

But you weren’t there.

When you leave… her. You left her, Djarin. You left her behind. Left her to die. It’s your own fault.

Agony and despair and guilt were his only bedfellows now, grinding against his ribs and chewing through the lining of his stomach. He reached up for one of the thin, utilitarian blankets that he kept in the mesh netting high above his head, maybe more to wipe the sweat off than for comfort. Comfort had tricked him and told him lies. Comfort had made him weak, made him blind to the insurgence that laid next to him at night. Comfort was not something he deserved.

The threadbare blanket fell down from its spot, bringing something else down with it.

Bantha wool.

Growling, Did made to throw the fleecy thing away, hoping it would take his painful memories with it, but the smell of you was all over it. Strong as if you were right there with him, as if he held you in his arms again.

He stopped fighting, hugging the desert fabric to his chest and burying his face in it, breathing in the scent of you as if without it he would suffocate and die. He held the air in, feeling it flow through the serrated hole where his heart used to be. The breath in his lungs let itself out, ragged and broken and threatening.

Alone in his little bunk, the best hunter in the parsec swallowed his sobs down, terrified of waking the baby. The scent of you brought him back to that moment, the moment that he’d snapped. You’d been trying to tell him something, but he had been consumed by his anger, blinded by his hatred of the Empire and the threat that it posed to his son and the memories of what it had done to his people. The Empire that you served.

His body shook at the memory of your confession, I am not an Imp! That’s not who I am anymore! You’d shouted, no, roared, concealing the usage of some kind of… interference device that must have been hidden on your person. His visor had flickered and his audio processors blew, nearly deafening him with feedback. The damage done to his helmet was extensive, and like nothing he’d ever seen, the wires and microchips crushed by some phantasmal force. It took days for him to repair, but it was a welcome distraction from his painful memories.

That’s not who I am any more.

Din chewed his lip so hard he tasted blood, sucking it back down as not to stain the cherished blanket. Did I make a mistake? No. An Imp doesn’t change its plasticast… does it? Even… even one as strong and beautiful as her. He breathed the scent of you in deep, curling up on his cot until his knees touched the wall, digging up yet another tainted memory.

The memory of him kneeling before you, of him asking for your hand.

You don’t know me! You’d sobbed, waving around a sword of pure beskar inches from his throat. You don’t know where I’ve been, what I’ve done!

You’d told him right then and there that you weren’t to be trusted, but... it was too late.

He was in love.

Bedazzled in a pair of opalized fangs far too lavish for such a warrior, he’d sank to his knees at your feet, asking for your hand, or your judgement.

You may now ask him to swear his oaths, and should they please you, you may remove his helmet. However, should he dishonor you, you may remove his head.

It was almost unfair, such an ultimatum of love or death.

You broke every single vow you swore to her, Djarin. How are you any better than an Imp? She loved you, and you threw her out like garbage. You purged that love from your life, forsaking the one that you called ner jate’kara, your guiding star. Without her, you will die in the darkness that you have brought upon yourself.

Without love there was only death left for him, though there wasn’t a single being in this parsec that would be capable of killing him…

Except-

Himself.

The brakes had long gone out on his mental trains, and horrifying clarity wrenched his eyes open in the darkness of the bunk. Maybe death would feel better than the heartbreak he was suffering from now. Maybe giving himself up to the cold embrace of the void would feel less damning, less crushing.

To leave this universe on his own volition, and not on the valorous battlefield, was considered the lowest form of dishonor a Mandalorian could endure. Dar’manda. But… that’s what he was. An honorless cur, an oathbreaker. Though his bond to you had been rendered completely fucking worthless, he was still bound to the baby as his father.

Though...maybe…

Maybe he shouldn’t be.

He couldn’t console Grogu, or even get him to eat most days, and that made him just as worthless as Imp scum. The last bounty lay at the end of the wormhole, a pathetic bail jumper that should take no time at all to capture, and once that was complete and the credits collected maybe…

Maybe he should take Grogu home.

To his people, his real people like he was supposed to do eons ago.

What is it?

It is a foundling. And by Creed, until it is of age or reunited with its own kind, you are as its father.

Din had taken that last line to heart. The last memory he had of his own father still haunted his nightmares, the image of his parent’s eyes glassy with frightened tears as they closed the bunker door over him right before the droid army took their lives.

Decades later an opportunity had been presented to him, an opportunity to give this child a father to grow up with; though the child would likely live for centuries after Din died from either old age or, more likely, a bullet hole. His unknown people had not been good enough to protect the baby, to keep him out of harm's way and out of the grasp of the Empire, but a Mandalorian would be.

Or, so he had told himself.

Somewhere out in the vastness of space were potentially more little green creatures that were missing one of their own, and he had selfishly stolen Grogu away from them to live out his fantasy of being a father.

No.

It wasn’t right, it hadn’t been from the start.

And now he was being punished for it.

One more hunt, one last credit haul to fuel his ship up, and he would return the baby to his people, giving Grogu’s real parents every cent he had left in the most desperate hope that they would forgive him. Forgive him for stealing a child.

And then.

Then it would be over.

There would be nothing left for him.

As if there was anything left for him now.

~

It took a couple of cycles to convince yourself that it wasn’t a nightmare, and even longer to come to terms with your waking reality. Your wayward journey through the stars was over just as quickly as it had begun, and you were right back at square one where you had started.

Inside of you a dull, constant ache had settled in the spot where your heart used to be, bitter and stinging against the anger that was growing in your ribs and the nausea festering in your guts. You couldn’t close your eyes without seeing the rage-twisted face of the man you had thought you loved, thought you trusted; the image worse than any nightmare. You ran through the scenario over and over and over until it drove you to silent, secretive tears.

Years of learning to track, hunt, and kill quarry was only a blip on your mental radar compared to the memories you had made with the Mandalorian and his son during the short time you had known them. You wanted to remember the good things, like the sweet laughter of the child or even the funny, gross-ish noises that Din made when he ate. Anything but those furious, hateful eyes and bared teeth, but that was all you saw whenever you so much as blinked.

Behind your closed eyes was the face of rage, but when your eyes were open it was even harder to convince yourself this was your reality, because you kept seeing… something. A flicker here, a flash of blue there. The feeling that someone was standing next to you when you were in an empty room, as rare as that was now that you were back under the ever-watchful eye of the Admiral.

Though your eyes were playing tricks on you, that wasn’t the strangest thing you’d noticed about the old dragon. Aside from the Admiral there wasn’t a single member of the skeletal crew that you recognized, though almost all of them wore some form of duraplast covering their faces. Every bilgerat you had grown up with had vanished, as well as most of the officers that you’d actually grown to like, including Chief Wellers, the engineering deck staffed with more droids now than people.

It was strange to say the least, and lonely, being left with only one recognizable face that you loathed. The unfamiliar officers glared at you while you were being led up the Wyvern’s wide entryway days ago, making judgemental passes at your hunt-fucked attire. To better match the remaining crew you were stripped of your gear and weapons and given a fresh, beige-and-black uniform that rode up under your arms and chaffed your thighs. And to add insult to injury you had even been given a stupid little hat to top it off. You hated it, but at least it had pockets. Pockets full of secrets.

Wrapped up in the red silk kerchief that you had stolen on Canto Bight, the pair of beloved fossils weighed heavy against your thigh, a piercing reminder of another life. Why are you keeping them? He left you, dumbass. He’s not coming back. True as that may be, you weren’t ready to let go, the wound was still too fresh, too recent. You missed those strange boys from the stars, and the tiny collection of trinkets was all you had left of a life that had actually meant something to you.

A set of beskar ear cuffs, a red pocket square, and a pair of krayt’s teeth.

An entire lifetime sitting in the palms of your hands.

You had one in your hand now, the opalized bone glittering under fluorescent lights while you used it to pick at the undersides of your nails, the priceless gemstones reduced to cleaning tools. Glancing up at the ship's clock you calculated how long you had before Forescythe would come around to ‘wake you’, as if you’d slept at all in the last three days.

The Wyvern’s Tongue was surprisingly still docked at the station you had been abandoned on, a scorching reminder of your trauma every time you passed a porthole or walked the bridge, stuck to the Admiral’s side like he had you on a leash. It was difficult to tell what they were loading the ship up with, but every time you saw the station you caught another massive skiff-load of something with the word HAZARDOUS in big yellow letters being hauled aboard from one of the other starships that had docked nearby.

You heard footsteps outside your spartan quarters, getting closer then fading away. Stormtrooper. Though you weren’t being kept prisoner, exactly, the constant vigil between the Admiral and the troopers left you little-to-no privacy, with only the smallests gaps in their overlaps. The rotation of the guards through the hallways was militant with its timing, and it wouldn’t be much longer before you had all of their routes memorized.

The long-strided gait of the Admiral echoed far down the hallway, and you snuck your fangs into your pockets so you could make yourself presentable. Oh-seven-hundred, on the dot. Barely a courtesy knock was given before the detestable man was letting himself into your room, running through the day’s itinerary after a hastily given ‘Good morning, Sparrow.’

Sparrow. Your deadname was dropped frequently, scalding your steeled ears each time, though rarely was it said with anything short of admiration. You almost wanted to be scolded, and you should have been for dissenting for as long as you did, but the way the Admiral talked to you was friendly, dangerously friendly; and the sweet-talking only made you resent him more.

“Today is the last day we will be docked at Elgon, we’ve nearly finished loading up on the...supplies, and will be in hyperspace soon. This old girl’s been fitted with an updated hyperdrive, so we’ll make the trip to our destination in good time.” You nodded, avoiding conversation. It was best that you spoke to him as little as possible to perpetuate the lie that you had become tone deaf, and you could tell that it drove him insane. Good, fuck your shit to hell. He gestured for you to follow him on his rounds, walking alongside him like an obedient puppy. “Come along, little bird, there is much for us to do today.”

“Yessir.”

He froze and turned back at you, a pouty face stretched grossly across his gaunt features. “Now now, Sparrow, I know you’re upset that you’re not my comms officer anymore, but you’re home again, you can drop the formalities when we’re in private.” He crossed the short distance to you, placing his hands on your shoulder and digging his thumbs into the deep-set bruises that he couldn’t see. “You don’t have to call me sir.”

You wished you could vomit on command, spew acid like a voxyn and melt the Admiral's face clean off, peel his smile right off of his skull. You knew what he wanted, but you would rather cut off your own tongue than give it to him. But you knew what would happen if he didn’t get what he wanted, your skin crawling at repressed memories. He left you no choice.

“Yes… father.”

“There, doesn’t that sound better? Almost makes me feel like you never even left.”

No it wasn’t better, it was horrid. You forced your face to stay neutral, but behind your eyes you were seething. It must have been the anger welling up inside you that made you see something flicker over the Admiral’s shoulder. Something that definitely wasn’t there.

You were going to get off of this ship if it fucking killed you.

~

Of course it had to be Tatooine.

The dirtball of a planet lit up the viewport in front of Din, bathing the cockpit in sickly, lemon-yellow light. The Crest slid easily through the thin atmosphere on well-tuned wings, coasting over the infinitely stretching desert until the familiar skyline of Mos Eisley rose into view.

Mando took the old gunship in with rehearsed accuracy, alighting gracefully on the landing pad in the center of hangar 3-5, though not even the roar of the Razor’s engines could drown out the high pitched argument already echoing around the circular space.

“You gotta lotta nerve showing up here again, Mando!” Peli barked, tapping her foot like a disgruntled hare when the Mandalorian started down the ramp. She took a big breath to really launch into a tirade when she saw the foundling, with his huge sad eyes and limply drooping ears. “What… what’s wrong with the baby? Is’ee sick or somethin’?” Din started to hand her the child, but she raised her arms defensively. “Look, he’s cute’n all but I-I don’t need a sick kid on my hands.”

“He’s not sick, he’s... fine.” Din said in a low, level voice, devoid of almost all emotion. Somewhat reluctantly the mechanic took Grogu from him, and the little green baby curled up in a ball of sadness, hiding his head under her chin.

“Alright, if you say so. I don’t mind watchin’ him as long as he don’t upchuck on my jumpsuit.” She glanced past the iron giant’s shoulders, her eyebrows raised almost comically. “Where’s the other one? You get rid of her finally?” Din was still for a moment, then gave a single, slow nod. “Good. Bout time someone turned that Imp in. I’m tellin’ ya, she cheated at sabbac like-”

“How did you know she was an Imp?” Mando asked, suddenly alive.

“I have my ways.” She chided. Din cocked his head vehemently above stiffened shoulders. “Alright alright don’t look at me like that, geez. When she showed up here it was in a Shimian pleasure cruiser, y’know one of those fancy, expensive lookin’ ones. Obviously stolen. She wanted me to take it, even offered to pay me just to take it off’er hands, but I wasn’t gonna fall for that. She had alotta credits too, almost enough to talk me into it, almost! That’s when she pulled out an Imperial officer’s insignia, pure aurodium and easily worth a fortune.”

Peli paused to adjust Grogu, smoothing a wayward ear out of her face. “If she’d’a picked it off a corpse there’s no way she would’a kept it. Nuh-uh, would’a sold that baby the first chance she got. Nah, it meant something to her once, or maybe it was just the last bargaining chip she had, I don’t know.”

The mechanic shrugged. “Either way, I took the token an’ fenced the ship, made alotta cash that day. If she didn’t cheat at sabacc so damn much I’d invite her over more often!” The mechanic snorted a laugh, then a serious look crossed her face. “Hey, um, Mando… you weren’t… you weren’t too rough with her, were ya? When you turned her in? She wasn’t a bad egg, y’know. Bit snarky but- ”

Leather fists creaked at the end of armored wrists, trying to strangle the pain that was constricting his heart. “Can you watch the child or not?”

Surprised by his harsh tone, Peli nodded quickly and watched the Mandalorian spin around on his heel and storm back up the ramp into the Crest without another word. The confused mechanic looked down to Grogu with a playful scowl. “What’s his deal, huh, womp rat?” The child cooed sadly, hiding his face. “Oh, that bad, huh? Wanna tell me about it over some bantha burgers? They’re fresh! C’mon, you look like you’re wasting away, dad not feeding you right?”

“Pa..tu...”

With the child’s care secured, Din started his preparations for the hunt. Dressing-down was second nature to him, and going through the motions helped him clear his mind, tune him into his natural state of being. At the armory, he popped fresh cartridges into his blasters, refilled the slug-strap that crossed his chest, and picked out a handful of vibroblades.

He reached into the bottom of the locker, trying to dig out a whetstone when he heard the sweet ringing of ironsong where his wrist armor chimed against a beskar mask. He’d stashed the engagement present as far down in the armory as he could, somewhere that it would remain hidden, somewhere that it couldn’t stare back at him; the eyeless visage glaring daggers of judgement straight through his skull.

Oathbreaker.

Growling, he shoved the slab of steel out of the way, knocking it into something else in the bottom of the armory: Imp guns.

He stopped digging for a moment, cocking his helmet at the collection of grimey, rust-ridden armaments that were dirtying up the bottom of the cabinet. Din pulled one of the standard-issue blasters up into the slanted daylight coming in from the open door, turning it over in his hands. The guns had been collected on Nevarro from a decrepit squad of stormtroopers caught harassing townspeople for information on the missing mandos.

Stormtroopers that you had killed.

Imps killing Imps? That… doesn’t make sense. Why would she kill her own people? He shook his head. Why would they abduct children or blow up planets? Killing their own isn’t that far-fetched. He tossed the blaster back into the locker, covering the beskar faceplate with the rest of the Imp accessories until it was back out of sight.

Finished with arming himself, he took a deep breath and held it in his chest for as long as he could, letting it out slow and steady. He fished the singular bounty fob from his belt, the tracking light flashing with a rhythmic candor. Nearby, but not close. That means they’re probably in town.

This will be easy.

~

The hour was late, or as late as it could be in a place where ‘day’ and ‘night’ were only concepts represented by the arms of a clock, but it was perfect for what you needed to do. You were dressed and your pockets were stuffed, bag slung over your shoulder exactly as it had been the first time you’d ran away from home. Five fifteen, three minutes before the next pass of guards.

Your plan was flawless. The Wyvern’s labyrinthian hallways and service spaces would lead you to the hangar bay just as they had years ago, it was just a matter of doing so unseen. If you played your cards right you would miss each and every patrol until you could snag another interceptor and get the hell outta dodge. The Wyvern was scheduled to disembark Elgon at oh-seven-hundred, making this your last chance to escape before the ship was swallowed by the stars.

Five sixteen.

Patting your front pockets where your fangs were hidden, you paced the room, running through the pathway again and again. Straight down the hallway past the guard quarters, left at the galley. Unscrew the loose air vent at the end of the breezeway and take that to the main air shaft ‘til you reach the mid deck, then it’s a straight shot-

D̵̫͊o̷n̸’t̷ lea̸̒ve̷.

You stopped your pacing and blinked, glancing around the room for the source of the voice. When you saw no one, you sighed and rubbed your temples. Not this shit again. The incessant voice of your nightmares had stopped being scary and started being just downright annoying. You’d started to get good at ignoring the sound, though it just loved keeping you up at night.

Who needs sleep, anyway?

Five seventeen. Your shoulders crackled when you rolled them, trying to loosen the bruised tissue that the Mandalorian had put in their joints. Asshole. You were about to start counting seconds when you heard the troopers boots echoing faintly from down the hallway. Right on t-

D̷͊o̶n̵͗’̴̕t̷͛ ̵͔͘ḻ̷̛eav̵e!

“Fuck off, spooky.” You hissed to no one in particular. “I’m blowin’ this popsicle stand and ain’t no goddamn ghost gonna keep me here a minute longer.” The bootsteps got louder until they were right outside your door, then continued down the hallway.

Five eighteen on the dot. You waited until the footfalls disappeared entirely, then snuck your way out through the bulkhead door, careful not to make a sound. The long, low-lit corridors echoed with the whirring innards of the Wyvern, but nothing else. Not even your bootsteps.

Much quieter than the ghosts that haunted your dreams, you slinked down the hallway, past the closed door of the guard quarters, hugging the wall by the galley until the five twenty-one patrol passed, then flew to the air vent on the far side of the kitchen.

A knife would have worked better, but a fossil fang was good enough to undo the corner screws that kept the grate in place. You slipped down the air duct right before the five-twenty-three patrol rounded the far corner. Waiting until they passed so they wouldn’t hear you, you belly-crawled down the narrow shaft until you dropped into the main air supply.

Wind rushed around you, delivering precious oxygen to every corner of the ship, but even over the near-howling gales you could still hear Spooky giving you a ration of crap.

Yo̷u̵ ca̴n̷̎not le̸̪̕a̵ve! ̵͒S̷tay̴ ̸̔st̷͐ay ̴s̷t̵̂a̷y̵̾ s̷͂ta̵̍y

“You fucking suck!” You spat, hobbling through the just-too-short-to-stand-up ventilation. “Keep your damn pie hole shut unless you have something useful to-”

H̴e’̴̓s ̴̉c̶̍oming.

You hit the brakes, possibly sacrificing precious time. “Who, Forescythe? He’s gotta get his beauty rest, that old fuck’ll be down at least til-”

N̵͒ò̶, n̴o̸t̶ ̴̓hi̵m, Din.

Ice coagulated in your veins before it was replaced with molten rage. “Oh. Oh ho HO.” You laughed, barely keeping your voice down. “Now… now you’ve done it, Spook. Now I know you’re not real, and I’m just completely batshit! Off my rocker!” You soldiered on, a manic grin on your face. “He is definetly not fucking coming. And if you’d been paying attention you’d know that too.”

H̴e’̴̓s ̴̉c̶̍oming!

“Blow me.” You hustled through the ductwork until you were above the entryway to the hangar. The interceptor bay was on its own air supply in case a magcon failed and vacuumed all the air out, a separate system from the one you were in now. That way the rest of the ship would still have precious oxygen in the event of catastrophe, all you had to do now was get through the door.

The five-thirty-five trooper plodded sleepily along, tilting his egghead back to sip at a steaming mug of caf. What is the point of having a guard rotation if they’re not even awake. Once he’d rounded the corner you set to work on the air vent, quickly spinning the threaded ends of the screws around between your fingers until they clattered to the floor far below.

Carefully you moved the grate out of the way and dropped to the decking in front of the hangar door. Bingo! You dashed to the access panel, slapping your hand on the wide palm reader. Go go go go! The blue laser light slid back and forth, back and forth, lazily reading your fingerprints. Come on!!!

The panel went red. ENTRY DENIED.

“Cocksucker!” You slapped the screen, demanding it take another reading, but instead it flashed another line of text: SPW-7042 PRE-EXISTING MEDICAL CONDITION DETECTED, ENTRY BARRED DUE TO HAZARDOUS RHYDONIUM EXPOSURE.

“‘Scuse me?!” you poked at the screen like an geriatric Gungan, “The hell do you mean rhydonium? What fucking lunatic loads a starship up with rhydonium?! Whatever, fuck your rhydonium nonsense you big goddamn hunk of junk, let me through!”

A third line of text ticked across the screen: CONDITION: PREGNANT.

You BARKED you laughed so hard. “Wooooow, that starfuel must be fuckin’ with your circuits, shitscraps, I’ve been chipped since I was thirteen. Ain’t nobody home.” Loud footsteps echoed further down the hallway, times up. Cursing silently, you poked at the screen until the faulty reading cleared, then booked it in the opposite direction of the incoming trooper. Your plan to escape had been thwarted by the Wyvern’s garbage security protocols, and without another way through you were stuck until the ship made it out of hyperspace.

In a week.

~

Somebody had once equated Mos Eisley to a wretched hive of scum and villainy, and the description couldn’t possibly be more on the nose. A multitude of shady market-goers hustled and bustled down the desert streets, kicking up sand and dust as they went. The Tatooinian bazaar was one of the few places that the Mandalorian blended in, amid the multitude of colorful characters the armored hunter was practically invisible.

Din ambled through the streets, not even trying to be sneaky, though behind his beskar he was suspicious of everyone that passed him by. He wasn’t too concerned about his last bounty, almost nonchalantly making his way to the cantina where the bail jumper would certainly be at with their nose buried in either a deck of cards or a shot of spotchka. Or both.

It was easy to follow the street signs to the local dive bar, making him feel almost lazy with how little effort this would take. Feeling bored almost to the point of pessimism, he took a deep breath, the filtered air bringing with it the smell of street food.

He stopped, holding the air in his lungs before forcing it out quickly, taking another handful of deep sniffs. Though he wasn’t eating much these days, or sleeping, or anything else that humans needed to do in order to function properly, the aroma of whatever was being cooked distracted him until it had his full, undivided attention.

Din followed his nose off of the path he was taking to the cantina, his helmet tilting back slightly with each strong inhalation, taking him down the busy main street until he spotted the source of the familiar spice.

Over a large fire a spit was turning with what looked like oversized root vegetables, slathered in herbs and spices and grilled to perfection. Mando cocked his bucket at the rotisserie, ignoring the chef that was trying to hassle him into buying something, trying to figure out what was so familiar about it.

Then it hit him.

You.

Many moons ago, he’d watched you book it out of the safety of the hangar and dash towards the delicious street food while the Mandalorian began picking off the hunters that were still chasing you. You’d barely even looked up from your meal as the bounty hunter dragged a squirming Trandoshan down an alleyway and slit it’s scaly throat. It wasn’t until a whole drop through hyperspace later that Din had found out that you had bought him one of the grilled veggies as well. Before you even knew his name.

Mando, you never ate your breakfast.

You… got me breakfast?

Yes? I said I would.

Thank you… you’re very kind.

And don’t you forget it!

The memory flooded his synapses with forgotten joy before being replaced with scalding fury. He shook his head, storming off down the busy main road, dead set now on finding his quarry. How dare you let that fucking Imp continue to distract you. Get to work.

The doors to the cantina nearly broke off when the living locomotive plowed through them, barging his way through the sleazy patrons towards the bar. Lively music and inhalant smoke hung heavy in the air, shrouding the far corners of the saloon and the secrets they may have kept hidden.

Din was too annoyed with himself to properly check his surroundings, but whatever, it’s just Mos Eisley, he could whip every fucko in this joint with his hands tied behind his back if it struck his fancy. He strode up to the bartender with an air of disgruntled confidence so strong it rivaled the smoky atmosphere with its potency. The Mandalorian fished the final bounty puck out of his many pockets and slammed it down on the counter, its holoprojection wavering in the heady smog.

“Have you seen this man?” Din snapped at the bartender, pointing at the weasley-looking face of the bail jumper shining above the counter.

The barkeep, a shaggy-looking Toydarian with a torn wing, eyed the beskar clad warrior suspiciously. “Hmm. Can’ta’ say’a have.'' he huffed, clearly lying.

“Are you sure?” Din asked, sliding a couple of credits over the counter. “Maybe this will jog your memory.” The Toydarian snatched the coins off the counter with shovel-clawed fingers, stowing them away on his belt.

He leaned forward, the acrid smell of alcohol and rotting teeth quickly overpowering the stench of tobacco. “Maybe I see’s ‘im, maybes I don’t…” Another couple of credits clinked to the counter and immediately vanished from view. “Ya, I see’s ‘im.” He stroked his thickly bristled chin, seemingly deep in thought. “You know what? You’a seem’a like a good guy, why don’t’a I take’a you to ‘im, hmm? Come come come.”

The creature’s wings flapped unevenly as he rose off the stepstool he was using behind the bar, floating through the cantina towards a door obscured by an ornate drapery. Din started to follow, but stopped, feeling his hackles rise on the back of his neck. Should I actually follow this guy? Maybe it’s a trap. He pulled the fob out from his belt just enough that he could see the blinking light flashing quicker than before. I’ll be fine, let’s just get this over with.

The Toydarian opened the door behind the curtain, and immediately the reek of Spice wafted up from the hidden cellar. Drug den, great. That would make sense, what better way to spend your bail money than Huttese Spice, wasting away in the dark. Cautiously he made his way down the stone steps, the light of the cantina fading away as the door started to close behind him. Before it shut, he knew he heard the barkeep mutter something under his breath.

“Coo ya maya stupa…” You weak minded fool.

Din whirled at the insult, but the door had already slammed shut, echoing loudly through the hollow passageway. Cursing, Mando continued down the stairs into the spice den, the aroma of the coveted drug growing stronger with each step until it was making him nauseous. At the foot of the stairs was a low, poorly lit room, the stucco ceiling strung over with dark purple lanterns that steeped the den in near-darkness. Strewn about the floor, the inebriated lounged on pillows or rugs, or even the bare stone, plumes of narcotic smoke dancing over their shadowy faces, obscuring most from view.

Pulling the fob out again, he hovered the tracking device over each intoxicated body, waiting for the light to change green. His search took him further and further into the basement until he had to switch on his headlamp just to be able to see. At the farthest end of the room the last possible person was slumped against the wall, and the hunter crossed the remaining distance to the limp figure, grabbing them roughly by the shoulder and hauling them into the light.

The dead man’s withered head snapped from its twiggy neck and rolled away into the dark, making Din nearly throw the corpse to the ground, the body rattling in the manacles that chained it to the wall. Startled, he backed away quickly, too quickly, backing into something sharp. He tried to whirl around on his sudden assailant, but the stabbing pain of an addict’s needle immediately pierced through the thick layers of his duraweave and into his flesh.

Reacting on fear more than training, he lashed out wildly, firing his blaster with one hand and his flame thrower with the other. The wall of fire lit the cellar up brighter than daylight, illuminating the alien faces of the falsely-inebriated attackers that had been lying in wait for the barkeep to send another fool into their trap. Fearing for his life, for his son, Din battled his way through the many hands grabbing at him, but even in his fury he started to feel his pulse slowing down, reacting to the heavy dose of Spice he had been pricked with.

The room began to spin, his eyes began to lose sight, and it wasn’t until his skull cracked against the dirty floor that he realized his helmet had been removed in the fray, damning him forever in the eyes of his Creed. As the world began to fade away he felt himself get kicked over onto his face and a pair of cuffs locked around his wrists.

“Skocha-kloonkee, the Imps’a gonna pay’a lot’sa money for you, mister bucket man. Hehehe, should’a known better than’a to go into a spicehole alone.”

Before Din lost consciousness entirely, his spiked mind conjured up an image of you, lounging in the passenger seat with Grogu seated on your lap, watching the stars streak by overhead. He tried to reach you, his arms straining weakly against his fetters, trying to touch the memory of you one last time. You turned to him and smiled, holding the baby’s fat little paw up and waving it at him.

“Beans, say bye-bye to papa.”

~

The hour was still early, but you were already dressed in your stupid little monkey suit, ears clad in your empty beskar cuffs, pockets full of fabric and fangs; backpack abandoned entirely to avoid suspicion. Today you would be finding out where the Wyvern was destined for when she left port, but you didn’t really care. All that mattered was that the hangar doors would be open during the myriad of activities.

Today was your chance to escape.

*Beep!* Dropping from hyperspace in: one hour.

The navigational warning chimed throughout the expansive corridors of the Wyvern, echoing pragmatically in your spartan room, and you danced a little jig with excitement. Toodle-oo, fuckos! Consider this popsicle stand: blown!

In your abysmally small quarters the fresher area left much to be desired, but the Admiral had at least done you the decency of giving you a private room with it’s own washing space, as tiny as it was. The shower, sink, and potty all shared the same square footage, and the mirror on the wall was barely big enough to fit your face.

You were working on your appearance now, making yourself presentable before father dearest came around. The more you looked like you had accepted your position as crewmate, the less likely he was to notice you go missing when you slipped away. You combed your hair with your fingers, brushing it back as to more easily seat the dumb little hat on your head. Turning away from the mirror, you picked the hat up off the sink and started to put it on, but nearly jumped out of your skin when you saw someone else's eyes staring back at you.

Yo̷u̵ ca̴n̷̎not le̸̪̕a̵ve.

Angrily you stomped your foot, startled by the flickering, faceless apparition that wasn’t physically there when you turned around. “Shit balls of motherfucking hell! I can’t get off‘a this ship fast enough! I can’t get away from you fast enough!” You smushed your hat on your head, glaring at the bluish, indeterminate figure.

H̴e’̴̓s ̴̉c̶̍oming.

“Listen here, you ectoplasmic bitch.” You hissed with fury, stabbing your pointer finger at the warped image in the aluminum. “I don’t know who you are, or where you’re getting your ‘information’ from, but he ain’t coming!” The deep-cut wounds of heartbreak that had started to scar over split open again, spilling fresh sorrow down over your ribs. “I-I don’t need him anyway. I can handle this myself.”

He n̵ee̵d̶s y̵ó̴̧u̶.

“Bullshit!” You stormed away from the mirror while the Wyvern’s antique wiring faulted overhead, making the fluorescent lights flicker and allowing the shadows to reveal the space where the phantom was standing; casting a faint, ghastly aura on the corners of the room. Snatching a fang from your pocket you whirled on the void, brandishing the pointy end at where a throat might be. “Who’d’ya think you are, anyway, huh? Acting like you know what’s best for me? Telling me that Din’s gonna come back? Ain’t no knight-in-shining-beskar coming for me and I’m sick of you telling me otherwise!”

H̴e’̴̓s ̴̉c̶̍oming.

“That’s it! I’ve had it with your games! Your lies! Show yourself, you spookyass motherfucker! Show me who you really are!”

Sweat began to bead on your brow, anger and heartbreak and venom coursing hotly through your veins until it was pulsating behind your eyes. You grabbed the second fang, ready to sink your teeth into the incessant phantom, their edges cutting into the marks they had already put on your palms once before. To any onlookers you would have appeared like a madwoman, brandishing glittering fossils at empty space, your lips pulled back in a snarl, ready to strike.

“I said show yourself!”

Out went the lights.

And in came the ghosts.

Though the bulbs overhead had blacked out completely, the room was radiating with the light of the sudden crowd, the masses of shimmering specters appearing to go on endlessly throughout a space bigger than your room, bigger even than the Wyvern herself, stretching well beyond the edges of infinity. Farther and farther and farther until your eyes couldn’t distinguish them anymore.

There. Were. Billions.

You blinked fast, your breath catching in your lungs until you were nearly hyperventilating, feeling claustrophobic amid the incorporeal congregation. The sweat on your brow turned to ice, your eyes darting between every face, every person, every body, seeing them clearly for the first time.

Some of them wore elaborate robes, some of them were dressed like peasants, and even more distressing were a collection of beskar plated warriors, their visors glowing with otherworldly light. There were species you were familiar with, and many many more that you weren’t. Some of them were even wearing white duraplast, their eggshells cracked to reveal the glowing eyes underneath.

Some of them you recognized.

“We are the victims of the Empire. The citizens of Alderaan, of Jedha, Scarif, Mandalore and countless others. The Republic we once served turned its back on us, and then its weapons, eradicating the very people that brought it into being.”

Many voices spoke at once, the cacophony of it resonating in your skull until you were clawing at your ears, nearly dropping your impromptu daggers to protect yourself from the skull-splitting noise.

“You must stop it from happening again, but you can not do so alone. Only with your soulmate at your side will you save the people from the vindication of the Empire.”

Hot tears stung at your eyes, flooding out from a place of fear and anger. “Soulmate? SOULMATE?! Bullshit! Bullshit bulllshit bullshit! Din is not my soulmate, if he was then he wouldn’t have left me here rot! Dumped me on the Empire’s front fucking door like yesterday’s garbage! Not that I can even blame him anymore, who could ever love an Imp? We are monsters!”

“You are not an Imp, Tra’laar. You are something far greater than they will ever be.”

The sound of your gifted name hurt in your chest more than the broiling hatred that bubbled underneath your broken heart, taking you down to your knees. In front of you, a pair of specters knelt down to your level, a man and a woman in intricately embroidered red robes. The woman’s eyes were warm and adoring, and the way her cheeks rolled high almost made you feel calm, maybe even loved. The man’s aquiline nose stood out beautifully above his radiant smile, giving you the impression that this was a man who would go to the ends of the galaxy for those he loved.

They looked hauntingly familiar.

The woman reached for your hand, and you felt her. You felt her holding you, as if she were really there, her dainty fingers brushing over where the fang was biting into your skin, fading away the pain. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she was still smiling, looking at you like someone seeing the stars for the very first time.

“You are Hope Incarnate.”

You bolted upright from your little cot, gasping for air until your throat was so dry it felt like fire. Sweat streaked over your brow and down the dip of your spine, soaking the sheets under you. With wild, bloodshot eyes you searched around your closet-sized room for any trace of the phantoms, but even in the dim night light you could tell you were alone. Angry with yourself, you slammed a fist into the steel wall, furious that you had been duped by hyperspace yet again.

The pain of striking the unforgiving hull stung more than you thought it should. Flipping on the lights, you gasped when you looked at your palms, the healed krayt bites red with fresh blood. It had been days since you sliced your palms on their edges, pounding on the bottom of the Razor Crests ramp, and the skin had long since closed up. But now it was as fresh as the day they had been cut, weeping crimson.

I have got to get off of this ship.

It took the remainder of the hour to compose yourself, getting out of your sweat-soaked pajamas and tending to your wounds; but at least Spooky and Friends let you be. Your mind replayed the omen on repeat until you were certain that you had completely lost your mind. No such thing as ghosts. You are tired, you are stressed, and you are completely absolutely one hundred percent bonkers. Fuck this entire noise.

Dressed in your stupid little outfit, for real this time, you sat at the edge of your bed until the the Wyvern’s navigational warning sounded again, giving you only a moment before the ship was dropped out of hyperspace. Eager to get the fuck out, you ran out of your room so quickly that you nearly smashed into the Admiral as he was coming around. “Ah, good morning, Sparrow. I see you’re eager to start the day. Come, I need you on the bridge.”

Obediently you followed along behind Forescythe without a word, letting the imposing captain carve a swath through the multitude of scurrying crewmates as you made your way to the flight deck. When the blast doors opened on the wide, triangular space, your eyes went right over the heads of the officers and out the window to the bright yellow world hanging beneath the ship.

“Is that… Is that Tatooine?”

“How very observant of you. Yes, it is indeed, though it won’t be for much longer.”

Whispers hissed at your eardrums, you must stop it from happening again. “What do you mean?”

The Admiral chuckled, the sound grating like nails on chalkboard. “It’s been hard keeping this secret from you, little bird, but you know how much I love surprises! Oh, look, here comes the rest of the fleet.” He nodded towards the transparisteel as another, smaller starcruiser came into view. Then another, and another, and another until there were at least a dozen titanium daggers hovering in a semi-circle that spanned out on either side of the Wyvern like wings.

“The Empire has been busy since you left,” he scolded, folding his arms behind his back like some kind of skeletal vulture. “The Death Star is obsolete, though the mere idea of a supermassive planet destroyer was folly from the beginning, taking decades to build and almost as long to fire. No more, now we can vaporize an entire world with just one single ship.” He gestured with a flourish, blind to the color draining from your face. “The Wyvern will be at the forefront of the Empire’s destructive capabilities, and lucky you, you will have the honor of a front row seat. What a pity it is that you cannot serenade Tatooine’s demise with one of your songs.”

Stinging bile crept up your throat, threatening to send you into a panic. “Th-there’s people down there. How can you justify killing so many innocents?”

Forecythe scoffed, “Innocents?! On that dirtball of a planet? Inconceivable. The Maker will thank us for wiping it off of the face-” His monologue was interrupted by a hailing beacon lighting up on the communication officer's holodeck. The officer in your old seat answered the incoming transmission, talking to whoever was on the other line through their headset.

“Sir, they’ve located the target.”

“Excellent! And on Tatooine, no less. How ironic. Have the target transported to the receiving hangar so we may make their acquaintance.”

You’d long since become numb to the Admiral’s prattling, your mind racing to find a way to stop Tatooine from being wiped off the map. The ugly little hunk of rock had done you no favors, but that wasn’t an excuse to add more names to the list of dead. You were startled when you were addressed again.

“Come along, little bird, I have a gift for you.” Forescythe said with a crooked smile. If he was trying to be genuine, the effect was entirely lost upon you, his gummy smile reminding you of the forgotten captain’s corpse you’d discovered on Endor. I don’t want anything from you, monster. You flashed him a pair of raised eyebrows in response, and he turned on his heel, waving for you to follow. Whatever the distraction was would at least buy you some time.

You dutifully walked alongside the Admiral through the ship towards the balcony that oversaw the receiving bay. The hangar was swarming with troopers and officers alike, eagerly anticipating the transport unit that was easing itself through the magcon field. The bloated tick of a ship billowed with steam as its landing gear deployed, and soon the short access ramp was angling to the ground. Out first stepped a pair of troopers, their guns drawn on the open door.

Then, out stepped a man.

He was cuffed with his arms behind his back, escorted by another pair of troopers manhandling him down the ramp. Blood poured freely from a wound on his scalp, matting his dark brown curls and pooling in the exposed recess of his eyes. His gait was unsteady, though he was still futilely trying to wrest himself free of the troopers as they marched him through the hangar. You nearly puked your heart out at the sight.

Din.

The Admiral laughed proudly, “They’ve caught that damned mando that everyone’s been on about, though I’m not entirely sure why Moff Gideon struggled so much to catch him, or even what he wanted from such a loathsome creature. There’s nothing of value on him except maybe his armor.” A vile glint sparked in the man’s eyes. “It will be so much fun to peel it off.”

You barely heard his words over the sound of your heartbeat thundering violently through your ears. No.. no no no no no. Another egghead disembarked from the transport, carrying Din’s helmet like an empty garbage can. You swallowed around the cotton growing in your mouth, fumbling for words. “They took his helmet off...”

“Indeed. Being uncrowned is the greatest dishonor you can inflict on one of those wretched things, it renders them worse than dead in the eyes of their cult. After we remove Tatooine from the sky we should-”

“Before.” You interrupted, your voice cold and level, far cry from the hurricane of turmoil you were choking down. “Before we attack Tatooine. I want... I want to tear his armor off, and then I want him to watch. As punishment for stealing my ship.”

The Admiral’s wicked grin sent shivers down your spine, and you knew your lie had taken root. “Very well! Oh Sparrow, it’s so good to have you back aboard. I’d always wondered if you’d taken after me.” Disgust welled up in your guts at the pride beaming off the vile man, but at least you were going to get close to Din.

And do… what, exactly?

The tall man leaned over the balcony railing, shouting down at the guards. “Take the prisoner to the bridge, and make him… comfortable. Wouldn’t want him to miss the show!” Behind you Forescythe turned on his heel and set off back towards the bridge, and you cast a wary glance down at the prisoner below. Din’s bloody head hung limpy, but when it swung your way his blackened eyes caught you, glaring daggers through your soul before one of the guards cold-clocked him between his shoulder blades.

If Din’s here then where’s Grogu? You watched the transport unit, scanning for signs of life, but it appeared to be empty. Ok, maybe they didn’t get him. Your already sickened heart did a violent backflip in your chest, or maybe they did and took him somewhere else, or worse, left him for dead. Din and the guards disappeared through a sliding bulkhead, and you sprang to life to hurry in the Admiral’s footsteps.

When you arrived at the bridge, the stormtroopers had already magnetized Din’s cuffed wrists to the wall, dangling him just far enough off the floor that he couldn’t support his weight properly with his legs. The blood clouding his eyes dripped down the length of his nose and over his lips, staining his teeth crimson. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, hinting at a broken rib or two; but worst of all were his eyes. Bared for all to see, violating his Creed with every Imperial gaze that fell on his uncovered face, and yet the pools of bloodied earth were locked to only one other pair.

Yours.

“Looks like he remembers you.” Forescythe said with a villainous laugh, striding slowly over to the manacled Mandalorian. “My my, would you look at him, he is quite impressive, or at least he was”. The Admiral hovered just out of Din’s kicking range, cocking his head like a raptor eyeing a weak little mouse. “See this marking?” he said, pointing a bony finger at the mudhorn on Din’s pauldron. “They only get these when they become clan leaders. This one’s probably got a whole nest somewhere, breeding like rats. Is that what Moff Gideon was after, hmm? The rest of your bucket headed zealots?”

Din growled, the timbre of it so low and threatening you felt a chill run down your spine. He shouldn’t be here. Though you were still furious with him for what he did to you, you knew this wasn’t a fate that he deserved. Doesn’t he though? Doesn’t he deserve exactly what he did to me? Bile burned in the back of your throat. No, nobody deserves this, not even him.

Forescythe chuckled darkly at the Mandalorian’s weak show of bravado. “I was there, you know, when they gave the order to eviscerate that pathetic excuse for a planet.” Yellowed teeth shined under cold, soulless eyes in a smile that could freeze blood. “I was one of the first commanders to get to… test out the kyber crystal technology that eventually led to the creation of the Death Star. They made me a captain for it, commissioned a Corellian ship for me and everything.” He leaned in close to Din, grinning wickedly at the warrior’s seething anger. “Doesn’t Mandalore look so pretty now, all turned to glass?”

“Demagolka!”

The admiral scoffed at the searing insult, nodding to one of the guards. An electric prod crackled to life in the trooper’s grip before it was being stabbed into Din’s unarmored side, making him cry out in pain.

“No!” You shrieked, immediately covering your incriminating piehole. Fuck.

-flicker flick-

Forescythe glanced up at the sputtering lights, then slowly, maliciously down to you. He scrutinized you a moment, then readdressed the guard, not taking his eyes away from your failing facade.

“Again.”

-czzt cRaCK cRAcK CRACK!!-

You ground your molars into paste trying to keep yourself from screaming, but tears pricking in the corners of your eyes gave away your distress, and when the Admiral signaled the guard a third time it became unbearable.

“Stop it!” You roared through snarling teeth, ignoring the faulty lighting and the feel of the ship quake underneath you.

Forescythe’s eyes lit up like fireworks. “I knew it.” he hissed, his lips curling upwards in a serpentis sneer. “I knew that voice of yours was special, but I never realized you needed a catalyst in order to unlock your potential. Does this... upset you?” He snapped his fingers at the guard, sending another bolt of electricity through Din’s body and bringing more angry tears to your eyes.

“Stop hurting him! I’ll.. I’ll do whatever you want just let him go!” You yanked the cuffs off of your ears and cast them on the floor, the sound of beskar on durasteel jingling like loose change. “I’ll… I’ll sing. Whatever you want, just stop hurting him!”

“Oh, no... we’re well past that now, little bird.” Forescythe loomed over you, an evil glint in his eye. “Now that I know I didn’t waste all those years training your voice, we’re going to take it for a little spin.”

Little miss well-behaved evaporated from your roster of characters, replaced with the big bad bitch you knew and loved. “I’m not doing a goddamn thing. I don’t know what you’re on about, you old shitbag, but you don’t control me. I’m not afraid of you!” you growled, snarling like a rabid nexu.

“That’s no way to talk to your superior officer, bilgerat.” Boney fingers snatched you by the collar of your uniform. “You think I pulled you from the scuppers because of your pretty little songs? No, Sparrow, I knew there was more to you than that. I knew it when I heard your voice through three whole decks of durasteel, and I knew it when you tried to rip your own ears off after we blew up Alderaan.” Forescythe hauled you to him, breathing gross old-man breath in your face. “You didn’t just watch it get erased from the maps, you felt it die. You felt it through the Force.”

You spat in his face, earning yourself a stinging backhand. “Ungrateful brat. I made you, I can unmake you.” The ship quaked again beneath your feet, and the lights in the helm went off, turning the wide, triangular space red under the emergency lights. “That’s it, you feel it again now, don’t you?” The dark crimson lights sank shadows under the Admiral’s eyes, highlighting the bones of his skull, confronting you with the grinning face of death.

From behind the collection of stormtroopers a weak, grating voice called out. “L-let… let her… go…” Din called weakly before he was electrocuted again.

“I said stop hurting him!” You barked, your words so steeped in anger they almost weren’t your own, like someone else was speaking through you.

Forescythe laughed, villainous and wicked. “There it is! Yes! Does that mando mean something to you, girl?”

“Go t̶o he̵ll!” Your voice no longer belonged to you, it was the voice of your nightmares, many tongues speaking at once, spewing toxically from your throat. Around you the air became thick with energy, making the hair on your arms stand on end.

“Now now, Sparrow, is that any way to talk to your father?”

“You are n̸͈͆ȏ̷̪ť̶ my FÀ̷̜TH̵E̴͘R!” The energy in the air became palpable, tangible, burning through your veins and setting your fingertips ablaze with crackling firepower. The Admiral reeled from the burn, dropping your collar and backing away from you with confused, frightened eyes. You clenched your fists so hard your nails dug into the skin of your palms, drawing blood from the marks of the krayt’s teeth. “And that is n̸͈͆ȏ̷̪t my n̶a̷m̸e̵.”

Fear was replaced with undeserving pride, spreading a pearly grin across Forescythe’s gaunt, haunting visage. “That’s it! That’s it, Sparrow! Look at yourself! Look at your hands!” he screamed, pointing at the blisters that were starting to form along your arms. “There is power within you! Let me help you discover it! Help you use it to raise the Empire to its former glory!” He stretched a claw-like hand to you, “Join me, Sparrow, and together we will rule the entire galaxy!”

“THAT IS N̴̻̑O̶T̵̒ ̶M̸̆Y̴ N̷À̷̜M̶E̵!” You screamed, the fury of a thousand voices knocking Forescythe and the guards down to the unsteady ground and sending the officers running for cover. The burning in your fingertips turned to raw power, sparking lightning from your hands. Electricity danced over the metal decking, snapping at the Admiral’s frantic heels like vicious, bloodthirsty dogs. You didn’t see the firepower you were generating, your eyes burning with hateful tears.

You crossed the room on vengeful steps to where the Wyvern’s captain was scrambling to find his footing, snaps of plasmatic energy crackling underfoot with each stride. You hefted the vile man up the wall by his neck until his feet were off the ground, choking and squirming in your grip.

“What’s wrong, captain?” You purred with as much benevolence as an abused circus tiger. “Are you trying to sing for me? I bet your voice sounds so prĕ̴tty̵͝. Go on then, sing me a song.” Terror shined in the whites of his eyes, blood oozing from their corners and out of his ears, dripping hotly over where your fists closed around his throat.

“You can not hide who you are, Sparrow, you’ll always be a worthless scupperbrat without my help. You need me.”

You thrashed Forescythe against one of the consoles, crushing his windpipe under your voltaic claws. “I'm not going to TELL YOU Ā̷̡̲̤̊͒G̶̓A̶̛̫I̶N̵̳̓̋!!.” You could feel his pulse under your fingertips, quick like a frightened rabbit caught in the claws of a mighty, savage beast.

And it felt good.

Energy crackled over his skin where your hands met his flesh, making him writhe in pain from the scorching burn. Under your cataclysmic deathgrip you felt the man laugh, ugly, strained belts of air that made the boiling in your blood rage like molten lava. “Pray tell then, bilgerat, who do you think you are?”

You bared your teeth and smiled, dangerous and threatening. You inhaled, bringing every ounce of air in the room into your tormented lungs, ready to breathe dragonfire.

“I

AM

TR̸̻̰̮̘͘A̷͎̜͔̭͋̽’̸̯͙͖͍̟̾̿̆͐̐͠͝LḀ̵̞̈́́̂̕͝ͅA̶̧̧̠̪͝A̶͎̝̠͖̿̀̇̅̈͜Ă̵͙͎̰̪̿͘A̸̼̥̰̙̱̭̗͆Ȧ̸͙͕̺̫̂̚R̴̨̻̉̊̒́R̷̡̛͕̮̋͊̉͝R̸̫̗̹̻̈̋̃!̴̼͖͕̯̟̖͐̐̽!̴͚͐́͛̂!̵̘̺̮̔͌͊̌̀̓͜ͅ!̶̟̱̹͙͎̀”̵͇̖͙̌̈͠͝

Hate and anger flowed through you in a pyroclast of scorn, erupting from your wicked maw in a firestorm of blinding energy. Your banshee screech overpowered Forescythe’s own terrified screams, but his terror was short lived as the force of your rage started to make the flesh of his face quiver, ripple, and tear until it was peeling off, revealing meat, then bone.

When only a ghastly skull was staring back at you did you silence your scream, dropping the Admiral’s faceless corpse to the floor. You wheeled back around in time for one of the rising stormtroopers to goad you with the electric prod, making you wail. The pained cry tore at the raw meat of your throat until your voice evaporated entirely, taking your siren strength with it. You stole a krayt fang from your pocket and drove it upwards into the soft spot at the edge of the trooper’s helmet, carving downward and splitting their jugular wide open.

Finding the other fang you lashed out with reckless fury, sinking your teeth into the meat of the second guard, blood splashing out over your hands. The third guard didn’t stand a chance as they were caught in your whirlwind of carnage, their blood spilling to the floor with that of their crewmates.

Surrounded by your kills, breath heaving in your chest, you turned your enraged eyes on the man still chained to the wall. Din’s bootheels scooted out from under him, struggling to get away from the blood splattered banshee that was glaring him down.

He looked so helpless, so… vulnerable. You remembered his hateful words, his malicious actions, the heartbreak that was still so fresh and stinging in your chest.

The coppery tang of blood hung heavy in the air, burning in your nose and fueling the rage that surged through your veins. He left you. He left you for dead. He took everything from you. He took your heart and your home…

And your son.

“Where is he?” You seethed, numb to the hot splashes of blood pouring over your hands, from both your killstreak and the charred gashes that streaked down the length of your forearms where the meat of your flesh had melded with the duraweave of your uniform.

“S-safe. He’s safe.” Din stammered, “What… what are you?” His bloodied brow furrowed, “What’s wrong with your eyes?!”

Confused, you glanced at his chestplate where two white-blue lights were shining back at you, and realized with horror that it was your own reflection. The world around you finally started to sink in: the dark red lights, the still-warm corpses, the splatter of viscera on the console that had once been the Admiral’s face.

The klaxon blaring overhead.

Whatever phantom force you wielded dissipated like mist, nearly taking you to your knees as it left. You fell more than leaned over Din to his cuffs, fumbling with the unlocking mechanism until he was freed. “Don’t think this m-means that… that I… woo, that I forgive you, ya big fuckin’ jerk.” You were starting to feel woozy, making you wonder if this was how Grogu felt whenever he used his funky baby powers. “The ships got… got some kinda weapon on it, ‘nother planet popper. I gotta fi-fi-find some way to… to stop it.”

“The hell do you mean ‘popper’?

You flailed your arms around in a grand gesture, sending droplets of scarlet flying “Kaboom!”

“Fuck! Grogu’s down there! Millions of people are down there!”

“Yeah, no shit.”

Din tried to wipe the blood that had pooled around his eyes with the back of one armored hand, but the beskar did little to help clear it away. You grumbled and scooted closer on your knees, trading the fangs for the red silk cloth in your pocket and going right for his orbits. He recoiled from your touch, and instinctively you hissed at him to hold still. Reluctantly, he obeyed, watching you with distrust until he spotted what was in your hand.

“You kept that?”

Shrugging, you dabbed harshly around his eyes until they were as clear as you could get them. “Kept a lotta things.” The talking and the cleaning was making you exhausted, and you sank back on your haunches, nearly falling over into the sprawling pool of blood.

Din caught you before you fell, holding you gently, but even his careful touch burned like acid on your rendered flesh. In the corner of your eye you caught his brows fly high when he clocked your wounds, his breath catching when he saw the whitish tint of bone. “You need bacta...”

You ignored him, glancing around the room for a solution to your predicament when one presented itself to you. Under the smear of gore that had been belittling you just moments prior, the ruined console of the main power controls flashed a desperate warning:

WARNING, RHYDONIUM COOLING CELLS OFFLINE. DANGER! UNSTABLE TEMPERATURES DETECTED!

Oh the irony. Sparks danced from the shattered screen, raining down over the bloodied skull of the murdered captain and catching in his empty sockets, glaring back at you. You forced a laugh. “That’s what you get for tryna mess with me, you sick fuck! Gonna blow your own ratsnest sky high!” Your laughter knocked you off your haunches and into Din’s arms, leaning on him heavily.

Looking up at him you smiled, though his face was a disaster, fear and blood etched into his handsome features. It befuddled you that you could still see his face. “Where’s your bucket?”

Din scoffed, “This entire ship saw me without it, not to mention the shitheads on Tatooine that sold me out. I can’t put it back on.”

“There won’t be anyone left alive to remember your face after the ship blows. How’s that for a loophole, eh?” He scrutinized you a moment, swallowed hard, then nodded. It took a great deal of effort for him to pull both himself and your boneless body up from the floor, and even more strength to stumble over to where his helmet had been stashed, sinking the metal over his head and pocketing the beskar cuffs that laid close by.

The impenetrable beskar slid into place not a moment too soon, his visor flickering to life right as the blast doors to the bridge slid wide, opening on a platoon of troopers.

The eggheads fired with reckless abandon into the delicate consoles of the bridge, aiming for the malnourished Mandalorian and his bloodrending banshee. Even in such a sad state, Din was still faster, whirling you behind his blaster-proof body and setting off the salvo of whistling birds from his vambrace; obliterating each and every Imp in sight.

Hugged to his chest, you blinked at the pile of corpses, then glared at the one who had slain them. “Why don’t you use that fucker more often?”

Din ignored you and blasted the door controls apart, locking the two of you in before dragging you both over to one of the escape pods that dotted the prow. Behind your fleeing duo the console was flashing even faster:

WARNING, RHYDONIUM COOLING CELLS OFFLINE. EXPLOSION IMMINENT! DANGER!

Din set you carefully on your own two feet so he could pry the door to the escape hatch open. The little, single-seated pod was just barely big enough to fit the Mandalorian as he backed into it, his arms outstretched to take you.

You started to squeeze in with him when something out the window caught your eye, and your heart sank through your boots at the harsh reminder that Forescythe had been named Admiral because he now controlled a fleet. The dozen or so starships hovered ominously on either side of the Wyvern, their points aimed right towards Tatooine, poised to make the killing blow.

Din growled at you “Come on, you’ll fit. We gotta go before this damn thing blows!”

You turned up to him slowly with glassy eyes. “I… can’t. The other ships…”

“Fuck’em!”

“No!!” you screamed, dimming the lights. “If I don’t do something about them then Tatooine is still lost!” You pushed away from him and stumbled back through the bridge, your eyes going from console to console until you spotted the flashing light on the comms station. Hand-over-hand you dragged yourself over to your once-prestigious seat, flopping down in the familiar chair and slamming the frequency wide open.

“Come in Wyvern, this is Jabberwocky, what’s your emergency, over?”

“The weapon’s unstable! I repeat! The weapon is unstable! Abort mission! Abort mission! Scramble all ships! I repeat! Scramble all ships!!”

“Who the hell are you? You’re not the Admiral!”

“The Admiral is dead, the damn rhydonium has been leaking radiation into the water supply and the fuel lines! The damn thing’s gonna blow! Save yourselves!”

“Seriously?! I mean, roger! Aborting mission!” You watched with a big, shit-eating grin on your face as the surrounding ships winked out of existence, disappearing into hyperspace. The rhydonium’s warning screen was flashing faster than a bounty fob now, and it wouldn’t be long before it blew the old dragon sky high.

“Ok, let’s go, please!” Din pleaded, trying to urge you to the escape pod. You leaned back heavily in the officer’s chair, the edges of your sight going dark as exsanguination took its toll. Raising your arm, you watched with a silly look on your face while you flexed your fingers, the tendons squirming over your exposed bones beneath what was left of your char broiled flesh. Most disgustingly of all was the shiny piece of metal on your palm, the Admiral’s aurodium insignia lodged in the sundered krayt bite, fused to your flesh from the heat of your rage.

Haha, gross.

“Why… why are you even still here? Go on, escape!” You sneered at him, still angry.

“I’m not going to make the same mistake twice,” he said, crossing the room with his hand stuffed under his ribs, trying to hold himself together. “I’m not leaving you behind again.”

You strained a laugh, the noise grating in your shriveled throat. “Y’don’t need me, y’made that perfectly fuckin’ clear. Leave me to die with the rest of the scum. Besides.” You chuckled, raising your withered hand so the emergency lights danced over the gold plating your palm. “I’m the captain now, and the captain should go down with the ship.”

There was nothing left for you outside of the Wyvern anyway, maybe it was time for you to join Spooky and Friends for good. The Empire would surely hunt you down for your crimes, an even more vehement organization than the Guild, and that would only put Din and Grogu in even more danger than they had been when they still called you family. On a dragon you had risen to the stars, how fitting it would be that on a dragon would you leave them. Poetic, really.

Din cast a worried glance at the rhydonium thermometer. “I’ll carry you if I have to.”

Tilting your head back until your skull met the headrest, you relaxed and closed your eyes, feeling the hot drip drip drip of blood running down your arms and pooling at your feet. “Why bother? Why do you even care what happens to me?”

With enormous difficulty he pulled his helmet back off, leaning in close to you. You flinched when two armor plated hands came up under your face, gently lifting you by your chin until you were met with his eyes. Even in the crimson-soaked lights his enormous honeywells shined with more depth than any ocean, glittering with stars.

“Because I still lo-”

*kaBOOM!!!*

Somewhere in the bowels of the ship the overheated ore blew its top, shearing the ship in twain. Din was nearly thrown to the ground from the force of the explosion, nearly dropping his helmet to hold on tightly to the arm rests of your chair. He threw the bucket haphazardly back over his head and scooped you into his arms, roaring in your ears about how stubborn you were sometimes. Under his boots the dying dragon began to angle towards the planet below, starting her final journey to meet the ground.

Din hustled to the escape pod, backing into it and hugging you to his chest, pressing you against the hexagonal divot in his beskar that you missed so much. The little hatch slid closed, sliding over your backside and squishing you up against the Mandalorian. Your guts did a nasty flip-flop as you were launched into space, dropping you towards the planet below.

Before you lost consciousness, whether from the blood loss or the inertia, or just plain old exhaustion, you squinted out the tiny transparisteel window at the ship you’d left behind. The front half of the Wyvern’s Tongue was just starting to break the atmosphere, a colossal blade pointed straight at Tatooine's sprawling desert landscape, breaking apart as it lost the battle with the desert planet’s robust sky.

Breaking the sound barrier, dragonfire erupted around its bow as it tore through the dusty air, sending tendrils of flame fanning in its wake. It was falling fast, but the sheer size of it made it appear to be sinking in slow motion, almost like a dream.

Maybe it was a dream, you thought as you felt the plated arms of your podmate tighten around you, his gloved hands burying into your hair as you plummeted towards terra firma. There was a good chance you wouldn’t survive landing, it was an Imperial built shuttle after all, but at least you wouldn’t die alone.

The roar of atmospheric reentry drowned out any words you may have said to each other, any last words of wisdom or heartfelt apologies would be forever lost to the winds of time, so you wrapped your arms around his waist and hugged him back; a final act of forgiveness before the darkness took you.

~

Far away from the sinking ship, the tiny capsule skittered over the sand dunes like one would skip a stone over a lake, bouncing over the sand until it lodged itself in the side of a hill. The hatch door launched off, sliding away from the two bodies it had protected. Raising his bucket, Din watched as the Wyvern met the ground, the enormous beast of the ship blocking out the suns as it crumpled into the dunes. Dragonfire erupted around the monstrosity, consuming it in a column of flame and ash that whipped up a sandstorm to rival any fallout.

Against his chest plate you laid limply, making it difficult for the Mandalorian to roll you underneath his body. He boxed you in with his arms and legs, putting himself between you and the oncoming sandstorm as it bore down on your pod. Gritting his teeth behind the visor, he curled over top of you while the deadly storm roared overhead, determined to keep you safe if it was the last thing he did.

The desert sands whipped over his back, flinging superheated shrapnel and massive chunks of durasteel flying as if they were toys. Din held your body to his, just waiting for the fallout to crush you both dead, or the sands to blow you away; but an eternity later the storm passed, leaving you both unharmed. Exhausted and in agony, the Mandalorian shook the sand from his back and hauled your near-lifeless body from the newly carved dune, brushing the dirt from your face. “Tra’laar? Are you ok? Can you hear me?”

No answer.

He tugged a glove off and stuffed his fingers up under your jaw, hunting for a pulse. Your heartbeat was weak, but steadfast, and he sighed heavily with relief. “This is all my fault. I never should have left you behind, cyare! Please… please wake up!” Kneeling over you, he ran his hand down your face, gently brushing away the grit stuck to your skin. When you still didn’t respond he dug his arms under you and hauled himself to his feet, ignoring the feel of his broken ribs grinding together. With you in his arms for what he knew could be the last time, he set off across the dunes towards the city on the horizon.

~

A warm desert breeze passed softly over you, the first herald of the Tatooinian dawn coming up over the mountains to burn away the mist that hung in the air. It felt nice on your skin, gentle and promising as the new day. It would be so nice to lie like this forever, eyes closed, stretched out and comfortable, basking in the double sunlight. Your eyelids were so heavy, but as much as you would like to laze about til the stars fell down, you knew you had slept long enough.

Slowly, achingly slowly you started to pry your lids open, the world around you blurry and faded. Turning your head was a chore, and was accomplished more through the aid of gravity than muscle. At your side you saw two blurry figures, their features distorted by the haze behind your eyes, but to you they looked like a man and a woman, both wearing intricate red robes like the people in your premonitions.

The familiar lady leaned over you, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from your sticky brow. Her radiant smile shined with love and adoration, rivaling the warmth of the twin suns themselves. When she spoke, her voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, as if it was already in your ears.

It’s time to wake up now, Starsong. He’s waiting for you.

The stranger smiled and glanced over at the man who was sitting down in a little chair next to whatever you were laying on. You followed his eyes to where he was holding your hand, quizzically furrowing your brow at his forwardness and giving yourself a headache that made you squeeze your eyes shut.

When you opened them again, the man in the chair was replaced by a different character, this one dressed head to toe in beskar and bandoliers, his helmeted head tilted forward until it was resting on his chest plate, slowly rising and falling in time with his breath. Even in his sleep he was drawing languid circles on your palm with his thumb, his fingers twitching slightly to hold yours closer.

“...Din?”

The fingers on the back of your hand squeezed tight as he bolted upright, nearly jumping out of his seat and frightening the attending nurse droid. “Hey, you’re awake! Are you alright? How are you feeling?” The Mandalorian asked frantically, taking your bandaged hand in both of his and clutching it to his chest.

“What… what’dya mean how am I fe- oh.” You looked down at yourself, finding the long glowing tubes of bacta needles sticking from your other arm between long strips of gauze, making you immediately nauseous. A leather gloved hand came up and caught your face, pulling you back over to meet his infinitely black visor.

“It’s ok, cyar’ika, nothing’s missing, just keep your eyes on me. You were in bad shape when I got you here, but the infirmary had e-bacta infusions on hand. You’re healing up well! They were able to remove the metal piece from your hand and debride the duraweave from your burns, and most of the skin on your arms has already grown-”

“Ok ok ok enough!” you grumbled, starting to feel sick. You leaned back against the cot, relaxing into the feel of a gentle hand brushing over your cheek and down the side of your neck. Din’s caresses made you hum from his comfort, but your hums soon turned to growls. “Din, why am I still alive? I should have gone down with the ship.”

The hands withdrew immediately back to the lap of their owner. “I… I couldn’t let you.”

Your lips pulled back to bare your teeth, adding fresh agony to your growing migraine. “Fuck do you mean couldn’t let me, You don’t get to ‘let me’ do anything! How dare you act like you care!” You hissed with a sting in your voice. “Why do you even give a shit what happens to me?”

“Because!” He barked, fidgeting with his gloves, watching his own yellow tips go round while he twiddled his thumbs, searching for the right words to say. “Because I… because Grogu would never forgive me if I had let you die.”

Something about that last line made your heart ache, maybe it was the reminder of losing your son, or maybe it was the way that Din was clearly trying to hide deeper feelings. “I’m surprised he’s not in here, wouldn’t have to waste credits on bacta then.”

“He tried to heal you, but something about your wounds wouldn’t let him. I-I can’t explain it but… but he tried.” Din’s helmet snapped away from you, fixating on something of interest on the bare stucco wall. “He tried and tried until he passed out, then woke up and tried again. It was too much for him, I-I c-couldn’t keep letting him run himself dry.” Din sighed, letting his shoulders droop. “...He misses you.”

Sorrow and fury nearly broke the circuits of the heart monitor, summoning the nurse droid to come check your lines. You ignored the fussing robot to interrogate the Mandalorian further. “Why? Didn’t you tell him I’m a traitor? Didn’t you explain to him that I’m a lying, filthy Imp?” Your teeth flashed in a snarl. “Didn’t you tell him I’m not part of your clan anymore?”

Din’s laugh startled you, “The day that boy listens to me is the day the universe collapses in on itself. You’re the only one he ever listened to.” Fidgety hands toyed with the strap that crossed over the widest plate of beskar, fingers stopping at each slug to set them perfectly in line as if they weren’t already. “I can’t get him to eat, or sleep, it’s almost like I’m not even there. He… he cries nonstop, especially when he’s looking for you...”

You blinked at the itching in the corners of your eyes, your tear ducts having long since dried out. Though he was talking about Grogu, you knew by the guilt that steeped his words that the little green terror wasn’t the only one suffering from the Mandalorian’s decision to abandon you.

“He… he needs you…” Din trailed off, slowly tilting his visor over at you again, his hands stilling. “I…”

Din paused, letting the unspoken words hang heavily in the air, bringing with them a silence that would rival the infinite void of space. The nurse droid seemed to fade away, followed shortly by the beeping heart monitor, then the walls, then all of Mos Eisley, consumed by the roar of silence.

You could hear it though, the sound of those three little words that would change everything. Three tiny, insignificant words that even ghosts knew how to use. Powerful in their simplicity. You stared at where his eyes should be, imagining his furrowed brows, his tear-streaked cheeks, the corners of his lips twitching as they fought the floodgates that threatened to burst.

Just say it, Din, say what you need to say. Fix what you have broken.

“I...I’ll go get him.” Swallowing around your dry tongue, you nodded, dropping your gaze to the floor. So close. Din stood and brushed imaginary dirt from his clothes, “There’s someone else who wants to meet you as well, if it’s alright.”

“Who?” There wasn’t a single living being in all the galaxy that you wanted to see right now besides Grogu, plus you doubted there was anyone you knew who would want to see you anyway.

“Um… someone who’s been looking for him. His… people.”

You felt your heavy heart sink right out through your spine, dropping like a slab of raw meat onto the dusty hospital floor. “His… h-his people? Does… does that mean he’s going ho-”

“Just hang on, ok?” Din rose hastily and sped from the room, leaving a thick aura of unanswered questions in his wake. When he returned, he gestured to someone behind him, indicating that it was safe to enter your room. A young man with tousled blond hair and long black robes crossed the threshold to the medbay, but you couldn’t care less about who he was or what he looked like, because your eyes were locked to the little green baby he was carrying.

“Bubu!!!” Grogu cried, flailing in the man's arms until he was brought closer.

“BEANS!” you reached out with your good arm to take the squirming little monster, hugging him to your chest while he sobbed.

“Bububububububu…” He babbled, tears streaking down from his cosmic eyes while he patted your cheeks and dug claws into your skin. You curled up on your side and hugged the baby close to your chest, ignoring the dampening fabric beneath you as your own tears trickled down onto the threadbare sheets. You tried to comfort him by kissing his wrinkly head between choked sobs and carefully smoothing his ears, but the joy of having your baby back only made you cry even harder.

“Boo-boo? Wh-what… what’s he trying..?”

“Buir.” Din answered, his voice strong with reverence. “He is trying to say buir.” You burrowed your face against the shaky baby and reached out towards Din’s voice until you found his hand.

“Thank you.” You whispered between tears. “I thought I’d never see him again.” You pried your flooded eyes away from Grogu to glance up at the stranger standing politely in the corner, remembering what Din had said about Grogu’s people. “Who’s mister sunshine over there with the cute boots?”

The young man smiled and bowed slightly. “My name is Luke Skywalker, I came to investigate a disturbance in the Force that led me here. When I met Grogu I thought it may have been him reaching out to me, but now that I am standing in the same room as you, I realize that you are the source of the shockwave that I felt.”

You cradled Grogu against your chest, “The Force? Isn’t that just a saying the New Republic uses? Live long and prosper, may the force be with you, to infinity and beyond, blah blah blah...”

Luke laughed, “It is, but the Force is very real. It is the life energy that flows through all living things, even after they have passed on.” The young man crossed the room to your little trio, his robes and cape swishing dramatically with each step. “Tell me what happened to the ship that crashed out on the dunes, something tells me you were involved?”

You recounted your tale, from your hyperspace premonitions to your whispering nightmares, describing the ghosts you’ve seen and heard. You held up your arms for him to look at the damage the lightning had done, and pointed to your throat when you told him how you shouted the admiral apart. He listened intently and without interruption until you were telling him about the rhydonium bomb that blew the ship to smithereens. “And then I woke up here.”

“That’s fascinating, I’ve only read about Thunderfuries in the ancient texts, I never thought I'd meet one in real life, they’re exceptionally rare. Some scholars have even described them as mythological. Their charismatic voices have been described as ‘more powerful than a siren's song and a thousand times more deadly, able to lull insomniacs to sleep or shout the stars down from the sky.’”

You kissed Grogu’s head and propped yourself up on your elbow. “How come it's only manifesting now? I mean, I’ve had some weird shit happen in my life but never like that.”

“You’ve probably used it before without realizing it. Have you ever been so mad your voice changed? Or convinced someone with an unbelievable lie? Maybe even called someone back from the brink of death?” You nodded at each of his questions, feeling the color drain from your face. “Your powers may become more volatile when you’re threatened, or when someone important to you is in danger, a catalyst, if you will. May I have your permission to touch you?”

You shrugged, not really caring, but Din stiffened visibly at your side before backing away to let the man through. Luke placed his left hand on your forehead and closed his eyes, concentrating. “Yes, the Force is strong with you.” He moved down to your throat, touching your larynx softly. “Even stronger here, I’m willing to bet that the midi-chlorian count around this area is where it is highest, but I still feel something else.” He palpated your sternum though your ratty hospital gown, then your stomach, and finally the bottom of your belly, making you flinch. “Here. There is something here as well. It’s faint but-”

“No…”

“Your youngling…”

“NO.” You shouted, making the man recoil from the energy you gave off. “Not you too! First that damn robot and now this dude. I am not pregnant, I'm chipped! I’ve been chipped since I was a teenager. Get that damn nurse droid over here and I’ll prove it!” You barked at the droid organizing the bacta. “C’mere and scan me!”

The animatronic healer rolled over to you, a long scanner unfolding from it’s chassis. A hologenic light flickered over you, scanning up and down your body, making an extra pass over your abdomen that beeped when it had completed its investigation. “I-am-sorry-miss, but-your-chip-appears-to-be-missing.”

“MISSING?! The hell do you mean…” You trailed off, too many thoughts hitting you at once until one of them struck you like a bell. “Hoth. I probably left it on Hoth. Fan fucking tastic.” Oblivious to the needles in your skin you squished your eyeballs under your palms and slid your fingers into your hair, trying to yank it out.

When you opened your eyes back up you flinched from the collection of boys staring at you. Luke looked respectfully embarrassed, Grogu’s eyes were full of stars, but Din looked like he’d been frozen in time, not even breathing. He managed to croak out a single word: “Ch-chip?”

“Yeah, my standard-issue contraceptive implant’s probably sitting in a pile of goo in that fucky cave. You must be packin’ some pretty potent spunk to have already knocked me up.”

“Con... con-con-con… c-con..tra-”

“Din?”

“C-con…” Din short circuited and fell silent, his mental cogwheels grinding to a halt. A heavy silence filled the small infirmary for a time before he was moving with agonizing slowness. He brought one hand up and set it so gently on your tummy that it was almost non-existent. “...Mine?”

You rolled your eyes so hard they almost fell out of your skull. “Yeah bucket boy, ain’t nobody else got to tap this.” You shimmied in a terrible attempt at seduction, bobbing your bacta lines more than your boobies. He nodded solemnly, still trying to reboot, but the silence gave the poor sidelined Skywalker a chance to speak.

“Congratulations, I think. If it’s alright I would like to speak frankly.” You shrugged and nodded, not waiting for Din.exe to come back online. “Yours and Grogu’s Force powers are very special, but also very dangerous. While it shows that you both have extraordinary talent, without training that talent will go to waste, or worse, could fall into the wrong hands. With your permission I would like to take you both to the Jedi Temple where you can learn to master your abilities.”

You started to try to sit up, struggling against the pain that still permeated your body, but Din sprang to life, helping to ease you comfortably to a seated position with Grogu on your knee. Setting your hand on your collar bone you rubbed at your throat. “Yeah, I think I know what you mean. I dunno jack shit about this Force whatsit, but it was pretty cool to melt Forescythe's face like that. If I go with you, will you teach me how to do that without burning my arms off?”

“The lightning is a byproduct of the Dark Side of the force, it is only manifested through hatred and anger. The more you use it, the more it will destroy you.”

“Oh...”

“I will teach you how to use the Light Side, which is achieved through patience and dedication.” He laughed, “And also won’t burn your arms off.”

“What’d’ya think, Beans, you wanna go to school?” Grogu chirped sweetly in your arms, rubbing at his eyes with fat little paws, then yawned. “I’ll take that as a yes. Alright, sunshine, it’s a deal, ain’t nowhere else for me to go anyways.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Once you have made a full recovery we will be on our way. It was nice to meet you as well, Mandalorian. May the Force be with you always.” The nice young man bowed slightly before turning on his heel and heading out the door, his cape billowing behind him as he went.

Grogu curled into a ball on your lap and fell asleep faster than you’d ever seen, and carefully you brushed your hand over his ears. “Poor baby, so sleepy. You rest now, you’ve earned it.” A heavy silence filled the room, punctuated only by tiny snores. When you looked up from the sweet little baby you were surprised to see Din’s visor locked on you from where he sat, frozen solid. “Well, bucketboy? You gonna say something?”

Wordlessly he started digging into the pouches on his belt, fishing around until he pulled the remains of a microchip out into the dusty sunlight. Although it was nearly crushed beyond recognition, you knew by its broken legs and shattered insignia that it was all that was left of your contraceptive implant. Fresh, scalding rage bubbled in your chest at the sight. “Din… Why do you have that?”

“I found it that night on the Sunskate when you sent me to find you some soap. It was in the canister we used to capture the egg-pod-thing. I should have told you about right away but… but I was worried that maybe the pirates planted it there. Then I got it into my head that it had come from you and… and…”

“And what?!”

“And I’m sorry!” He cried in a strained whisper, careful not to wake the blessedly sleeping baby. “I don’t expect your forgiveness, nor do I deserve it, but… but I’m sorry.” His modulated voice cracked with something, maybe faulty wiring, maybe tears. “If… if I’d just asked you about it from the start none of this would have happened.” He gestured vaguely at all of you, sitting at the end of the cot in your shabby gown, your bare feet swinging freely. “I’m sorry for how I acted and what I said. You didn’t deserve to be treated like that.”

“You’re only saying that because you stuck a bun in my oven.”

“No, what I did was wrong, it was cowardly.” his visor snapped up to meet your eyes, “I have dishonored you and myself. I broke every vow I made to you without giving you a chance to explain. I shot at you, I shot at my wife.” His voice faded away, weighed down by shame. “I am a monster.” His helmet tilted away from you towards the ground, studying his boots.

You thought for a moment, watching the warrior coming to terms with his own judgement. Licking your dry lips, you asked him coldly: “Why’d you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Try to shoot me.”

He turned away from you shamefully, “Because you were… b-because I decided that you were a threat.”

“A threat to who? To you?”

“No.” he paused, his breath hitching in his lungs. “A threat to… to Grogu.”

“That’s what I thought.” You chided, cocking a brow at him when he turned to face you again. “You saw a threat to your son and you acted, though maybe you could have, oh I dunno, listened to me before you went off your rocker.” His hands twiddled with the edges of his legplates, his eyes avoiding your gaze. You readjusted the bundle on your lap, tucking his goofy potato sack robe under his butt. “If I thought you were a threat, I would’a shot you too.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“No, it doesn't, though I probably shouldn’t have been keeping secrets from you.” Now it was your turn to look away, turning your gaze up to the stucco ceiling where maybe the Maker was watching you. “However, if you hadn’t broken my heart and dumped me on the Empire’s doorstep then I’m guessing Tatooine wouldn’t be here anymore, or whatever planet they decided to fuck over. So I guess…”

“You don’t need to justify it. What I did was wrong and hateful.” He scootched the little chair closer to your side until his knees bumped against the cot’s edge, barely inches away from your own. “If you never want to see me again, I- I would... understand. I wish you and Grogu the best with your training. And the youngling too if… if you decide to keep it.”

His visor sank back to the floor before he was pulling himself to his feet, making to leave you and take his guilty conscience with him, but you caught his hand before he got too far. He whirled around, gawking at you with that big metal bird impression that he does so well.

“What do you mean if? Why wouldn’t I keep it?”

You heard something rattle behind his modulator, accompanied by the strained quake in his shoulders. “I can’t force you to, or even ask you to. I know you said you w-weren’t ready for children, and to have to raise one alone would be-”

“What makes you think I would be alone?” You squeezed his captured hand, running your thumb over his knuckles. Din cautiously stepped closer, brushing his hand over Grogu’s wrinkly little head.

“I’m sorry, you’re right. You’ll have Grogu and Luke to look after you. The boy seems trustworthy enough, and once you master your powers-.”

“That’s not what I mean, Din.” You tugged on his hand, scrounging up the courage to find out the truth, even if you had to use a crowbar to get it. “What… what were you going to say to me, before the rhydonium blew?”

His armored shoulders rose with a sudden intake of breath, going stiff while the air stuck in his lungs. His response came out slowly. “Does... does it matter?”

“If it didn’t, would I be asking?”

Yellowed fingertips flashed in the fresh dawnlight filtering in through the infirmary window, fidgeting on the ends of armored wrists. Din squared his shoulders and stood straight and proud, his modulated voice giving away his timidness. “I...”

“Yes..?”

“I…” he took your hand in both of his, careful not to upset the bacta lines growing from your flesh or the precious bundle swaddled on your lap. “I… I still love you.”

You cocked your ear at him and waggled your brows. “What? I didn’t-”

“I still love you!” Din fell to his knees in front of you with a mighty racket of metal and munitions that shockingly didn’t wake Grogu. “I love you, cyare, I need you! I love the sound of your voice and the warmth of your smile. I love the way you laugh, the way you cry. I love that you terrify me like no one ever has. I love the way you feel, the way you smell, the way your fingers used to tangle in my hair when we slept together.” He carefully lifted your hand until your knuckles rested on the brow of his helmet, “I miss you, beautiful creature of the stars. I would give anything to have you back again.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

You pondered a moment, letting him wallow in his guilt until you could hear his breath getting ragged from the suspense. “Alright, give me your ears.”

“You... want me to cut them off?”

“Pfft, no, but I appreciate the enthusiasm.” You said with a laugh. “I want you to listen.” You pulled your hand away from the cool metal of his forehead to pick at the bacta tubes on your other arm. “I was an Imp, but not because I wanted to be. When I was a child I was stowed away on the Wyvern before it left Corellia’s port, which happened often enough on that skughole of a planet that there was a name for us. We were called bilgerats.” You met his visor, watching the way his head cocked to the side. “The Empire adopted me, I didn’t have a choice.”

“Like… like a foundling?”

“Mmhmm. When the captain decided that I had potential, or apparently magic, he gave me a name and a real job, but it was never my choice. I chose to leave them behind. I chose to become a hunter. I chose…” You paused, flitting your eyes between the corners of his visor where you knew his eyes were, wishing that you could see them for yourself. “I chose to love you.”

A broken sob rattled his helmet as his composure started to break down, his hands coming up to caress gently at your cheek. You held your hand over the back of his, leaning into his palm. He took a series of deep, desperate breaths before he found his voice again. “C-could you e-ever love me again?”

“Only if you promise to never dump my ass over stupid misunderstandings again, think you could do that for me?” He couldn’t speak, he just nodded so fast his helmet almost flew off. Laughing, you stretched your arm out to him, careful not to lose the foundling on your lap. Din clambered up from the floor so fast his boots nearly went out from under him, plowing into your chest with a hug so fierce you felt your ribs creak. “I sure hope so, tinman, because I still love you too.”

Not even the dry desert air could stop your tears anymore, and you let them flow freely into the fabric of Din’s cowl, burying your face between his shoulder and the edge of his helmet while he hugged you like his life depended on it. The sharp metal cut your skin and made you frustrated that he even still had the damn bucket on. “Din can you take your helmet off? There’s nobody here but the droid. I want to see you.” He shook his head ‘no’, dragging his palms over your back, his leather gloves snagging on the ties that held your gown closed. “Can we go somewhere you can take it off? Maybe… maybe somewhere more comfortable?”

“You’re in no shape to move.”

“Please?”

He hated it when you begged, or maybe he fucking loved it, either way he was nodding and rising to his feet, stuffing your collection of trinkets into his many pouches. He cast a suspicious glance at the nursebot before helping you pull the bacta lines free. Immediately the attending droid started to protest, but was met with the business end of a blaster. Din cocked his helmet arrogantly, a mused laugh sneaking through his modulator.

“We’re checking out.”

~

You were giggling like a schoolgirl as you were carried up the ramp into the Crest by the Mandalorian, cradling Mr. Sleepy against your chest. The armored warrior set you down gently on the edge of the bed, jabbing at his vambrace to close the ramp. You sniffed the musty air, crinkling your nose. “Holy shit what is that smell?! No wonder the kid can’t sleep, It stinks in here! Open a window!” The singular transparisteel viewport didn’t ‘open’, but the ventilation did, and soon slightly-less-stinky desert breezes circulated through the cabin. “That’s better, now off with your damn head!”

“Alright alright.” Din chided, fishing for the edge of his helmet and pulling the offending beskar away, setting it down gently on a nearby crate. Though the blood had been washed from his hair days ago, a crudely placed cauterizer burn still shined red with swelling, but that was only the start of his worrying features. His hair was unkempt and ratty, his eyes sunken and hollow, even more than they had been when you’d seen him uncrowned aboard the Wyvern. His shaggy facial hair did a poor job of hiding his pale, nearly translucent skin.

But his smile, his adorable, lopsided smile was exactly as you remembered it, rolling the swells of his cheeks right up into his deep brown eyes. Dazzling canines caught the hazy cabin light while he beamed at you sheepishly, his eyes glancing at your face then bashfully away, aware that he must look terrible.

Carefully you set the foundling down on the bed by your side, brushing a wayward ear from his face before reaching out to the baby’s father. Gloveless hands found your cheeks, his touch more cautious than if he were handling porcelain, pulling you into a long awaited kiss.

Din kissed you like it was the very first time, chapped lips brushing yours softly, tentatively, like he was afraid that touching you would wake him from this dream. The dream of having you in his arms again. You slid your bandaged hands up his armored shoulders until you were at his scruffy jaw, pulling him closer.

At the feel of gauze on his skin he pulled away, worry etched into the creases around his eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you, maybe we should wait til-” Huffing, you dug your hands into his messy hair, dragging him back to you and kissing him so hard you felt your teeth knock together. He inhaled with surprise before melting into your hands, tilting his head to chase the taste of you deeper.

The bristles of his mustache tickled at your nose, but you were too lost in his love to notice, tangling your fingers in the curls that hung at the back of his neck. The hands at your cheeks glided down to your shoulders, then your sides, then around to your back, deftly picking apart the knots that held your ugly gown together. He pulled away from you again, “May I?”

You nodded and laughed, “Please, it’s itchy! Though I’m pretty sure half of Mos Eisley already saw my hooha flappin’ in the breeze today. Hey what happened to that cantina on the corner? They used to have the best spotchka…”

“No idea. Must have been a big fire though…” He laughed at his own poorly-veiled lie, kissing at your jawline while he tugged the last knot free. The ratty hospital gown fluttered to the floor unnoticed, the two of you lost in each other’s eyes. Though you were naked save for your bandages, he couldn’t take his off of your face, reverence stretched across his features. “Is… do you think what the nice man said is true? That you’re… um…”

His versatile hands that could snap necks like twigs or tear flesh asunder came up to settle gently on your belly, rubbing softly back and forth and sending scalding heat to your cheeks. You shied away from him, studying the cabin wall like the secrets of the universe were written there. Flustered, you found your voice, “I don’t know, maybe. Pretty early to tell, but he was right about everything else. Probably right about that, too.”

He caught your embarrassment and withdrew. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to… If you don’t… I’ll support any decision you-”

You silenced him with a finger on his lips. “No, I want to. I’m just… I’m scared.” You hugged yourself regardless of the warm desert breeze, fingertips fiddling with the edges of the gauze that rode up to your elbows. Nestled against your thigh you saw Grogu twitch in his sleep, half sunk into the smelly Tatooinian bed roll, his sweet little smile matching your own. “You’re such a good dad, Din, like you were made to be one. But…” You brushed your hand over the foundling's supersized ears, “But I don’t think I'd make a good mom.”

“You already are.” Din whispered with more conviction than you’d ever heard, his hand finding your chin to tilt your eyes back to him. “You always have been. From the day you met Grogu you’ve been his mother. You’re strong, and fearless, and terrifying.” He smiled when you laughed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear for you. “But you’re also loving, and sweet, and compassionate. And did I mention you’re the scariest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life?”

You giggled again, rolling forward until your brow met with his. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“I’m not. I think you’ll be amazing.” He kissed you again, stronger than before, breathing in deeply with the scent of you, of his mate. “I know you will.” You studied his face a moment and nodded, feeling your breath hitch threateningly in your throat. Din heard your hidden distress and backed away, tearing his remaining armor off and gently setting it next to his helmet until he was bare chested before you, a large bacta patch holding his broken bones together.

He dove towards you with passion, his chest pressed to yours, his kiss hungry but gentle. Though his flesh was warm and inviting against your own, your fingers quickly found where his ribs were showing through his sides, rippled like a washboard from not eating properly. You made a mental note to grab some of those roasted taters you liked so much later, but for now you let yourself get lost in the Mandalorian’s touch.

Though his hands were careful, you could tell that there was a hidden desperation behind his movements, his touches frantic to confirm that you were really here. His fingers slid up your back to tangle in your hair, holding you close while he experimentally licked his tongue into your mouth, eager to meet your own. A wide, calloused hand braced on your thigh, supporting his ever-growing weight over top of you. You hummed into his mouth and patted his chest, asking him to give you space.

He looked at you quizzically, but before he could start another long winded string of apologies you nodded down to where Grogu was sleeping peacefully. By the look on his little princely face it had been a long time since he’d slept so well, and though you knew he deserved his rest, he was very much in the way of what you and Din were after.

Maybe it was the bacta still flowing through your system, or maybe it was the fact that you’d survived yet another near-death experience. Or perhaps it was true what the ghosts in your visions had said, that the man before you really was your soulmate, destined to return to you again and again. Either way your body craved him, flooding your belly with heat at the sight of the robust warrior that would rather let himself waste away than live a day without you in it.

You needed him.

And he needed you.

Right now.

You scooched off the end of the bed, covered the baby with a thin blanket, and slid yourself into Din’s arms, kissing your way up his neck to the bottom of his jaw. He shivered under you, groaning with pleasure until you reached his ear, nipping at his earlobe where you whispered: “Do you remember the first time you made love to me?”

He growled, the low timbre of it making your skin prickle with goosebumps. “How could I forget?” His scruff brushed your cheek as he nuzzled you, dragging his teeth along the juncture of your neck and shoulder, his palms squeezing into your hips. You took a slow step backwards, luring him to follow until your knees bumped against a crate, a subtle laugh escaping your lips when you plopped down on it. Din fumbled for the sleeping cubby controls until he found the button that closed the protective door, shielding the foundling from your erotic courtship dance.

Not an inch of space remained between the two of you when he pressed his body to you again, slotting his mouth to yours, hands gripping the stubborn crate to support his slow, demanding ruts against your heat. You wrapped your legs around his waist, catching your heels in the pockets of his duraweave pants, trying to kick them off. His rich laugh rumbled against your chest, reverberating in the warmth flooding in your heart, and pussy. “Please, riddur’ika, let me take care of you.”

Lost in the kisses that he was planting down the length of your chest, he didn’t see your brows furrow at him. “Do… do you still get to call me that?”

He froze, his lips poised just above your pebbled nipple, so close to getting a taste of you. He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. “That...that is your choice to make.” His pleading eyes looked up to you, so big and full of sadness you almost cried. “I would… I would like to again, but only if-”

“Yes.” you pleaded, running your fingers through his hair, skimming the long, jagged scar. “Yes, please, don’t ever stop calling me that.”

“Ner riddur.” He moaned, sucking the tip of your breast into his hot wet mouth, arms coiling around your waist. The hastily renewed vow tumbled from his lips in between each languid roll of his tongue, mumbled like a prayer to your altar of forgiveness. You sighed and arched your back into his affections, gasping when one of his nimble hands snaked around your front and sank into your folds.

Stars you’d missed this, you’d missed him. Missed the way his lips sought every inch of your chest, missed the way his fingers curled perfectly against the spongy spot hidden in your walls, drawing beautiful gasps from your parted lips. You’d even missed the way he ran his mouth, spilling muffled praises against your skin between greedy laps of his tongue.

He released your swollen bud with a pop of his lips, kissing down the softness of your tummy. You leaned back until the cool metal of the crate met your spine, offering yourself to him fully. Din’s whiskered kisses ticked at your sensitive middle, each one slower and more deliberate than the last until he was just below your belly button. The fingers buried inside you slowed, rubbing careful circles that couldn’t distract you from the loving way his lips met your skin, his kisses lingering.

“Mine.” he whispered with a secretive giggle, his unoccupied arm scooping under the small of your back, holding you steady. He kissed you once more, then pressed his entire face into your belly, rubbing his scruff over the tender flesh, almost like he was scenting you.

Still speared on his fingers, legs flung wide to accommodate him, you lifted your head to get a better look at his foolishness. “Tinman…?”

“I’m sorry, I just.” He planted his chin on your pubic bone, slipping his fingers out and smiling up at you with adoration in his eyes. “I just… I can’t believe it.”

“Really? After all the times you said you wanted to breed me, you’re flummoxed that you’ve actually gotten me pregnant?”

Din popped up like a whack-a-mole at the magic word, a hundred emotions spread across his face. “S-say that again.”

“Breed me?”

“No!”

“Flummoxed?” His brows sank with frustration over his lust-blown eyes, making you laugh. “Fine fine. Din.” You propped yourself up fully, your knees hugging his chest where he was kneeling between your legs. With his head in your palms you brushed your thumbs over his cheeks, reveling in the way he was waiting on bated breath for your words. “Din, I’m pregnant.”

The joy that radiated off of this man could have knocked the suns from the sky if they were any closer, his laughter so full of hope and happiness you couldn’t help laughing along. This was how it should have been presented, not flickering across a screen or coming from a polite stranger. Just this, the two of you alone together, both of you looking like complete garbage and not even caring.

No, in that moment you were the two most beautiful creatures the Universe had ever made, painted so brightly in excitement and love that it was blinding. Din kissed your palms, his face already starting to bubble over with emotion. “I’m… I’m gonna be a dad?”

“Mhmm, now c’mere, give mama some sugar.” You hauled his beautifully wrecked face up to yours, kissing him deeply. His tongue was sloppy, needy, spearing into your mouth between groans of pleasure. You heard the fumble of buckles and zippers, then the flump of pants hitting the floor. His heavy cock bobbed against your belly, leaving kisses of precum above the womb it had filled. You rocked your hips, trying to notch him in your slick folds, but his fingers met your cunt again, scissoring you open.

“I said I wanted to take care of you, buir’ika.” He groaned into your mouth before disappearing down your body and burying his face between your legs. Din’s wicked tongue spun delicious circles around your engorged bean, slurping and sucking away as if it was the only thing he’d ever eat again. You were just starting to feel the knot tightening in your guts when his dutiful mouth slowed, licking experimentally into your cunt, humming curiously.

“Wh-what? What is it?” You panted, rocking your hips against him, trying to fuck yourself on his face.

“You taste different.” He caught your questioning groan and shook his head, the motion making you convulse with need. “Not bad different, just different. Sweeter.” There were a plethora of excuses you could have made, maybe it was that he’d just forgotten how you’d tasted, or maybe it was the fact that you’d been living on Imp food. It couldn’t possibly already be from your changing hormones.

Could it?

Nothing but cries of pleasure made their way past your lips when he dove back to his feast, pulsing his expert fingers against your core and spiraling you towards devastation. Locked to his face, you squirmed on his tongue until he brought you the stars, your pent-up orgasm soaking his scruff and dribbling down his chin. Greedily he lapped your arousal away, humming at the taste. You’d barely gotten a chance to catch your breath before he was rising to his feet, angling his throbbing cock up into you and stretching you full.

“Din!” You whined, your cries swallowed by his mouth on yours, letting you taste your own release. Shit he’s right, I do taste good! His kisses became messy, then lost all together, his head falling from yours to bury against the crook of your shoulder. His cock eased itself out, making you feel every ridge, every vein before it was slamming back into the cradle of your body, the sound of him fucking you resounding wetly throughout the hold.

“Riddur’ika” he moaned into your skin, sinking his sharp teeth into the meat of your neck to mark you as his once again; leaving a blooming patchwork of welts in his wake. With his teeth holding you in place he started giving you what you both so desperately needed, pounding deeply into your flooding cunt. Your walls clenched around him, making him groan and strain, his hips snapping with frantic, frenzied thrusts. It was all you could do to hold on.

Eyes closed, lips parted, head lolling back, you were consumed by his passion; digging your nails into the skin of his back and surely drawing blood. Under your fingertips his muscles coiled and bunched, rippling with each powerful thrust, his cock demanding to be swallowed whole.

Your weeping wellspring sucked up every inch of him, drawing him all the way inside to the gates of your precious womb. The head of his cock bumped haphazardly against your cervix, his length shifting the ring of muscle even deeper into your body, the delicious stretch making you obscenely wetter.

Releasing your captured throat, the Mandalorian leaned back from you, throwing your legs over his shoulders so that there was nothing to stop him from burying himself to the hilt. Each ragged thrust scraped his curls over your sensitive clit and sent his cock spearing into something devastating inside. You cried out from the force of it, your muscles squeezing around his girth as you were catapulted towards ecstacy’s edge.

“That’s it, mesh’la, soak my cock. Claim me as yours!” His oaken voice sent you spinning, obeying his command and drenching his swollen member in your divine nectar. He groaned at your fluttering muscles, your silken folds caressing him and drawing his own gushing orgasm from him. Under your calves you could feel him straining to keep from shouting the heavens down, his face contorted almost painfully while he painted your insides with rope after rope of hot, potent baby batter.

Broken panting echoed in the tiny space of the Razor Crest’s interior, carried by the wisps of desert air breezing in through the ventilation. Din fell heavily forward, his sweat-streaked chest just inches from your heaving breasts, barely giving you room to breathe. Slowly he sank further down, the skin of his abdomen sticking to your belly, then your chest, sealing you together. His hands found your face, brushing the hair from your sticky brow and planting a kiss there, paving the way for him to rest his forehead against yours in sacred unity.

Hot breath mingled in the space between your mouths, bringing with it the spice of lovers bodies, a mix of lust and sweat and adoration, flooding your synapses like an addiction. Though he would happily let himself melt into your body the threat of crushing you underneath him made his exhausted arms shake, especially now that you were harboring precious cargo.

He butted his head against yours once more before pulling himself upright, offering a hand to you. You took his gentle gesture, but the shift in gravity made your soaked cunt gush with your combined cum, oozing down the side of the crate and pooling on the floor. Din couldn’t help himself, his agile fingers sneaking down to your wrecked pussy, stretching it around his fingertips and watching his pearly conquest slip out of you.

Humming with adoration, Din took you by your elbows, careful not to upset your bandages, and hugged you close. The Mandalorian felt like a furnace pressed against you, trailing his fingers up and down your spine and giving you conflicting goosebumps. “You’re so beautiful, mesh’la.” He purred, nuzzling into your neck. “There can be no other as beautiful as you.”

“Yet.” You chided, turning to meet his confused eyes. Stealing one of his hands you pushed his palm to your belly, laughing when he put your puzzle together.

“Our baby…” He cooed, still mystified by the concept. “Our baby will be beautiful, and terrifying if their mother is anything to go by.”

“Rude.” you barked, tugging playfully on his ear. He chuckled, splaying his wide palms over your belly, rubbing tenderly and no doubt imagining you all full and round with his warriors, your breasts heavy with milk, your skin glowing. His spent cock twitched between you, making him flush red. You laughed at his thoughts clearly plastered across his face. “I wonder what they’ll be like, the child of an Imp and a Mand-”

“You are not an Imp.” He retorted with ruinous conviction. “That’s not who you are anymore. You proved that when you sank an entire star destroyer to protect the people of Tatooine.” His hands cupped your face, holding you where his big beautiful eyes could see you, really see you. “I’m sorry that I let your past blind me to how much I love you, but now I see you for who you really are.” He kissed your forehead again, a slow, meaningful kiss that conveyed all the words he couldn’t find. Stars glittered in his lashes when he met your eyes again. “You’re not an Imp, cyare, you are a Mandalorian.”

Some kind of noise busted its way out your throat, maybe a laugh, maybe a sob. Either way you were shaking your head. “Thank you, but I’m not a Mandalorian either according to the Jedi boy.”

“I don’t see why you can’t be both a Mandalorian and a Jedi. Your son is a gremlin and your husband is an ass. I think you can be whatever you want. What was it that he called you?”

“A Thunderfury!”

“A Thunderfury!” He waved his hand dramatically, his eyes shining bright. You snickered at his antics, the melodic sound inviting him to spin you around in his arms, your thighs slicking with lovespunk as you danced. Instantly you wanted the fresher, but your heels knocked against his belt on the floor, making something in the pockets jingle. Bending down, you rifled through the many pouches until you found the one that had your things: two krayt teeth, one blood-stained rag, a pair of beskar cuffs, and surprisingly one other item.

An aurodium insignia.

“This was the Admirals.” You groaned, turning the half-melted token over in the light. Disgust overwhelmed you, and for a moment you considered opening the ramp door and chucking the emblem out into the hangar. Peli could probably find a buyer for it, but another thought snuck its way into your frontal lobe, spreading a grin over your face. “How much beskar do you think this will buy me?”

Din’s brows nearly shot off into space. “The insignia of a high ranking Imperial officer that you slaughtered? As much as you want, a full set even, but what about the Jedi? He’s supposed to take you-”

“But daaaaaad, I need a new outfit for the first day of school! Besides, I can't show up saying I’m a mando when I don’t have any beskar! Also I think the scary sewer queen would kill you if you didn’t tell her we’re expecting.”

“You’re absolutely right, but you do have some beskar.” Din padded over to the armory, throwing munitions and gear out of the way until your faceplate was brought into the light. “I think this belongs to you.”

You took the beloved slab of steel gingerly, turning it over in your hands. Din found the beskar cuffs and lovingly set them over each of your ears. When you set the armor on your face, the visor automatically flashed to life, presenting you with a fireball of a man standing before you, his chest and cheeks burning scarlet. Rolling the iron to your crown, you grabbed the krayt fangs from the pile and handed them to him. “And these belong to you.”

The opalescent Impkillers looked tiny in his wide hands, their whitish shimmer almost glowing in the cabin light. He nodded and thanked you, sniffling back his emotions, trying to remain steadfast as though you couldn’t see right through him. His fingers tightened over the sharp teeth, their edges creasing his callouses. “I’m going to miss you while you’re away.”

Just like that your beautiful, illustrious moment was cast in a dark, cold shadow. “Away? You’re going with me, right?”

“I don’t know if I can. I’m not a sorcerer like you or Grogu, and I’ll have to do something to earn credits for the baby. You go to school, grow our child. I’ll find work, there’s always bount-”

“Woah woah woah. Abso-fuckin-lutely not! You’re coming with us! I’m not going through this pregnancy or my forcefuckery without you.”

“The boy flew an X-wing here, there’s not exactly room-”

“Then we’ll get the coordinates for the school and just… meet him there? You said you’re never leaving me behind again, well I’m not leaving you behind either, ya big fuckin’ jerk.”

“I don’t think he’s going to just give you that information. What makes you think you can convince him?”

“First of all, something tells me he’s desperate, and secondly,” You planted your feet wide, ignoring your sticky, cumsoaked thighs and jabbing your fists to your hips, beskar crown glittering like royalty and making Din realize that one of these days he was going to have to tell you that as an Alor’s wife, you were technically were.

“I’m Tra’laar, the Thunderfury!” You roared, channeling your Force power to make the Crest shake on it’s fat little legs. Dins wide eyes were a stark contrast to your beaming smile, but the sound of scratching and chirping caught your ears before either of you could say something.

The sleeping cubby’s drophatch slid out of the way, revealing the disheveled little baby. Grogu glared at the two of you, rubbing his squinty eyes and squeaking on about how you’d interrupted his beauty sleep. Giggling, you took the baby in your arms and sat down on the bed, cradling him against your bare chest. “Aw I’m sorry, Booger, I got carried away.”

Snuggling the child, you were surprised when Din came over to you with a warm washcloth, offering to clean his mess from your thighs. You held Grogu close so his eyes were covered while Din tended to your needs, gently wiping the evidence of your reforged bond away.

When you were as clean as he could get you, you thanked him and scooted back up the bed, resting your weary head on the bunched-up bantha wool at the back of the cubby. You cooed at the fussing baby. “Do you need a lullaby, sweetie? I need to practice before bucket-baby comes. Would that be ok?” Grogu’s enormous eyes seemed to light up even in the dark recess of the alcove, his little head bobbing with a nod.

“He’s missed your songs, cyare.” Din hummed, crawling into the bed with you, laying so that he faced you and his son. You shot him a cynical glance, but he didn’t shy away. “I’ve missed your songs as well. I-if your voice hurts too much, it’s fine, we can-”

“I’ve missed singing to you as well, and to your son.”

“Our son. Just like it will be our baby. I’ll never make that mistake again, you have my word, and should I ever break it again I want you to put a bullet in my skull.” You were about to protest that last line, but his stern glare told you he wasn’t joking, so you nodded, agreeing to his terms.

“Anything in particular you want me to sing for you, husband?”

He smiled, running his hand over your bandages until his fingers tangled with your own, dancing lightly over the foundling’s forehead. “There was one a long time ago, it was the very first one you ever sang to Grogu, before he even had a name. Something about a navigator?”

“Of course.” You played with his fingers and cleared your throat, dropping your voice into a low whisper like you’d done a hundred times before.

“Oh, I have sailed the midnight sea from Hoth to Arvala-5.

Seen the Cloudshape Falls of Alderaan, met rocks that were alive.

But soon I came to realize as world to world I roamed,

That nowhere in the galaxy could really be my home.”

Across from you Din’s eyes fluttered, fighting the pull of sleep so he could listen to you for as long as possible. You nestled closer to him until your foreheads bumped together, your faces curled towards the child that was already starting to drift back into his afternoon nap.

“So call the navigator, set the course and go!

We’ve stars and planets to explore, my wild heart tells me so.

Beneath the metal decking I can hear the engine sigh

And all I need is a mighty ship and a staaaa-aarr to guide her by.”

Neither of your boys made it to the last line, so overcome with stress-induced exhaustion that they were both sailing off to dreamland on the words of your song. Later you could find Mr. Sunshine and sort this whole Jedi nonsense out, but regardless of what the stranger wanted you weren’t going anywhere if Din couldn’t be by your side, the two of you having already suffered enough apart, missing your soulmates.

No, come what may, your clan of three, soon four, would not be splitting up again. Come hell or high water, you were in this together.

<-Previous

TAGLIST

@mrsparknuts @cookiejuicedesu @kaermorons @ironbabey @theflightytemptressadventure @emesispo @what-iwish-youknew @misscamptl @t3a-bag @poppunkdee @misscamptl @pandastasia @simpingmess @lilychristine01 @inaturenymph @buttercup--bee @blackd0gdesignuk @tanzthompson @transientblueseraph @jasmincita @sunnnygiiirl123 @beskarboobs @doin-stuff @marvelranger

[preciouspeterbparker]

i wish i were, part 3

part one

part two

summary: it’s getting harder to pretend that everything is okay. 

word count: 4.2k

warnings: step- inc*st, smut, underage sex, suicidal ideation (oops), ANGST, depression, self-harm mention (doesn’t actually happen, just intrusive thoughts), it’s all mentioned very casually so if this is triggering for you please don’t read!! <3 , ambiguous ending 

this is the last part y’all! thanks for going on this ride with me. this was my first multi-chap fic and it kinda gave me the confidence to know that i’m capable of writing longer stuff without it being super shitty lol. sorry that it’s taken me so long!! 

love you all

- bloo 

It's getting harder to pretend that everything is okay.

Peter hates to say it, fuck, the thought physically pains him, but he’s glad the school year’s almost over. He’s glad that it’s almost time for graduation, time for Tony to leave for the special summer program MIT invited him to participate in. 

He just wants to stop feeling like this, never wants to feel like this ever again. He always feels heavy, weighed down, like his clothes are soaking wet. It’s a feeling that goes deep into his bones, leaving him cold, aching, and tired. 

It’s a good thing there’s not really any work left to do for school, other than exams; Peter spends most of his time in bed, headphones on and staring at the wall, the one that separates his room from Tony’s. 

He keeps hearing Pepper’s voice in his head. He thinks you hung the moon, babe. It’s so cute. The words make him burn inside, make him want to dig his fingers in and peel his skin back until the feeling spills out of him. Until his blood spill out, until he doesn’t have to deal with this anymore- Fuck-

That’s how his brain is working, now. The intrusive thoughts have reached new levels. Peter’s always had them, he’s been passively suicidal for most of his adolescence, but it seems that any minor inconvenience has him ready to end it all. But it makes sense, he supposes. He’s already hurting, already weary and withdrawn. It really wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge. 

Too bad he doesn’t really want to die. He just wants everything to...stop. So that he doesn’t have to feel like this.

And because the universe is obviously enjoying fucking with him, the first thing he sees walking out of first period is Pepper walking down the hallway, a faded black t-shirt hanging from her shoulders, exposing the bright red of her bra straps. 

Peter recognizes the garment immediately.

It’s the Black Sabbath shirt, the one he’d kept under his pillow for over a week. The one he’d spilled multiple loads of cum onto before finally putting it in his laundry and carefully slipping it back into Tony’s room once it had been washed. 

And now Pepper’s wearing it. Which means Tony gave it to her.

Peter stops, freezes right there in the doorway of Mrs. Flannigan’s classroom. He blinks, staring blankly in the direction the blonde had gone. His classmates protest behind him, pushing forward until he snaps out of it. Taking a few stumbling steps to the side, he leans back against the wall.

He feels like he can’t breathe. Some kid walking down the hall looks at him funny, and he realizes that there are tears rolling down his cheeks. Hastily wiping them away, he slowly pushes himself off the wall and starts making a hasty exit to the bathroom, head down and eyes trained on the linoleum. 

Then- 

“Hey, Peter- Wait, Pete what’s wrong, what happened?”

Shuddering, barely able to contain the sob that threatens to rip its way out, Peter ignores Tony, just pushes past him and doesn’t stop moving until he’s locked in the private restroom. 

With his back to the door, Peter slides down til his butt’s on the cold ground, arms wrapped around his knees as he tries to muffle his cries as he sits there, shaking.

He just wants it to stop.

***

Something’s up with Peter, and Tony has a sinking feeling that it’s got something to do with him. But he doesn’t know what he possibly could have done. 

They’d had such a nice time celebrating his birthday. He even had a new photo in his wallet, a polaroid of him and Peter cheesing goofily into the camera. Looking at it brings a smile to his face. 

He really does love his little brother. Though he was young, Tony can remember life before Richard and Peter came into their lives. He remembers being an only child as lonely hours spent trying to entertain himself while his mom was busy working, trying to support him as a single parent. He’d been ecstatic upon meeting Richard and finding out that he had a little boy, too, that he was going to get a brother. 

Tony knows that he and Peter haven’t been spending as much time together as they usually do, but he just chalked it up to it being his senior year. He wanted to spend the time with his friends, with his girlfriend, making the best of their last bit of time together before everything changes. 

Peter’s words from his birthday ring in his head. I don’t want you to...forget me. Maybe he’s feeling left behind? 

He’s only got a little over a week left until graduation, and then a week after that he leaves for MIT. That’s not much time at all.

The teen resolves to make some more time in his schedule to spend with his younger brother. Rhodey and the guys and Pep can deal for a couple days. 

***

Peter’s pulled out of the clusterfuck of ruminative thoughts that have kept him awake for the past week by the squeak of his bedroom door being opened. He blinks under the covers, instinctively curling in on himself. He’s been under here for hours, but he still feels so cold.

Tony’s voice comes through the small crack he’s created between the door and the jamb, one eye peeking inside. “Peter? Are you….” He pauses and clears his throat before continuing softly, “Are you okay?” 

The lump under the covers that is Peter shifts a little. His voice is dull and monotone when he replies, as apathetic as he can muster. “...Just leave me alone, Tony.” So much for that. Even saying his brother’s name hurts, a lot more than he thought it would, making his voice crack pathetically. Peter pulls his hands up to his chest and tries to quell the sudden surge of emotion that rushes through him, stifling a whimper. Please just go away. 

Of course, instead of listening for once in his fucking life, Tony opens the door further so that he can slip inside. It closes behind him with a soft click and he takes a tentative step towards the queen bed that’s pushed up against the walls in the corner of the dark bedroom. "Pete…" Peter can hear him softly pad over to the nightstand and flick on the small lamp sitting there. His breathing in the quiet room is near deafening to Peter. “I…” He hovers there for a minute before sighing and sitting at the foot of the bed. “I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong. So that I can… I just want to help, Pete.”

The silence stretches on uncomfortably between them and even under the covers, Peter can feel the worried gaze burning him alive. 

His skin is crawling with how badly he wants to crawl out of the covers and into Tony’s lap, the way he would when they were younger and he was upset. He needs to get Tony out of here. He can’t- 

Peter moves so that his head is exposed, but he looks down at the bed rather than the other teen. "No, it’s fine. I mean I-, I’m fine," Peter sniffles, blinking furiously in an attempt to will the tears away. Fuck. His- fuck, his throat is tight, he can't swallow. His mouth falls open, a shuddering breath escaping as the muscles in his throat spasm. "I get it, Tony. I promise I get it, I really do. I do. She's-" 

Fuck. He must really be exhausted, he wasn’t supposed to say that, wasn’t supposed to let on the truth of why he’s upset. Peter's eyes flit around like he's on speed, darting from one focal point to another without him truly seeing anything. His voice is hoarse, thin. It's as small as he feels. Miniscule. Insignificant. He’s gonna ruin everything but he can’t make himself stop. "I mean, I can’t- I can't compete with-" The words come to an abrupt halt, his mouth snapping shut. 

Tony nudges Peter’s foot with his knee. “What? Peter.” He bumps against Peter again until the younger boy looks up to make eye contact. 

That stupid fucking crease forms between his older brother's eyebrows. Peter wants to slap him. Or kiss him. Mostly he wants to scream. 

"Peter, what? Compete with who? Are you talking about Pepper? I know we haven’t been spending much time together, but I’m gonna fix that before I leave, I promise. I don’t want you to feel left behind, not at all but I still don’t get- What’s this got to do with -," Tony starts, placatingly. But there’s something in his eyes, in the barely there tremor in his voice- And Peter suddenly realizes that Tony knows, has to know at least a little bit. 

He swears his vision flashes red for a second. "It has everything to do with her," Peter all but shrieks, nails digging crescent-shaped welts into his palms. He feels overwhelmed, trapped. Like a hermit crab without its shell- vulnerable, horribly exposed. It comes out without his consent, and so does his fucking stutter. Fuck it all. "And I know- I know- I know I'm fucked up, Tony, I know it, but I love you, the way that you love h-huh-her.” 

He takes a shuddering breath, reeling from saying the words out loud for the first time. “I'm sss-suh-sick, and g-gross and you- I know I'm a fff-fuh-freak and nnn-now- now you’re gonna hate me!" Peter sobs, his entire body shaking as he works himself towards an anxiety attack, a panic attack, a heart attack, fucking something. “I can’t even fu-fu-fu-fucking talk-” There’s snot and tears running down his face, he’s upset himself so much he can’t get through a fucking sentence. He knows he’s making a fucking fool of himself. He’s so stupid, why did he ever think that anything could come from this. He just wants it all to stop, he wants Tony to leave so that he can figure out some way to fix this, to make it all go away-

Tony’s staring at him, mouth parted, dark eyes wide and concerned. "Baby, what- I could never hate you, babydoll." It’s like the nickname comes out instinctually, the sound of Peter’s stutter instantly taking him back to the way he would console Peter when they were much younger, pulling him into his arms and rocking him like his own little baby. 

He climbs on the bed and burrows into the nest of blankets and pillows that Peter has created, but he stays sitting up. His arms wrap around his baby brother and pull him up into his lap so that he’s close to his chest, in spite of the younger’s attempts to squirm away. “Calm down, Pete.” Tony presses his lips to Peter’s head when his cries only increase, frowning at how hot the skin of his forehead is. “You’ve gotta calm down,” he soothes. “C’mon, it’ll get better once you calm down, baby, you know that.” One of his hands glides up and down Peter’s heaving back. 

Gasping, Peter shakes his head. He buries his face in the space where Tony’s pec and arm meet, taking a shuddering breath through his mouth. He’s trying to calm down but it’s not working. “I’m so- I’m so ssss-sss-suh-sorry, Tuh-Tony!” He feels like he’s gonna pass out. Shifting a bit, he pulls his head back in an attempt to get some more air. They almost make eye contact but he hurriedly looks away. He’s ruined everything. Tony hasn’t reacted to his confession yet but Peter knows that it’s gonna be bad, it’s gonna be so bad when he does. 

What’s he got left to lose?

Peter can't help himself; he leans in. The tips of their noses brush, and he pauses there for a moment. He can hear Tony's sharp intake of breath through his own heaving as they finally lock eyes. The look in Tony's chocolate depths is- Peter doesn’t really know. Tony's never looked at him like this before, no one has.

“Tony,” he whispers shakily, breath catching in his throat before closing the distance between them. Time stands still for a moment before something breaks, the tension snapping like a rubberband pulled too tight. Their mouths meet and Peter immediately whines at the feeling of Tony’s lips on his, body instinctively arching up against his brother’s, too lost in it to feel embarrassed of how easy he is to get worked up. 

It’s...everything he ever dreamed of.

Tony’s hands move to cup his cheeks, and Peter’s own hands find their way into the other’s dark, wavy locks as their mouths move against each other. There’s a swipe of tongue across his bottom lip, timidly asking for entrance. The younger obliges immediately, letting the warm muscle slide into his mouth where it meets his own. It sends shivers down his spine and he keens when his tongue is sucked into the wet of Tony’s mouth. His dick begins to fill rapidly in his sweats, leaving him feeling lightheaded and a bit disoriented.

Peter’s never made out with anyone before, but this- 

He thinks he understands what all of the hype is about, now. 

They pull apart, both gasping for air. Tony moves his head slightly, taking heaving breaths that blow onto the exposed skin of Peter’s neck, and his entire body seizes. The elder brother pauses, eyes darkening, before he latches his mouth there and sucking, hard- Fuck, Peter swears he’s about to cum in his pants. 

“Tony.” The name is all but ripped from his throat, ragged and wanton and filthy sounding. He didn’t know he could feel this good. There’s precum steadily leaking from the slit at the tip of his cock, and though he can’t see it at the moment, he’s sure there’s a wet spot staining the crotch of his pants. 

More moist air on the sensitive skin of his neck, now slightly red from being rubbed by the stubble covering Tony’s chin. “Shit, Peter,” comes the eighteen year old’s wrecked gasp and his hips shift, nudging his own erection against Peter’s thigh. “Fuck, fuck.”

Peter feels like he’s losing his mind. “Tony, Tony lemme- Wanna touch you, please-,” he says, unable to put together a full sentence. The cock he’s been dreaming about for almost a year is within his reach and he doesn’t know how they got here, has no idea what’s going to happen after, but he’s so fucking close to getting what he’s wanted for so long but thought he could never have. His hands flutter restlessly near the front of his brother’s basketball shorts and the bulge that’s pressing insistently against the loose material. 

“Yeah,” Tony gasps, shifting Peter out of his lap so that he can lie down on the bed on his side and then he pulls Peter down with him, facing each other. “Me too, can I…,” he trails off, the fingers of his right hand running down Peter’s body from his shoulder down to the sharp point of his hip bone. 

All Peter can do is nod jerkily, already reaching to tug at the dark red fabric that’s wrapped around the older teen’s waist. He lets out a desperate, frustrated sound when they get caught, but Tony’s hands take over for him, so he pushes his own pants down to his knees instead. His dick hangs down heavily once it's free of its confines, and there’s a quiet thud as Tony’s slaps against the dark hairs smattered across his lower belly. 

Looking at his big brother’s cock for the first time in the dim lighting makes Peter’s mouth water. He can make out the slight shadow of a vein running the length of it, and his tip is big, a drop of precum sitting there just waiting for him to lick at it. He’s bigger than Peter, in both length and girth. It’s perfect, something right out of his fantasies. 

Tony rocks his hips forward and their erections rub against each other, prompting them to let out synchronous groans. “Holy shit,” Peter whines, his own hips stuttering as they start to rut against each other in earnest. They quickly get into a slightly stumbling rhythm. It feels so good, their cocks both so hot, so hard. He already knows this is going to be over before it really even starts but he couldn’t care less. “Tony, Tony, yes-”

The brunette all but growls. “That’s it, Petey. Fuck, your cock feels so good, I never- Shit,” Tony pants before spitting into his palm and wrapping his hand around both of their shafts. “Fucking hell-” His toes twitch against the inside of Peter’s ankle. “Pete-”

Peter’s movements get jerkier, his hips stuttering at the feeling of Tony’s wet hand, the way their dicks are sliding against one another. He’s so close, so fucking close. “Please,” he whimpers, fingers digging to Tony’s shoulders where he’s holding on in an attempt to ground himself. HIs tongue licks at his brother’s bottom lip. “Wanna cum, Tony, lemme cum-”

“Yeah, fuck, yes Peter, cum, cum for me-” Tony groans, the speed of his stroking increasing. The rhythm is jerky, and it’s so uncoordinated when combined with their frantic undulating, but it feels amazing. 

“Tony, Tony, Tony,” Peter chants as his orgasm slams into him like a brick wall. His muscles lock up, and there are probably crescent-shaped welts in the skin of Tony’s shoulders and back. Thick, white ropes of cum shoot from his cock and make a mess in his brother’s hand. A whine escapes him as he grows more sensitive in Tony’s grasp. 

The feeling of the warm liquid smearing over his erection is what does the older teen in. He crushes his mouth to Peter’s as he cums, fucking into his fist and rubbing against the other’s softening cock, licking lewdly into the wet of his mouth. “Pete,” he sighs, pulling away after he’s ridden out the wave of his orgasm. 

“I love you,” Peter whispers contently, snuggling in and pressing a kiss to a freckle on Tony’s shoulder. This is everything he’s ever wanted, to be held in his big brother’s arms like this: like a lover. Maybe he was worried for nothing, maybe everything will be okay. Sure, they’ll have to hide it from everyone, especially Mom & Dad, but once they’re both in college… They have different last names, no one would ever have to know. They could be happy. Peter just wants to be happy, just wants this feeling to stay. 

Tony shifts slightly and takes a deep breath, the puff of air ruffling Peter’s sweat-slick auburn curls. “Pete,” he says again, softly. “I love you too, I do.” He pauses, pulling back slightly and loosening his hold on the younger boy and rolling onto his back so that they’re both looking up at the ceiling. “But I-”

Peter freezes, the afterglow fading instantly. His heartbeat picks up, and there’s a slight ringing in his ears. He grips the sweat damp comforter in his hands, fingers twitching restlessly, stroking back and forth over the fabric in an attempt to soothe himself. No. No, no no, this isn’t- Tony- He can’t-

Another heavy sigh. “We can’t- We can’t do this again, Pete,” Tony says into the quiet of the night, still slightly out of breath from exertion. His voice is soft, gentle. He’s trying not to hurt Peter; Peter thinks that’s bullshit.

There’s a lead weight in his stomach. He feels like he’s drowning. He feels like he’s gonna be sick. He feels dirty. He feels- 

He’s so tired of feeling.

Tony hesitates before pulling his shorts up and sliding out of the bed. He reaches out, brushing his fingers over Peter’s hand, jerks back when the younger immediately tenses and recoils from the touch. “I’m sorry,” he whispers before hastily making his way to the door, shutting it gently behind him. 

“Just go, Tony,” he croaks before rolling over in the bed, away from the love of his life his brother. 

Peter lays there for the rest of the night, unmoving, staring at the ceiling, tears running down the sides of his face, seeing nothing. 

If only he could feel nothing, too.

*** 

“Where...where ya goin, Pete?” 

Peter is putting clothes in a small duffel bag. He makes a mental note to remember to grab a new thing of toothpaste when he gets his toiletry bag together. “I’m, uh, gonna go stay with Ned. For a few days.” More like a few weeks, but he doesn’t need to tell Tony that. 

It’s only been two days since they- 

Peter’s already had enough. He can’t be here, he can’t skirt around the elephant that is his feelings towards Tony, can’t handle the awkwardness in the air as his stupid fucking brother tries to go on as if nothing ever happened. As if it meant nothing to him. 

As if Peter meant nothing to him, means nothing to him.

Peter can...he can be okay with that. He has to be. But he can’t be here. He can’t.

“What about mom and da-” Tony cuts himself off, and Peter can tell that’s not what he is really trying to ask. Of course he’s so fucking disgusted, so fearful of someone else knowing, that he can’t even say it. No, what he really means is- 

“I didn’t tell them I kissed you, Tony,” Peter hisses, tears burning in his eyes. He yanks the zipper of his bag closed, biting back a scream when it gets stuck for a second. “I’m not stupid. Why would I tell them what we did? I don’t want them to hate me, too. Don’t worry about what I told them, they said I could go.” 

Maria and Richard are under the impression that Peter’s just stressed about his grades and going a little stir crazy. When they’d talked last night, Mom had frowned gently at him, mentioning how down he’d looked lately and letting him know that he was loved and cherished. Dad had actually been the one to suggest spending some time with Ned; maybe seeing his best friend would help pull Peter out of his funk.

If only they knew. 

Tony gapes at him, an incredulous look on his face. “But what about Tuesday? You’re gonna miss my graduation? For what, to fuck around with Ned? Peter-”

Something in him snaps. He clenches his jaw, swallows harshly. Glares tearily at his brother. “Would you please just stop it?” 

The taller boy sets his shoulders and crosses his arms, defiant. “I don’t want you to go.” His eyes are narrowed, searching Peter’s face. For what, the younger has no idea. Nor does he care. 

“It doesn’t matter what you want, Tony,” he yells, glad that Mom and Dad are out at the grocery store, getting supplies for Tony’s graduation party. His voice cracks on his brother’s name. Always on his name. “Not anymore. I don’t- I know you don’t- Do you know how much it hurts me? To- to hear you? To know, to have to listen to-”

Tony’s mouth opens, but no words come out. “Hear us? You- you heard us? When?” His eyes are wide. He must realize exactly what Peter’s talking about, when he’s talking about, and he looks uncomfortable, vulnerable in a way that Peter’s never seen him before. Something ugly deep inside the younger teen feels satisfied for a moment before it deflates. He’s left feeling just as drained as before. 

Tony continues, “Peter, I-” He cuts himself off, looks away. 

Of course he can’t even come up with something to say.

“For fuck’s sake, Tony, you don’t have to explain everything to me!” It comes out as a sob. Peter feels like he’s a volcano; the words are erupting and he can’t do anything but allow it, powerless to stop them. “Nothing you say will make it better! I know you’re straight! I know it’s- that it’s wrong. I know Pepper is-,” he chokes, gasping. Why is this happening? Everything is going so fast. How is he freezing and on fire at the same time? 

“She’s gorgeous and I’m just the path-th-thetic little br-brother who th-thinks you hung the moon.” Peter’s spluttering, flapping his hands at his sides as he tries to do something with the energy humming inside him. He wants out, he needs Tony to go so that he can finish packing. He has to get out of here. 

Tony takes a step towards him. “No, Peter, how could you-”

Peter’s sniffling, eyes squeezed shut. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, trembling. Why won’t Tony just leave him alone? He just wants to be alone. “I know I’m ugly and I- I bet you can’t w-w-wait to go to MIT, to go away from me!” 

“Babydoll,” is what leaves Tony’s mouth, so soft Peter almost doesn’t hear it. His hands are shaking as they land on his younger brother’s cheeks. Warm tears are gently brushed away by his thumbs. “Pete.” 

Brow furrowed, Peter slowly opens his eyes and blinks the tears back in order to look at his brother. Tony looks...scared? What does he have to be scared of? 

Peter tries to pull away, out of Tony’s grasp but the older teen just clutches him tighter. “Tony- What? It’s fine, j-just stop! Let me go, I need to finish-”

Tony closes his eyes and crashes their lips together.

don’t hate me 

@spidey-sins @silkystark @thegreenmetblue @snailshome @hp-nv-221b @lemondrop313  

if you wanna be untagged lmk 

[cake-writes]

making the beast beautiful (one)

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (cheating); Steve x Reader (married)

Story Warnings: Mental Illness, Borderline Personality Disorder, Splitting, Clinical Depression, Suicidal Ideation, Anxiety, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Low Self-Esteem, Cheating, Angst, Drug Addiction / Abuse (Cigarettes, later Alcohol & Pills), Recovery, idk it’s gonna get depressing but we’ll have a happy ending!!!, Eventual Smut, 18+

Summary: Bucky knows the struggle, the pain, the emptiness. He understands. He can relate, because he knows. And some days, he still struggles – even told you once how low he’s been. But Steve? Your sweet, loving husband of a year and a half? No, Steve doesn’t understand. He can’t, no matter how hard he tries. So one day, you finally give up and give in to your most self-destructive temptation of all: your preoccupation with his best friend.

A/N: i know this is another wip SORRY but it’s literal word vomit because ya girl just really needed to yeet these sad bitch feels into outer space lmao 🤷 

Your addiction to him starts slow, like the creep of nicotine through your veins from the cigarettes that he offers you on the rooftop.

Not often enough to do any damage, you try to tell yourself about your smoking habit – or maybe what you actually mean is the amount of time you spend with him. Bucky Barnes. Your husband’s best friend. Your former teammate. Not that it matters, because from one night to the next it’s all you can do to cling to the one good thing you have left, the one ray of light– or maybe he’s the one last shred of hope you’re willing to bind yourself to like a lifeline.

And if it snaps, you’ll fall. 

Too bad the threads are already starting to fray.

And lucky, lucky you that you fall even sooner, because your reality has shifted to one shade off from normal, and you can hardly tell what’s right and what’s wrong anymore. You want to prioritize yourself because you know you should – maybe be a little selfish for once, to combat the awful feelings of self-hate that plague your mind, but you don’t know if that particular affirmation is driven by self-esteem or self-destruction.

You can’t tell anymore. You don’t know who you are.

You’re a mystery, a chameleon, borderline, and the only thing you do know is that Bucky makes you feel again – too much. He makes you feel things you shouldn’t, makes you obsess and overthink and daydream and wonder about what life could be like with him instead of Steve.

Because that’s what you do when you fall in love. You turn into that. A monster. A beast. A siren hell-bent on the destruction of yourself.

So, you fall. You fall deep. You fall hard. You fall fast, but it’s the savouring of the moment that always brings out the worst in you. It brings back the worst part of you that you’ve buried under layers and layers of trauma and depression – the clinginess and neediness and desperation at the center of it all, and every layer covering up the euphoria makes you cry because you have to hide it for fear of losing yourself all over again. Losing that feeling. Losing what makes you you.

You’re happy, now. Right? So why do things you shouldn’t do?

But you just can’t help yourself.

You shouldn’t have accepted that first cigarette.

You shouldn’t have texted him asking for another.

You shouldn’t have talked to him about personal things meant for your husband.

You shouldn’t have talked to him about the most personal of things: your husband. Your relationship. Your insecurities because of your illness.

You shouldn’t have – because Bucky knows. He understands. He’s been there.

He knows the struggle, the pain, the emptiness. He understands. He can relate, because he knows. He’s been there. He’s done that. And some days, he still struggles – even told you, once, how low he’s been. 

He might have a different slew of acronyms to define his own mental state, but they all spell out the same thing: FUBAR. And so do yours.

But Steve? Your sweet, loving husband of a year and a half? The man of your dreams, the one you’d married in the gown of your dreams, in the venue of your dreams? He’s resilient. And let’s not forget your wedding, with Bucky standing right there as his best man – the same Bucky who accidentally caught the bouquet you threw in his direction, because your aim was purposefully off to make him feel like he belonged for once.

Even before you got to know him, you always had a soft spot for him. 

And now? You’re fucked. Completely and utterly smitten.

No, Steve doesn’t understand. He absolutely, fundamentally cannot, through and through. Not for a lack of trying, though, or that’s what you keep trying to convince yourself. He supports you physically: makes dinner when you’re ‘tired’, runs errands when you’re ‘busy’, gives you love and affection just like he always has. You’re his wife; it’s his obligation. He has to.

That’s how you feel, anyway.

He treats you that way out of duty, not love, because Steve always has to put the greater good before himself. He puts your happiness before his own, you think. And he tries so hard – he does. And whenever he tells you he’s happy, you just can’t believe him because you think so poorly of yourself.

Why would anyone willingly want to be around you?

And emotionally? He tries so hard with that, too, but he just doesn’t know. He doesn’t get it. He never says the right things, only well-meaning insensitive ones because he hasn’t been there, he hasn’t done that, and he thinks it’s all in your head – that you’re just not trying hard enough, that you just don’t want to get better badly enough, because if you did then you’d be up and at ‘em already. Then you’d be healed. Then you’d be out of this funk and back in the field with him.

You’re not.

You won’t be for a long time.

You’re not the same girl he fell in love with. Not that he’s ever said that directly to you, but sometimes you think it’s how he feels. He signed up for a wife, not a child. He signed up for the you from a few years ago, now, not the shell of a person you’ve become because of your illness.

Ironic, considering what he was like as a kid, Bucky likes to remind you when you start to hate on yourself because of how you’ve changed – because you’re not normal anymore. He used to be so sick all the time. Then the serum made him right as rain. Don’t take it to heart.

Steve got better because of a miracle. Hard work and determination can only get a person so far, but it was pure luck that got him to the serum. You know that. Bucky knows that. Steve probably knows that deep down, too, but he doesn’t see it that way. All he sees is his hard work.

He lies to himself. He always has.

He probably lies to himself about his love for you, too.

So it’s hard to believe he’s happy. How can he be? You don’t bring anything to your relationship but self-pity and unhappiness. And how can you not take it to heart that Steve doesn’t understand? Your husband, the one who should be supporting you and validating you and making you feel like you’re seen, thinks you’re always throwing a pity party for yourself, thinks you’re just too lazy to get up and actually do the things you want to do, thinks you’re just not trying hard enough.

Come on, doll, he says. Let’s go for a walk.

To you it just sounds like, Walk it off.

Because he’s said that before, too. A hundred times. In the field, and out.

You’re not an agent anymore. You can’t handle it anymore. You can’t handle anything anymore.

Deep down, you’re convinced that Steve thinks because it’s not physical – that because there are no scrapes or bruises or broken bones to prove that you’re in pain – that your depression isn’t real. Not really. It’s an illness, same as any other, and he just doesn’t understand it because he can’t see any physical evidence of it.

Never mind the weight you’ve lost.

Never mind the bags under your eyes.

Never mind the crying spells, the dissociation – but then, you hide those from him the best you can these days. You don’t want him to see how bad you are anymore, because he just doesn’t get it. Because it hurts so much every time for him to look at you with those soft, confused baby blues and act like it’s not a big deal, like a little bit of sunshine’s a cure-all for your woes.

Ironic is right. The boy’s been to war and he hasn’t even processed his own trauma. Hasn’t even been to a shrink despite having two best friends poking and prodding for him to go. He’s in denial.

He refuses to believe that you just couldn’t get to the laundry today because you’re too exhausted from lying in bed all day. He refuses to believe that you couldn’t eat a bite because you didn’t even think to, too busy caught up in your own pain to remember, let alone care. He refuses to believe that you don’t even feel like you deserve to do anything good for yourself, so why even get up? Why bother? Why try to do anything anymore?

Just let the darkness take you away. Bit by bit. Piece by piece. And then, maybe one day you won’t have to feel anything anymore. Maybe you’ll just disappear.

Wouldn’t that be nice?

He refuses to get it, and some part of you feels like it’s because he doesn’t want to. Because he’s afraid to acknowledge that it’s true. That if he starts therapy like you did, then this could just as easily happen to him, too.

But hey, that’s his problem, not yours. You’re still learning to prioritize yourself – to break away from co-dependency and focus on your own needs for once. You’re barely keeping your head above water; why should you have to work on him, too, when he doesn’t offer you the same consideration? You’ve done what you can, and he just turns a blind eye because he doesn’t want to understand your issues. Or his.

So, you’ve given up.

You plaster on a happy face when he’s home – a painful, never-ending reminder that you’re not okay, and you keep your troubles to yourself. You’ve stopped sharing your struggles with the man you married because he doesn’t understand, and it hurts. You try so hard to act like nothing’s wrong that sometimes you dissociate, and you don’t come back to yourself until you have a cigarette hanging between your lips, lit by a Zippo engraved with a clever, If you want to make love, smile when you hand this lighter back.

Seeing the joke on Bucky’s lighter always brings you back, because it’s ridiculous. It’s a throwback to his army days; Steve found it awhile back with Bucky’s old personal effects. Makes you wonder what he must have been like back then.

Cigarette smoke and leather and sandalwood in the dead of night – and you always make a point to smile when you hand it back to him.

Temptation incarnate, now. What a dream he would have been back then.

Sometimes you text him when you and Steve have had another fight.

Sometimes he texts you when he needs you to ground him.

Sometimes the two of you just text each other for the hell of it. It’s usually related to someone’s mental health, usually yours, but occasionally not; after all, over the last few months he’s become your partner in misery and crime. The two of you have shared things to each other that you’ve never told another person, not even Steve; and in some ways, you feel like you’ve bared your soul to him.

It’s intimate.

In other ways, you’ve kept your guard up because you know you’re playing with fire.

It’s wrong.

You know you should really tell Steve about your midnight conversations – that you probably know his best friend almost as well as he does, now, but Bucky’s become a guilty sort of pleasure that you keep near and dear to your heart. He makes you feel things that you haven’t felt in a long time, but you’re not ready to acknowledge what that means. Not yet.

And neither is Bucky, evidently, because Steve’s still none the wiser.

Eight months of this and you still want more.

Your husband trusts you. He never asks who you’re texting or what you’re up to. You’ve given him no reason to believe otherwise. He feels safe and secure in your relationship, but maybe he’s turning a blind eye to that, too.

He shouldn’t. 

You wish he didn’t.

Some small part of you wants him to catch you, and that’s what you resent the most. You’re self-destructive – ready to destroy the one good, stable thing in your life in favour of an impossibility, but you can’t deny that Bucky gives your brain the dopamine it needs, it craves, it lacks.

He’s been gone on a mission the last week and a half, but you saw the Quinjet fly in the hangar earlier in the evening, around six, and you’ve been keen to text him since. You’ve held back for a little while, not wanting to appear to eager to message him – so you’re certainly not too proud of how quickly your resolve cracks.

You, 10:33pm Please don’t tell me you came home with Lucky Strikes again.

Bucky, 10:41pm Sorry, princess. Didn’t realize I was seeing royalty tonight.

And then he sends through a photo of a slightly crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes in his hand – an invitation to come to the rooftop. Judging by the setting, he’s already there.

Despite his choice in a particularly harsh smoke, you’re more focused on the pet name that has your face burning hot. It’s something he’s started to tack on recently – ‘princess’ being most common, particularly when he’s teasing you about being spoiled in some way, but when he slips it in during a real conversation is what really makes your heart pound.

You know you should tell him to stop. You know you should, but, you don’t.

You like how it feels to feel for once.

You’re married. It’s wrong. You need to stop, but you just can’t help yourself. You’re lonely.

Steve’s still away on a mission, which doesn’t bother you nearly as much as it used to – you hope he returns safely, of course you do, but you don’t really miss him. Not like you should. That’s happened more often than not as of late, and you can feel your attention shifting the longer you keep up this dangerous game with his best friend.

If it even is a game, that is. It’s probably not. How could he possibly be attracted to you? You’re depressed. You’re boring. And, to top it all off, you’re his best friend’s wife.

Of course you’re the only participant. Bucky’s just humouring you. That’s all.

And now, as you swipe on some deodorant and attempt to make something out of the rat’s nest that is your hair, you feel a particularly awful level of disdain for yourself. The self-loathing pairs nicely with your poor appearance; you haven’t slept well in days, and you’ve barely eaten in just as long.

It’s only when Steve is here keeping you on a regular schedule that you do. Otherwise it’s a free for all anymore.

Bucky never seems to mind – just encourages you to go do what needs to be done when the conversation’s over. And somehow, you listen. 

Sometimes he texts to ask if you’re doing okay while he’s away on a mission, too – and you always lie, because he can’t prove otherwise. He sends you a couple reminders anyway, because he just knows. He understands that you’d rather not burden him with the truth.

And then, when he comes back, he calls you out on your lie. He calls you out and reminds you how valuable you are – to Steve, mostly, and to the team. You’re irreplaceable. You’re needed.

He never says how important you are to him, but you always wish he would.

It’s stupid. It’s wrong.

You’re married.

Tonight will be no different. Despite your negative beliefs about yourself, he’ll tell you otherwise, but you won’t believe him. You never do, even though you desperately want to.

You’re a mess, so a beanie it is. You pull it over your tangled hair and somehow get your bangs looking presentable, at least; then you give your clothes the sniff test, spritz a little body spray just in case, and head out the door. You had a shower yesterday because even you couldn’t stand it anymore. 

That’ll do.

Fingers tap anxiously at your feed in the quiet elevator. There’s some mild jazz playing, just like usual, but your heart pounds inside your chest – only brings more attention to your nerves.

Bucky hasn’t been gone long, but you’ve missed him.

It’s stupid. It’s wrong.

You’re married.

After exiting the elevator, a short flight of stairs takes you to the roof. Once you start to push, the fire exit door blows open of its own accord; it’s windy up here due to the change of seasons, not that you’ve even noticed it considering you haven’t been outside in over a week. The fresh air shoots straight through your hoodie and sweatpants, and you briskly rub your arms to warm up, immediately wishing you’d checked the temperature before you came outside, maybe grabbed a jacket. You hadn’t even thought of it. Your mind’s a mess.

Hadn’t thought of dinner, either. Or lunch.

That’s when a heavy leather jacket is deposited ungracefully on your shoulders, and you glance up behind you to find Bucky standing there, giving you the look. It’s the one that pre-empts the lecture. “That help?”

You nod, basking in the smell of him – sandalwood and spice. Ah. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He knows.

He can tell with just one look that you’ve been lying to him – that you haven’t been taking care of yourself like you said you were. But he doesn’t reprimand you this time, or offer you platitudes; the disapproving look is enough.

Slippers on your feet, you pad over to the two lawn chairs he set up awhile back near the edge of the eastern wing; it’s got a nice view of the landing pad, but beyond that is the lake, and the two of you have come up here long enough to catch the sunrise once or twice. It’s nice.

“Good mission?” you ask, shoving your hands into your pockets as you collapse into your chair. It’s made of a terrible green fabric, seated low enough to the ground to let you curl your knees to your chest and cry when you want to. And you do. A lot.

This time, however, you’ve got your legs extended far ahead of you. You don’t want to talk about yourself tonight. You want to focus on him.

A distraction. That’s all. That’s what you try to tell yourself.

The other chair, woven blue and white, is where Bucky comes to rest just like always. You suspect that it was the cheapest one in the store, because it creaks and groans and you always think it’s going to break when he sits in it, but it never does. It’s also taller than yours, so you call him old man every now and then for it because that’s just hilarious.

It’s not flirting. It’s not.

Not even when you’ve nearly fallen into his lap on more than one occasion thanks to drinking beforehand.

“Well,” he starts hesitantly, pausing to consider his answer, “I made it back.”

His tone is soft – distant. Not a good mission, then.

“I’m glad you made it back,” you offer, giving him what you hope is a hopeful smile. It feels fake, but the intention behind it is real.

He studies your face for a moment or two, before he averts his eyes. “You’re probably the only one. I had to do some things on the mission that I—” He cuts himself off, then, and pulls the pack of Lucky Strikes out of his pocket to fiddle with. A crutch. “I don’t like to use my strength when I don’t have to. Makes people nervous.”

He’s told you about it before. By ‘people’ he means ‘agents’. Other agents. The ones he was working with, no doubt. As if his arm isn’t reminder enough, sometimes if he doesn’t hold back – well, they start to treat him a little differently after that. It’s a reminder that he’s not fully human.

You can empathize. “It’s a little shocking at first,” you remind him gently, “but you do get used to it. I did. It just takes some time.”

Of course, you also married a super soldier, so there’s that. You can’t really gauge what’s ‘normal’ anymore.

That’s when he cracks open the pack  of cigarettes – half full, which means he must have been smoking on the mission, too, something he doesn’t usually do – and when he meets your eyes, the dark, anxious look there turns your stomach to knots.

“Are you?” he asks, voice low and laced with an emotion you just can’t place – or maybe you’re too afraid to acknowledge that you can, and very easily feel the same way. “I could break you in thirty ways before you could even tell me to stop.”

Your brain halts like a record scratch when the clear implication of his words sends a jolt straight to your core. Not just because it’s true, the threat, but because of the dangerous way he’s staring at you, coupled with the casual authority in his voice.

He could hurt you so easily, but you know he wouldn’t. Not you.

He could do other things, too – something a lot less violent and a lot more pleasurable – but you don’t let yourself consider that. You can’t. Even if it’s what he’s implying.

Is it what he’s implying?

You’re married. He knows that.

There’s a long pause while you try to gather your thoughts, until you finally manage as evenly as you can, “Are you trying to scare me?”

Your voice is still a little hoarse despite how much you willed it not to be. He did scare you a little – not that you’d ever admit it, because he excited you a hell of a lot more, and you hate that, too. But you love it even more.

Your question makes his shoulders slump, just slightly, just enough to let you know that that’s exactly what it was – that Bucky was lashing out, in his own way. That he’s the one who’s scared. That he’s trying to push you away.

Why?

“I’m not afraid of you, Bucky,” you reassure him, because you aren’t. You could never be. Not like that. What you’re afraid of is so much worse than that – because it involves him and you, and you can’t make yourself stop wanting more of this. More of him. More of what he threatened to do to you – the underlying meaning you hope to god you’re not imagining, but you should never, ever want.

It’s wrong.

“You should be,” he responds, quiet, rolling the cigarette he’s half pulled out of the pack in between his fingers like he’s debating whether to light it, but he’s trying his hardest not to this time. “You shouldn’t be up here with me.”

The ball drops.

The truth that the two of you have been dancing around for months finally comes out, and you laugh – you laugh, because otherwise you’ll cry. “What are you talking about?”

“Darlin’, you’re—” he starts, and then lets out a frustrated sigh and shoves the cigarette right back in, shoves the pack shut too for good measure. Blue eyes burn into yours. “You know why.”

“We’re friends, Bucky,” you emphasize, lightly, but deep within your chest you can feel the anger, the anxiety start to burn and meld together into something entirely unrecognizable. It’s the tiniest ember now, but it won’t be if this keeps up. You know you’re married. You know that. You don’t need the reminder. “We’re just talking. What’s the problem?”

“Come on, sweetheart.” He’s calm, too calm, and it bothers you. “Don’t play dumb. You’re too smart for that.”

It’s just pretend. It’s not real. You’re happily married with Steve. You’re happy.

Right?

“That’s all it is,” you argue. “I’m married. You said so yourself. Steve and I are happily married.”

Saying it out loud is just another cold, brutal reminder that you aren’t. Just like the façade you’re forced to wear. 

“Yeah? You’re happy?” Bucky asks, pulling himself to his feet – and you suddenly realize how tall he is when he’s towering over you like this. You’re not scared, no, you love it. And that makes it worse, the way he makes your heart race like this. “Then there’s gotta be a reason why you haven’t told him about our little talks.”

Because they’re more than that. That’s the reason.

“Well, why haven’t you?” you shoot back, finally getting to your feet, too, feeling your face flush with anger. “You haven’t told him either. Why’s that, huh?”

Tense silence falls over the two of you as you glare at each other, the only light illuminating your features coming from the full moon. It’s a beautiful night, clear and chilly and bright, and you originally had hopes of maybe stargazing with him like you’ve done so many times before.

Not tonight.

He’s pushing you away. He wants to push you away. You know he is, it’s obvious – he tried one approach, and when that didn’t work, he went for the thing he knew would invoke a reaction. The thing that would hurt the most.

Steve. Your marriage. Your happiness, or lack thereof.

No matter how many times you try to tell that to the rational side of your brain, you just can’t handle it. It’s another rejection from someone you cared about – someone you felt yourself growing a potentially unhealthy attachment to – and he just had to hurt you like all the rest. He wanted to hurt you. He wanted to see you suffer.

You can’t stand him.

So you shrug off his jacket and shove it at him. “Take your fucking jacket,” you bite out. “You want me gone? Well, I’m going. Hope you’re happy.”

The way he takes it from you catches you off guard, blue eyes wide with hurt and surprise – but you don’t give him another second of your time. Instead you spin around on your heel and stomp your way back to the access door.

You’re not well enough for this. You’re depressed. You’re broken. You’re lonely.

And now, the only person who understands has thrown you away – discarded you like you’re nothing. Maybe because you are. You’re worthless.

Your fingertips just brush against the handle when you’re tugged back by the wrist, and then his arms are around you, his chest pressing into your back.

He’s warm.

It’s wrong.

But it feels right, and you hate how easily you melt into his touch, into the feeling of his lips at your ear.

“I don’t want you to go,” he whispers, and you’re done for.

The heat from your anger warps into something else – something that burns you up in a different way, and you swallow thickly at the feeling of his arms so snug around your waist. “What do you want, then?”

It’s barely audible, your question -- but he hears it just fine. Soft lips drag from your ear to your pulse, and you shiver, lulling your head back onto his shoulder.

“You tell me,” Bucky breathes against your skin. “I need to know what you want.”

The two of you are playing a dangerous game, and the stakes are only getting higher. You both have a lot to lose, but you’re the one taking the higher risk. Not him.

“I want—” His teeth gently nip at your neck and you can’t help yourself. “I want you—”

And then your back is pressed into the closed door, cold metal biting through your sweats but you don’t even notice, too focused on the feeling of his lips on yours. They’re soft and ever-so-slightly chapped, and his stubble scratches just a little, pleasantly, just enough to hurt in the best way.

It’s hot, too hot, god, you can’t handle the heat of his body against yours—

“Bucky,” you gasp against his lips, sliding your arms around his neck, fingers carding through his hair to pull him closer. You can taste with the barest bite of mint from his gum, along with the slightest hint of cigarette smoke, and you realize—

He must have been up here for awhile.

Overthinking. Wondering what to do. Lost in thoughts of you, perhaps.

The idea of it sends a rush of delirium through you, and you open your mouth just enough to let his tongue explore – or dominate, which you soon find you like very much when Bucky does it to you. His flesh hand cups the side of your face as he kisses the breath out of you, and his vibranium one snugly presses into your lower back – purposely, you soon find, because suddenly your knees go weak and your arms tighten around his neck to catch yourself from falling.

A breathy laugh escapes you. “Oh, wow. That’s never happened before.”

“First time for everything,” he teases, kissing your forehead as he steadies you back on both feet – and it’s then that the realness of the situation seems to sink in.

You’ve just cheated on your husband.

He’s just kissed his best friend’s wife.

There’s a prolonged silence as the two of you look at each other, watching, wondering, waiting, and then—

“We have to tell him,” you say, a little uneasily. “Just… not yet. Figure this out first.”

You can feel the desperation to see where this leads, no matter what a bad idea it is.

Bucky swallows. It’s clear that the prospect of lying to Steve bothers Bucky just as much as it bothers you, but you know he feels that same desperation when he suggests, “And if it turns out to be nothing, then…”

“Yeah. No harm, no foul.”

You won’t tell him. Because if it’s nothing, then it’s not worth worrying about. 

Even if it’s wrong.

Right?

two

and a moodboard I made because why not

[allsassnoclass]

find me here amidst the chaos

Pairing: Calum Hood/Ashton Irwin

Rating: Teen and Up

Key Tag(s): depression, hurt/comfort, references to suicidal thoughts, based on Orpheus by Sara Bareilles

Word Count: 1861

Read on AO3

—

“I know that you don’t want to talk to me about this stuff all the time, and that’s fine.  Your therapist is infinitely more qualified than me, anyway, but you don’t have to try to hide it from me, either.  If the bottom has dropped out from under you, you can still lean on me.  I’m here to love you.  I want to love you.”

—

After dinner, when Calum has taken the dishes from Ashton’s hands to dry them and Ashton himself has retreated to the bedroom, Calum turns on the fireplace and makes sure there are blankets within easy reach.  He lit a candle earlier in the afternoon, the living room now filled with the faint scent of vanilla, lights on the dimmer side but a gentle yellow, and if it turns out that Ashton doesn’t want to talk to him he can put on some music, oldies and classics to try and settle his mind for tonight.

He knocks gently on the bedroom door before opening it.  Ashton is lying on top of the covers scrolling through his phone, blue light in front of his face the only thing illuminating the room now that the sun has gone down.  It highlights the dark circles under his eyes, brought about not by a lack of sleep but by a lack of rest.  Helping with that is Calum’s main goal of the night.  

“Hey,” Calum says.  “Do you want to come out to the living room with me?”

Ashton glances up.  Calum can see the mental debate he’s having, weighing if he has enough energy to do this one thing to appease him.

“Come on,” he says, extending his hand.  “Leave everything else in here and just sit with me.  I turned the fireplace on.” He takes a few steps into the room and Ashton sighs, setting his phone down and taking Calum’s hand.  It’s cold and a little clammy.

Calum wants to bundle him up and keep him safe, take away all of what’s weighing on him and ensure everlasting comfort and happiness.  He knows that he can’t do that, but he has a fireplace and a blanket and a scented candle, and hopefully that will be enough for now.

He knows what’s happening.  Ashton has been doing so good for a while, but depression doesn’t automatically go away forever, and it seems to have reared its ugly head in a very big, very consuming way.  Calum has watched Ashton retreat more and more into himself, a protective measure that they still haven’t moved past, but he recognizes the other signs, too.  He doesn’t have the motivation to do what he enjoys right now, and whenever Calum has managed to catch him in a rare moment of happiness his smiles fade quicker, the ephemeral feeling disappearing faster than it should.

Getting him out of their dark bedroom and into the cozy living room is a good baby step.

Ashton curls up next to him the moment they sit down, pillowing his head on Calum’s thigh.  Calum takes the quilt from the back of the couch and drapes it over him then runs his fingers through Ashton’s hair, careful not to get caught on any snares.  It’s soft and curly from his shower before dinner, part of Ashton’s routine to take care of himself.  When he’s feeling bad mentally, he focuses a lot more on what he can do physically.  It’s one way Calum knows that he’s still fighting, even if little things like a shower or brushing his teeth exhaust him easily.

He scratches over his scalp and Ashton sighs, sinking a little further into the cushions and releasing some of the tension that has built in his shoulders.  His skin has a bit more color in it here with the warm light, but he’s still a little wane, the slightest outside indicator of how he’s been feeling inside.

“We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” Calum says softly, “but I know you’re in a rough patch right now, and I know this one has been longer and worse than the other recent ones.”

Ashton buries his face in Calum’s thigh more.  He lets him hide, brushing through his hair again.

��You know I love you.”

It’s not a question.  Ashton nods anyway.

“I know that you don’t want to talk to me about this stuff all the time, and that’s fine.  Your therapist is infinitely more qualified than me, anyway, but you don’t have to try to hide it from me, either.  If the bottom has dropped out from under you, you can still lean on me.  I’m here to love you.  I want to love you.”

“I know,” Ashton says.  “I don’t want to put that on you.  The world is shitty enough without you having to deal with my shit, too.”

“If sharing that with me makes your world a little less shitty, then I want you to.”

Ashton sighs again.  The fireplace crackles.

“I miss when I didn’t hate it here,” Ashton says quietly.  “I miss being five years old and not realizing how awful and unfair everything is.  My mom used to turn everything into an adventure for us, but looking back there were so many times when we struggled without me realizing.  She didn’t do anything wrong but still got dealt a bad fucking hand, and there are millions of people like her out there, and once you learn that you can’t go back.”

Calum hums.  It’s a conversation that they’ve had many times.  Calum has lived through his own share of hardships, but Ashton’s have lingered much longer, settling deep into his bones and completely shifting how he sees the world.

“There are still good things,” Calum says.  “There are a lot of good people out there trying to make the world better, and even when you get an unfair and shitty hand, there’s still people to hold on to.  Your mom was able to shield you from this as long as she did because she loves you.  When everything is falling apart around you, find something in the chaos to hold on to.”

“I do,” Ashton says.  He swallows.  “I don’t know why I’m here anymore.  I don’t really see the point of it.  But whenever I start really thinking about… ending it, I guess, I think about that night at Joshua Tree when we stayed up all night stargazing and being with each other.  I want to feel like that again.  I keep telling myself I will, even if I don’t… even if it doesn’t feel like it.”

Calum reaches down and squeezes one of his hands.  Ashton grips back just as tight.

“Do you remember what you said to me that night?”

“I said a lot of things.”

“You said that we were written in the stars, the two of us, together.”

Ashton hums.

“A lot of constellations end in tragedy.”

“Not us,” Calum says.  “We’ll be okay.”

“How do you know?  How can you say things like that when there’s never a guarantee?”

“I have faith in us.  You are one of the best pieces of my world, and that’s enough for me to know we’ll be just fine.  I’m going to keep convincing you of that for as long as you let me.”

Ashton adjusts his grip on Calum’s hand, clutching it against his chest.

“I don’t want you to stop,” Ashton says.  “I know I get distant when I’m like this, but you help, and I like your faith in us.  I need it.  I’m not optimistic like you, not really.”

“I know, love.  We balance each other out.”

Ashton snorts.

“You mean I weigh you down.”

“Hey, no.  Not at all.  You make me happy.  This is a two-way street, Ash.  No one lifts me up more than you.”

Ashton sighs, and Calum knows that he doesn’t believe it, but he also knows that he’s not going to convince him tonight, not when he’s feeling this low.  If he presses, Ashton is going to retreat into himself, feeling guilty that he can’t give Calum the answers he wants.

“Will you make me a promise?” Calum asks.  Ashton wavers.

“What is it?”

“Will you hang on for another week?”

Ashton adjusts his grip on Calum’s hand again.  The fire crackles.

“Yeah.  I can do that.”

“Good.”

Calum runs another gentle hand through Ashton’s hair.

“What happens after a week?” he asks.

“I’ll ask you for another one, and I’ll keep asking until you don’t need me to anymore.”

Ashton nods.

“Do you remember what I promised you back when you first learned about my depression?” he asks.  Calum tries to think back, but mostly he remembers thinking how unfair it is that someone who made so many people happy could be so unhappy himself.  It’s been years, but he can perfectly recall the way his heart stopped when he first saw the scars.  The exact words exchanged are muddy.

“You promised to always love me if I promised to not give up on that love.”

That’s a risky promise for a sixteen-year-old to make.  Calum is glad that he didn’t break it, but even back then he must have known that Ashton was the one for him.

“I’ll always love you,” Calum says.

“Then I won’t give up on love.”

Calum presses his lips together and breathes against the sudden tightness in his chest.

“Can you say it again?”

“We will not give up on love.  Not our love, or the world’s love, or any of it.  We will not give up on love now.”

Ashton’s voice is steady, and Calum knows that he’s promising himself just as much as he’s promising Calum.  He leans down, folding himself in half uncomfortably to place a kiss on Ashton’s temple.  Ashton squeezes his eyes shut and takes a shaky breath.

“We’ll get through this,” Calum says.  “You won’t feel like this forever.  Keep pushing forward, love.”

Ashton nods.

“Can you talk to me?  Just--help me see the world the way you do.  Please.”

Calum would do anything for him, so he begins to speak.  He starts with Joshua Tree, because he knows that it’s easiest for Ashton to love the world when they’re there together, and he keeps describing good things like the feeling of summer rain on their skin or listening to a favorite song for the first time until his voice is getting dry from all of the use and Ashton suggests they go to bed.  He doesn’t stop when Ashton begins crying in the middle, just holds him a little tighter, heart breaking because he knows that these tears aren’t going to be the catharsis Ashton needs.

He has an appointment with his therapist tomorrow, which will hopefully give him a direction to work in.  Calum wishes he could help more, but Ashton has been good for so long that this new low took him by surprise.  He feels rusty, but Ashton has promised not to give up, and that’s enough.  They’ll figure it out.  As long as Ashton keeps reaching for him, he’ll keep being here, giving him whatever he can.  He might not know how to give stitches, but he can keep applying band-aids until the wound scars over.  He has to believe that that’s enough for now.

Once they’re in bed and properly under the covers, Ashton falls asleep first, curled into him.  Calum promises whoever is listening that he’ll keep walking through this darkness with Ashton until they both reach the sunlight again.

[squirrel-moose-winchester]

End of the World

Title: End of the World

Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 2392

Square Filled: Nightmare

Summary: It’s “The End” as God nicely put it… and it seems like it really is the end… for everyone.

Warnings: Angst, Explicit Language, Major Character Death, TW: Suicide, Mentions of Death, Blood, and again, a lot of Angst. This whole thing is just angst. Maybe fluff if you squint?

Written for @spndeanbingo​

A/N: I realized that I didn’t upload my fic for my “nightmare” square, and when I looked in my WIPs, I couldn’t find it… why? Because it was in a completely different folder... *facepalm* Anyways, I found it and so… here it is. I hope you like it and please reblog and leave some feedback! Thank you and Happy Reading! xx

Things have been dark lately. Sam has shut himself in, not coming out of his room unless he really has to, Dean had fallen in this terrifying headspace where he would say such nasty things with intent to hurt, or break out into violent tantrums, which usually ended looking like a hurricane had hit. Castiel was gone, and you… you had become jumpy, paranoid, always thinking something was going to show up and get you. It was the end of the world after all, the most terrifying thing right now was surviving, but someone had to try and save the world.

With a tray of food in your hands, you cautiously walked down the hall towards Sam’s room. He hadn’t eaten all day, nor had you seen him exit his bedroom. You were worried. “Sam?” you called out, pressing your ear against his door. You heard no rustling of what so ever. “Sam?” you called again, figuring he had fallen asleep.

Letting out a deep sigh, you balanced the tray in one hand and opened the door to Sam’s room. He always left it unlock in case someone needed him, but no one really tried to disturb him other than you, which he didn’t seem to mind.

The room was dark, and still balancing the tray in one hand, you used the other to feel against the wall in search for the light switch. Victory, you flipped it on, the room coming into view. A sharp gasp left your lips as the tray you’ve been holding clamored on the concrete flooring. Your hands came to your lips at the horrifying sight.

Blood stained the sheets and pooled on the floor. Both of Sam’s arms were slit from his wrist up to the juncture where his arms bent. His skin was ghostly white, and you could just feel the end of life that filled the room. Sam was dead. Sam had given up… Winchesters don’t give up. That’s what he told you when all of this began, but there he lay… a hypocrite to his own words. This couldn’t be right.

Desperately needing to get out, you rushed down the hall to get Dean. You hoped that maybe he could do something. As you turned into the hallway where his bedroom resided, you noticed the door wide open. Rushing in, the only light pouring in being from the hallway, you halted in your stride. Dean was just standing there in the middle of his room, and the whole thing let out an eerie vibe, one that made you uncomfortable and a little anxious.

“D-Dean?” you stuttered in fright, not knowing what to expect.

When he moved, you flinched. Deans eyes were covered by shadows and his body was ridged. “What?” He snapped, the word coming out as a growl.

“S-Sam… h-he—”

“Get on with it!” He shouted, green eyes suddenly piercing at you with something akin to wild fire, like the flames of Maleficent. Goosebumps erupted around your body in complete and utter fear. “What? Stop stuttering and fucking say what you’re trying to say!” Spit flew from his lips and you felt your blood run cold.

“Sam’s dead…” you finally managed to say softly without stuttering.

“That’s what you came here to bother me for? Sam’s fucking dead? I don’t give a flying fuck if he’s dead. Why can’t you be dead too? You’re so fucking annoying, you know that?” Dean growled, stalking towards you. “Ever since this whole end of the world bullshit started, you’ve been nothing but a pain in my hide. A constant itching slowly driving me in-fucking-sane!”

“I-I’m sorry,” you whimpered, taking a step back, only to collide into the wall.

“Sorry? You think saying you’re sorry is going to make any difference? Castiel is gone! Sam is dead! And all I’m stuck with is you! A pathetic little twig that can’t do anything but cause trouble for the rest of us! So fuck off!”

Your legs gave out and suddenly, a flutter of wings consumed the room and everything went black. When you awoke, you were in a pristine white room, brightly lit with white lights. You’ve seen this place before. You’ve been here before… Heaven?

“Hello Y/N,” a deep familiar rumbling voice was heard behind you. Twirling around at top speed, you saw Castiel standing at the corner. “Are you okay?”

“Cass!” you shouted, jumping out of a bed and running towards him, body crashing into his as you wound your arms around his neck. “We thought you were dead!” you sobbed.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve been busy up here in heaven. Everything is in turmoil, and Michael he… I’m afraid he isn’t strong enough to contain his father in the cage. It’s only a matter of time until God is free. Amara won’t help us, and without her by our side, all the angels, myself included, will not be able to keep the door shut,” he revealed, unraveling your hands from his body and keeping you at arms length.

Castiel’s reasoning for his disappearance had been answered, but it wasn’t what you were expecting. The end of the world was happening on earth with the passage to Purgatory ajar, and with Rowena’s indefinite death, leaving hell’s gates wide open. There didn’t seem to be a win in sight. Heaven was fighting a losing battle, humans were dying left and right on earth, demons, monsters, and human were at an all out war, and any sort of hope you tried to convince yourself of was now nothing but a useless dream.

Everyone that made this far was going to eventually meet their early grave. It was inevitable.

“So it’s over…” your voice cracked. “It’s all over. The angels can’t help us, Amara won’t help us, Sam is dead, Dean has gone crazy, and we’re all just going to die…”

Your legs gave out again, Castiel catching you in time before you actually hit the ground. In a blink, you were back on the bed. “I’m sorry, Y/N, but I have to go. They need me at the cage.”

Before you could say anything, he was gone, and you were alone. At that moment, you felt so entirely alone. There were no words to describe how lonely you felt. It was cold, numbing, frightening, frustrating, just overall overwhelming. You didn’t know what to think, how to feel, or how to react to anything. You were lost.

After what felt like hours had passed, you decided to wonder around. A door suddenly appeared in front of you and with little hesitation, you opened it and walked through the threshold. You entered what seemed to be the living room of a two story house, one you’ve never seen before. You could hear voices coming from the next room and followed the noise.

Rounding a corner, you peaked in to see Sam. Your eyes widened, wanting to make yourself known, but you held yourself back when you noticed that he wasn’t alone. At the dining table, waiting for Sam to join them, was his parents, Jessica, Dean, and you. You were coddled up in Dean’s arms, Mary holding John’s hand above the table, and Jessica had leaped from her seat to throw her arms around Sam.

This had to be Sam’s heaven.

You took a step back, only to find yourself hitting something… or rather, someone.

“What are you doing here?” A tone filled with danger hit your eardrums. “You shouldn’t be here,” it grumbled again.

Slowly turning, you saw Adam standing in front of you… no… it was Michael – the glowing blue eyes easily identifiable. He looked exhausted, tattered up, and seemed to be on the verge of death. “I… Cass he…” you could barely find your voice much less form a sentence.

“Castiel brought you here? Why?” the archangel asked.

“I don’t know… to save me, I guess?”

“You guess?” Michael hissed. “Well you don’t belong here, and you most definitely don’t belong meddling with the souls of heaven!” Michael lifted his hands, his thumb and middle finger meeting together. Your eyes widened and before you could make a sound, he snapped his fingers.

The room was dark, save for the light coming in from the wide open door. You scanned the room and noticed that you were back in Dean’s room. Jumping off of his bed, you rushed out of the room, not wanting to anger him again. As you stumbled into the hall, a chill vibrated through your bones, goosebumps once again plaguing your skin.

Carved on the walls were a pattern of four names… Sam, Dean, Castiel, and Y/N. Over and over, your names littered the walls, however, every name was crossed out, save for Dean’s. Was this his way of reminding himself that the three of you were dead and he was the only one left?

Following the markings, you began to hear the sound of light sobbing. As you continued to walk, it only got louder. You found your way to the library, peaking into the room to find Dean sitting at a table, arms folded and face buried in them, surrounded by books and files scattered all over the place.

“Gone. They’re all gone,” he muttered through sobs. “I’m all alone…”

Your heart shattered. Empathizing with him, your eyes began to swell, unable to even begin thinking about how you’d feel if you were completely alone. That everyone you loved was gone and you were the last one standing. It was cripplingly devastating and down right terrifying.

Stepping out from hiding, you called Dean’s name. His sobbing instantly silence and his head lifted from his arms. Slowly, his head turned towards you, and you screamed. He had no eyes, just black holes, like he had been spited by god himself.

“Y/N, you came back…” he spoke, getting out of his seat. You flinched, taking a step back.

“You’re not Dean…” you stumbled backwards. “What did you do?!” You shouted, the feeling of bile rising in your throat.

“Y/N, it’s me.”

“No,” you choked, tears already streaming down your cheeks.

“It’s me, Dean,” he tried to convince you again.

“No!” you screamed, turning to run but slamming against something.

Falling backwards, you winced at the connection. Hovering above you was Dean, but his lips were curved downwards, not seeming to happy with your attempt to run. “Did I say you could leave?” He roared, the entire bunker shaking.

He grabbed your ankle, easily dragging you to who knows where. Despite your resistance, he didn’t seem to have any problem pulling your along. “Please, stop! Don’t!” you pleaded, eyes burning.

Your screams and pleas became more and more frantic once you realized where he was taking you… the dungeon. “I beg of you, please leave me alone!” you cried, but he didn’t stop.

He tossed you in the middle of the demon trap, except it didn’t look like a demon trap… it was something else. A new symbol you’ve never seen before. “Now you’re never going to leave me,” he mumbled.

As he turned to leave, you shouted, running after him, however you couldn’t move. Casting your eyes downwards, standing at the edge of the trap, you realized you couldn’t get out. “Dean!” you called, trying to force yourself out of it. “Dean!”

You began to cry uncontrollably, calling Dean’s name. Everything felt cold and you could suddenly see your breath. Figures came into view and all around you, you saw the faces of all your friends.

Through the mass of familiar faces, Jody made her way towards the front. “He won’t let us leave,” she confessed. “He’s keeping us here,” she added.

“Y/N, you need to help us,” a voice came from behind you. Whipping around, you saw Sam standing in front of you.

“S-Sam? B-but… I—I saw you in heaven.”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t know whose heaven you saw, but it wasn’t mine. Letting all the information process through your head, you realized the heaven you saw had to have been Mary’s. She was the only person you’ve met. You’ve never known Jess or John, but you did know Mary. She even told you once, that you were part of her family. That one day, you and Dean would be more… but it never happened. You and Dean… there was just too much weight in being together. Too much to lose if you two were together. Love was impossible.

There were chatter coming from somewhere in the room and in the corner of your eye you saw movement. Moving your attention away from Sam and to the noise, you saw the crowd being shoved aside, revealing Kevin.

“He took me. He took me from my mom! God, I hate it here!” Kevin shouted, pain erupting on your right cheek. Your hand instantly cupped the hot area. When you drew your hand away, you saw blood. “Why is he doing this to us?!” Kevin howled.

He was going rabid. A restless soul. And eventually, they all will turn the same way, and you’ll be the only one in the room they can take their wrath out on… you were going to die in here. Dean was going to let you die by the hands of your dead friends.

“Dean!” You screamed, voice high and piercing. “Dean! Please! Let me out! Dean!”

Gasping for air, you shot out of bed, your sheets completely drenched. Your heart felt like it was going to jump out of your chest in any second. Seconds later, your bedroom door went flying open, revealing Dean, Sam, and Castiel.

“Y/N, are you okay?” Dean rushed forwards, sitting in front of you as he cupped your cheeks with both hands, wiping away your tears. “Hey, it was just a bad dream. I’m here. We’re here,” Dean stated, his voice instantly soothing you in your shaken state. “You’re okay, Sweetheart. You’re okay,” he looked you straight in the eyes, letting you know that this was really him, and that you were safe.

“Dean,” you croaked, his beautiful emerald eyes peering at you. With that being enough validation that he was actually him, you lunged yourself into his arms.

“Yeah, baby. I’m here.”

--

A/N: I’ll be honest, I don’t really know how I feel about this one. But if you like it, please ease my worries and let me know! I would really appreciate any positive feedback. Also, please reblog so that it may reach more readers! Thank you for reading! xx

[whumpywhumper]

TW: Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt

Summary: Buck wasn't immediately re-instated following Rage. The impact is life threatening.

Whumptober 2020: Day 12--I Think I've Broken Something Broken Down | Broken Bones | Broken Trust

@whumptober2020

https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org

V***V

Buck took another swig from the rum bottle before answering Eddie’s call on the fourth ring. If he’d been thinking clearly, he wouldn’t have answered it, but, at this point, denying himself any contact with his best friend was just something he couldn’t make himself do. 

“‘Lo?” he answered, voice low enough that he hoped the slur was imperceptible. 

It’s been a week since he last heard Eddie’s voice in the grocery store, the echo of you’re exhausting running through his head again and again. Bobby had called him that evening, let him know that the Chief was in negotiations to get him reinstated, that they hadn’t wanted the headache of a lawsuit. 

Because that’s all he was: a headache. 

“Buck? Do you have a minute?” 

“Sure, Eds,” he answered, working to enunciate past the numbness in his lips, “you ‘kay?” 

“Look, um, I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day about. . . about Chris, and Abuela told me he’s been asking to talk to you all night before bed,” Eddie blew out an exasperated breath, and Buck could imagine the way the older man rubbed the back of his neck, thick eyebrows drawn together. “I know it would mean a lot for him to talk to you. . .” 

Buck’s lips wobbled as he thought of Chris, that precious little ball of sunshine that he’d lost in the water. His breath hitched, and he took another slug of rum, trying to dull the pain in his chest. He grabbed another tiny, yellow tablet from the coffee table, sticking it under his tongue as he looked out the dark loft windows. 

“—Buck? Buck?!” 

“Hmm?” Buck returned his attention to Eddie. He didn’t even know he’d stopped paying attention. “Sorry, ‘m s’ry, Ed’s, what?” 

“I just asked if you wanted to talk to Christopher,” his tone was incredulous, “hell man, I’m taking a huge step here trusting you to talk to my son. Do you really not care?” 

Buck’s face screwed up at the anger in Eddie’s voice, trying to keep the hurt from entering his own. “Ah-course I care, Eds. S’just. . . It’s not r’lly a good t’me. . .” he couldn’t disguise his increasing slur, but he hoped he held back the sound of the thick sob growing in his throat, “Chris shoul’n’t talk t’me like this.” He tucked his free arm around his torso and pressed his face into his jean clad knees, trying to muffle his wet sniffle. I’m sorry, Superman, he thought, heartbroken. 

“Buck, are you drunk?!” Eddie hissed, voice lowering as it became even more disbelieving. “You’re on blood thinners, Evan, are you crazy? What happened to taking care of yourself so you could get back to the station?” 

He laughed, the sound wavering and wrong. “Dunn’t matter, Eds,” he answered, leaning back against the bottom of the couch, head tipping back for another swallow of liquor. He grabbed at the table clumsily, hearing a couple of skitters across the floor. The chalky texture of the pills was unpleasant, and his tongue worked against the inside of his mouth, washing it down with more rum. 

“What? What do you mean it doesn’t matter? Wasn’t that the whole point of the lawsuit? Wasn’t that the whole point of you not being around?” Eddie’s voice was angry, his tone taking the same razor edge it had in the grocery store when he’d had his finger in Buck’s face. 

Buck shook his head, rubbing clumsily at his eyes as they started to water, forgetting that Eddie couldn’t see him. “Nah... not really,” he mumbled, honesty forced to the surface through alcohol and drugs, “I jus’ wanted to c’me home, but ev’n Bobby d’n wan’ me back. Nobody wants me, Eds,”  he whimpered, “‘M alone.” 

Parents didn’t want him. Maddie abandoned him twice, Abby left, Ali couldn’t handle him. . .Bobby didn’t want him. 

The crew of the 118 didn’t understand why the job meant so much to him. They had families, kids, lives outside of the station. What did Buck have really? A group of people who didn’t want him, didn’t understand him. At least as a firefighter he made a difference, saved lives. Who was Evan Buckley without that? What did he have without that?

An empty apartment, and a sister who didn’t need him. He didn’t have Eddie and Chris, they weren’t his, not really. He’d ruined whatever they could have been with the lawsuit, with abandoning them, however unintentionally. Eddie would never forgive him, not after Shannon did the same thing 

All the while, playing on repeat: You’re exhausting. Suck it up. You’re exhausting. Suck it up. You’re exhausting. 

“What are you talking about, Buck? We’re pissed, but we’re a family, okay? You had a place in the 118 until the damn lawsuit, hell, from what I hear you’re getting that spot back. All you had to do was talk to us, Buck, and none of this would’ve happened.” 

That was Buck. The impulsive fuck up. Didn’t think about the consequences. 

“Would you—“ he hiccuped, rubbing a few more tears away with his damp sleeve, “—w’ld you tell Chris m’sorry? I jus’ couldn’t keep swimmin’, ‘kay? He’s such an awesome kid, s’not his fault I’m fucked up.” 

“What? Buck, you’re not making any sense.”

“Might be the pills,” he mumbled, “makin’ errything fuzzy.” 

“Pills?!” Eddie gasped liked he’d been sucker punched, “Buck, what?”  

“Jusss dinn’t wanna hurt anymore, Eds,” he tried to explain, “feels like my chest’s always ‘bout to implode. M’heart’s bein’ crushed,” he snorted indelicately, “s’worse than my leg. Hurts. M’so tired a’hurtin’, Eds.” 

“Oh, Buck, cariño mio,” it sounded like Eddie was about to cry, “do you know how many you took?” He thought he heard a feminine voice in the background, thick with concern. “Me tengo que ir, Abuela, te lo explicare mas tarde. Call 9-1-1 to Buck’s. Now.” There was the sound of a door slamming, and Eddie breathing hard into the phone. 

“Don’ call 9-1-1, Eds,” he slurred, “m’fine, don’ wanna bother Maddie.” 

“You’re not fine,” Eddie snapped, “do you know how many you took? What did you take?”

“Don’ be mad,” he started crying softly, “can’t stand when you’re mad a’me. M’sorry I lost Chris, m’so sorry.” 

“Buck,” Eddie took a deep breath, his tone softening, ”Chris is home safe, I told you I don’t blame you for that. Cariño, I need to know what you took, how much did you take?” 

“I dunno,” he mumbled, “had ‘lot from my sug’ry dinn’t use. Tried t’get better faster. Dinn’t work,” he sniffled, swallowing thickly, voice shaking, “cause m’not good enough.” 

“Buck, Evan,” there was a car door slamming in the background, an engine revving, “you’re good, so good, nothing’s been the same without you, cariño, please.”

“You don’ want me, Eds,” Buck slurred, biting his lip as his heart gave a viscous squeeze. It didn’t matter than Buck had wanted Eddie since he’d seen him in that locker room for the first time, had fallen in love with him and his son after seeing them after that earthquake. Eddie didn’t, could never, want Buck back. Couldn’t love Buck the same way he loved him, with everything, every ounce of himself. He hiccuped back a sob as he took another slug of rum, another pill to chase away the pain, head lolling on the couch cushions, “Bosko already replaced me anyway. . .s’better.” 

Bosko would take care of Eddie. It’s not like Buck had done a very good job of having Eddie’s back. 

“Bosko?! What—How?!” Eddie couldn’t seem to settle on a question, an inarticulate noise of bewilderment trailing his quick breaths. “Talk to me, cariño, what’s going on in that head of yours?”

“The truck, the embolism, the tsu—tsunami. . .“ he blinked slowly, taking a shallow breath and sighing it out over the phone, lips wobbling as he sniffled back a whine, “M’be the w’rld’s tryin’ t’tell me somethin’, ya know?”

“Buck, Evan, what are you saying?” The other man’s voice was shattered, and it broke Buck’s heart, destroying the last dam holding back his tears. 

“‘M jus’ so tired, Eds,” he sobbed, letting the tears stream down his cheeks. “I know ‘m exhausting,” he said, quoting Eddie’s words that had burned their way into his brain, “but ‘m jus’ so tired. M’sorry, I can’t. . .can’t do it anymore.” The lump in his throat became too thick to force words past, and he sobbed harder, head swimming. 

Everything was becoming heavier, breaths shallower as his eyelids slid closed. The rum bottle tipped to the side, clinking against the floor as a dribble of liquid splashed out onto his limp hand. He didn’t remember the last time he’d slept without nightmares, without being crushed by a ladder truck, being swept away by the water, without losing Chris. Seeing the blame in Eddie’s eyes for losing his son. 

Couldn’t he just sleep?

“—uck! Evan?! Don’t you dare go to sleep! I’m almost there, please, cariño mio, por favor.”

Had he said that stuff out loud? He hadn’t meant to, but he couldn’t find the energy to apologize as the phone slipped from his hand. Eddie’s voice became even more muffled until even that went away. 

[98prilla]

To The Dead

Next

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AO3

...

He was trying.

 He really, really was, trying.

 But he couldn’t get Roman’s words out of his head.

 And he’d heard the others, talking to the air, talking to him, they probably thought he didn’t, but he’d always been good at lurking in shadows, in pretending to not exist, he wasn’t surprised, he was able to mask his presence well enough no one could sense him near.

 He’d heard Patton and Janus’s pleas. He’d heard Logan’s well reasoned arguments. He’d heard Roman’s apologies. He knew Roman was blaming himself, that it was tearing all of them up inside, but the thing was, Roman was right.

 There were too many things, that could go wrong. Too many ways he could hurt them, too many ways he could destroy them, and he refused, he refused to drag them into his self-destructive spiral.  

 So, he stuck to the shadows, where no one could find him. He hid in the corners and under the couches and under the beds. He didn’t use his room, not since then they’d know where he was, and he stayed away as much as he could. He was exhausted and unfocused and half even deader than he already was, but he couldn’t let himself rest or he’d fizzle into view.

 The closest he’d gotten was that night, with Patton. Everyone else had already been in their own rooms, and he felt guilty, Patton was staying out there for him, after all, and the least he could do is make sure he was comfortable. And now Patton’s words were rattling around in his skull, too, fighting against Roman’s, and he felt torn in two entirely different directions.

 Maybe that’s why he found himself here, lurking in the shadows of Patton’s room, melted into the ones in the corner of the room. He heard the door open, and he took a deep breath as Patton came in, flopping face first onto the bed, slightly alarmed to hear sniffling emerging from the pillow his face was shoved into.  

 Slowly, he emerged from the wall, his inky, tarlike form slowly forming into something more solid, something that almost felt right, though it had been so long since he’d been anything other than a blob of darkness or a splotch of shadow. But as his form settles, it feels more and more… right.

 “Pa… Patton?” He asked, voice rusty and hoarse, barely above a whisper, but it’s enough. Patton gasped, shooting upwards, and all at once Patton’s eyes were on him.

 “Virgil!” he flinched back at the volume, form already destabilizing, it was harder to hold now, that he hadn’t in months. “sorry, sorry. I’m just… I’m glad to see you, kiddo. We've been worried.” He said softer, wanting to lunge, pull Virgil into a hug, but knowing he'd run if he did.

 “so-rry. I-" he flinched, a strange feeling coming over him, an almost nausea, almost vertigo, and he found himself on the ground, gasping as cold washed over him.

 “Virgil!” he could tell Patton had yelled his name several times, but he couldn’t seem to hear right, the world was blurring and going fuzzy. Not just the world, he was blurring, his form bleeding away like a water color painting. He felt Patton's hand on his arm, trying to say something, then the world shifted out from under him, Patton's hand swiping through empty air as he vanished.

…

He stumbled hard, shoulder ramming into the wall, as he heaved in several deep breaths, trying to keep from full out panicking.

 He felt weird. Solid. His body had weight, his form wasn’t flickering, he was leaning against the wall, but it wasn’t their wall. The house, he was in the house.

 His breath sped again, remembering, shaking, crying, pulling at his hair as he screamed into a pillow, His words echoing in his head, he hasn’t been back here, not in the living room, since then, since he'd done it. He could feel the shadows darkening, starting to move of their own accord, starting to whisper.

 “What the fwuh?” His eyes snapped open at the question, frantically taking in the scene.

 Staring at him were two guys, both wearing twin expressions of shock and fear. Around his feet was a star in a circle outlined in chalk, a candle at each nexus.

 “Summoning circle? What amateur fucking shit is this? Watched full metal alchemist a few too many times?” He choked out, biting sarcasm masking his fear and panic, trying to get the shifting tendrils of shadow slowly climbing the wall under control, succeeding in at least halting their growth.

 “We… we were trying to summon Patton.” The shorter one said. He huffed, vision spinning.

 “Well good job, dipshit, you summoned the literal opposite of that ray of sunshine. Now get me out of here!” He demanded, teeth grit against the strange cold seeping into his bones, the dark tiredness starting to fill him.

 “Um. We don’t actually know how.” The taller one admitted sheepishly.

 “Who are you, anyway? We only knew Patton and Roman.”

 “Uh, no. You don’t get to interrogate me after practically kidnapping me.”

 “Kidnapping… you showed up!” the short one, who seemed to have an attitude.

 “oh yes, because I looove getting dragged to the physical plane of existence and talking to two idiots who think the funnest thing to do is harass people who probably don’t want to have memories of their recent demise brought back to the surface!” He shouted, breathing picking up again, hands clenched into fists, shadows wavering and breaking over the room, though he kept it in enough it didn’t attack, claws and glowing eyes and teeth ready to bite.

 “You’re… Virgil, aren’t you?” He flinched back at that, shaking harder. “Oh shit, dude, I’m-"

 “What? Sorry? Yeah, me too, now let me out!” he snarled, eyes flashing dark voids of shadow, his shadows writhing, and he found he had the anger to control them, and he hissed as one swiped through the chalk, releasing him from its hold as he struggled to stay standing, the circle giving him a truly physical form, draining his own energy to do so.

 “We aren’t fucking toys. We’re people. We all died horrifically, at our hand or at others'. So next time, leave me the hell alone.” He snapped, his shadows encasing him as the solidness faded from his limbs, as his form fell to shreds, as the last of his energy was sucked from him, realizing the circle draining him dry, the crackling electric backlash of breaking the spell hit him full force, sending him reeling.

…

He fell, unceremoniously, crashing down from the ceiling and landing hard on the floor, crying out at the pain that shot through him, his vision flickering. He felt cold, icily cold, exhausted, drained, empty, barely, barely there.

 “-il…-ear me? Virgil!” Roman’s panicked voice cut through his haze, though he found he couldn't answer, couldn't even nod. He was so purely exhausted, he was barely staying together at all. “Oh, love… it’s ok, I’ve got you.” He felt Janus lifting him up, and realized he must have landed in the living room. He thought he should be worried about that, for some reason, but his mind was already hazing over with fog. “Logan! Patton!” He called, the spirits appearing after a moment, any reprimand at being disturbed vanishing as Logan took in the state of Virgil, unconscious and form flickering, not the usual black, but a soft, faded gray. The same kind of gray that he’d seen on the others, on himself, when the wraith was draining them of their soul’s essence. Something had very badly damaged Virgil.

 “What happened?” he demanded, trying to be steady, to keep Patton beside him from panicking.

 “I don’t know. He… he showed up, in my room, then vanished, like he got pulled away, I tried to hold on, but I fell right through him!”

 “Then he fell from the ceiling and crashed to the ground.” Roman finished, lacking his usual bravado.

 “Lo, is he-“

 “No, he’s not fading. Whatever started the drain has stopped, he’s stable, if very weak. An attempt at summoning, if I had to guess. Likely, they didn’t use anything to power the spell itself, so it used Virgil himself. He’s lucky he was able to break out, as he must have, for it to hit him this hard. Otherwise…” Logan trailed off, unwilling to finish that sentence, knowing from the silence the others knew his meaning.

 “He was going to talk to me.” Patton said softly, tucking back a strand of Virgil’s hair, who didn’t seem to register the motion at all, lying still and pale as stone.

 “He still may. He just needs to rest and recuperate, Patton. He will be all right.” Logan reassured, resting a hand on Patton’s shoulder for a moment, before turning away, trying to hide his fondness behind a frown. “Though we should figure out what exactly they did, and stop them from doing it again.”

 No one noticed the green eyes glowing in the corner, alight with anger, at the state of his friend, because Virgil was a friend, whether he liked it or not. It was long past time the humans take notice of him, after all, and this would be a much needed… learning opportunity.

…

“well that could have gone better.” Thomas muttered, shivering slightly. The darkly moving shadows had vanished along with the ghost, the circle now smudged beyond recognition, the icy cold temperature of the room slowly returning to normal.

 “No kidding. How’d you know that one’s name?” Joan asked, still staring at the spot he'd vanished.

 “He… the real estate agent. He had to tell me, the previous tenant, Virgil… died, here. To suicide.” Joan let out a low breath, collapsing back onto the couch, grabbing a pillow to hug to their chest.

 “shit. No wonder he wasn’t happy to be here.”

 “It looked like it was hurting him.” Thomas murmured, remembering how Virgil was clinging to the wall, barely staying upright.

 “That's what happens when you do your research through google search, you silly billies.” They both stared at the glowing green eyes floating above them, the slow Cheshire grin forming out of nothingness to accompany it. “Someone gets hurt.” The voice growled, and suddenly it wasn’t a single pair of eyes, it was thousands, a towering mass of writhing tentacles and blindingly black light, a cavernous maw and a million gnashing, reeking tooth beaked mouths screaming.

 They both gasped for air as the vision vanished just as quick as it came, a few mere seconds, a glance at the clock revealed, though it had felt like they had been trapped with that Lovecraftian creation for hours. Thomas could still feel the vibrations of the clacking beaks, hear the echoes of distant screams, and he could tell from Joan’s horrified expression, they had seen it too.

 “I’m not exactly a fan, of people hurting my friends. Especially when they can’t do much in way of defense or… retaliation-“

 “We didn’t mean to!” Thomas blurted, before the sinister presence could throw them into another nightmare. “We didn’t… we didn’t mean to hurt anyone. We just… Patton seemed lonely. So we were trying to find a way to actually see him, and… and we obviously didn’t do it right. And I’m sorry, for hurting him… Virgil.” He finished, a frown on his lips, thinking of the pain on the ghost’s face. “Is he… is he ok?” He asked, heart pounding a thousand beats a second, terror racing through him.

 “Well, well, well, isn’t that interesting. The human has a conscience.” The voice echoed from every direction, bouncing around the room in the most disorienting pattern, one moment directly in his ear, the next all the way in the kitchen, the next above them near the ceiling, those green eyes and grin always in the corner of their eyes, always vanishing as soon as they turned to look.

 “And what about you, short stack? Got anything to say for yourself, before I decide what to do with the two of you?” Joan gulped, holding the pillow tighter, knuckles white.

 “Uh. He was right. Virgil. It’s not… we shouldn’t treat this like a game. You’re people. Not entertainment. But we do really want to get to know you all… to help, if we can. Even though we’re generally pretty shitty at showing it, that’s what we were trying to do. Help.” They managed, wincing as a dark chuckle rang through the room.  

 “Help, huh?” They yelped as they felt something cold wrap around their ankles, suddenly yanking them off the couch, dragging them across the floor, across the kitchen, to the basement door. Blinking their vision clear, adrenaline racing, they both practically held their breath as they watched a shimmering outline form, cringing as it was filled in with bones, then veins and arteries, pulsating flesh and decaying organs, finally a layer of skin growing over it all, putting a face to that Cheshire grin, the electric green eyes, as the being towered over them, smile wild and manic, eyes ablaze, a morningstar resting over his shoulder, his outfit some weird mix of sparkling satin and menacing velvet. They both flinched back as he leaned down, examining them, before extending a hand.

 “Seems like you two can use all the help you can get. Now, if you’re gonna go full in on this, you gotta learn the basics, and if you abuse what I teach you…”

 They shivered, seeing crimson blood splash across their hands, teeth ripping into their jugulars, shadowy creatures clawing them to shreds, screaming though no one else could hear, unable to move their bodies as inch by inch, their skin was stripped from their flesh, ants eating them from the inside out.

 “And it’ll be twice as bad if you harm any of them ever again. There won’t be anywhere you can hide, that I won’t find you, and believe me, it’ll be a pleasure.” Their vision cleared, the images wiped away like fog on a bathroom mirror, forgotten nearly instantly, though the feeling of dread and terror lingered. “So. You in, or are you pussies?” Joan snorted despite themselves, earning an eye roll from Thomas, and a slight upturn of the lips from the being, though he still glared daggers at them. Thomas took a deep breath, accepting the outstretched hand, surprised as he made contact, and it helped pull him to his feet, solid, though it didn’t feel quite… real. Joan followed suit a moment later.

 “Ok. I want to learn.” He answered solemnly, Joan nodding in agreement, gaze serious in a way it rarely was.

 “Me too. If we’re gonna be the crazy ghost house people, we might as well really go for it.”

 “It’s been a while, since I had such willing students. Oh, this’ll be fun!” He clapped, eyes swirling, teeth slightly too sharp.

 “So… when do we start?” Joan asked, and Remus tsked.

 “Patience. I have to get back before they wonder where I’ve went, and you have to start living like a normal person and not staying up until two scrolling tumblr!”

 “What does that have to do with ghost summoning?”

 “Nothing, just good life advice. Take from me, who’s never actually been alive!” Thomas and Joan exchanged a puzzled look.

 “Aren’t you a ghost?” He cackled, a wild, howling sound, that sent shivers down their spines, as he wiped away tears from his eyes, floating on his back in midair.

 “Oh, sweet summer children, you naive innocent fools, you’re lucky I’m in a good mood, otherwise it would be so very easy to break you. No, no, no, I’m not a ghost at all. I am a poltergeist!” He declared, suddenly close to Thomas’s face, gently booping his nose, those swirling eyes far too close for comfort as they stared into his. “And you may call me Remus.”

[eldonash]

Losing Balance - Fran&Orobas

Happens during and after this. Also Featuring Carrington @carringtonblackwood; @caraitaliadolcemeta Possible TW: Death, dismemberment

Summary: Orobas and Francesca have spent all week looking for Carrington. At the far edges of their emotions, Orobas is lost to anger, and Fran is lost to desperation. The two, usually clear-minded and violent killers, fall into an argument as they are unable to process the hopelessness nor help each other now that it’s gotten this far. Somehow, they find Carrington among the wreckage. 

Fifteen minutes. Francesca had been waiting for fifteen minutes, and if she did any more back-and-forth pacing, there would probably be a hole in the cemented floor right under her feet. Could fifteen minutes make a difference when he had been missing for days now? Fifteen minutes wouldn’t make a difference. Could they? Maybe she should start looking instead of keep waiting for Orobas. He’d probably throw those empty threats at her anyway.

Taking out her phone - with no messages from him, by the way - she shared her live location with the vampire. He could come to her wherever she was at Amity Road whenever he decided to show up. Because sure, Carrington was dead anyway, right? “He fucking isn’t. Lui non è morto!” Francesca exclaimed to herself, getting more and more nervous with the waiting and the wondering and the possibilities. And as a sudden presence made itself known behind her, she spun on her heels, startled, too much in her own head. “Cazzo, Orobas!”

Orobas didn’t feel exhaustion often. It usually happened when he’d battle through crowds of people in the past, to the point Haxian had to drag and carry him out almost limp over the hours of fighting. Now, it wasn’t just a physical exhaustion eating away at his resolve and his temper which was a low simmering frustration like it was warming a blast furnace. It was emotional and Orobas had no fucking idea what that meant. He was covered in blood when she turned around, it splattered up over his face in tiny dots, his shirt half on where a large burn had singed part of his chest and up around his shoulder. The stunning ivory handled knife was in his hand, dripping on the ground and though he was infuriated about everything-- he held no emotion on his face, just this distant stare like he wasn’t all present. He isn’t even sure how on instinct he found her. When she said his name, he glanced up with red eyes, and it took every ounce of his control to not cut her throat open immediately. He couldn’t exactly speak right away, his mind was racing, and he was leaving a trail of blood near Amity Road. “Fran-- cesca,” he mouth was crowded with fangs, and his voice struggle to now sounds demented. “I’m-- on the edge. I’m-- on a dangerous, dangerous edge. If I don’t find him--” 

It was like taking a trip to the past. Back in the eighteen hundreds, she had seen him like that numerous times. Although, for whatever reason, life drew them apart and the sprees weren’t shared anymore, that image would never leave her. Francesca blinked multiple times, trying to make sense of the figure in the of her. Why. “Why did you come?! You’re in no bloody shape of doing anything, I -” Whatever distance there was between them, she ended it in a second, rushing to him to stand in front of him, close enough to delicately pull his shirt and examine the injuries on his skin. “You’ve been walking in the sun…?!” She concluded, taking a moment to stare him in the eye. She was angry, worried. “Why the fuck would you do that?!” Careless to his previous threat less than an hour earlier, her voice was higher than usual, angrier than it normally would be. If he weren’t that terribly hurt, no doubt Fran would’ve shoved him. Both of her hands rested on each side of his face, her hazel, caring eyes gazing in his, trying to have him focus on her. 

“I don’t know why!” He roared at her, the sunken features of his face contorted in a rare show of rage, and his body almost dissipated into a swarm of bats, the sound of fluttering wings echoed in threat around them. Like the shadows of the night wanted to pool around him. Orobas age showed right now, though a ninty or so years off of elder, he could appear so far from human-- sometimes far from vampire when he was at this dangerous point.

“Look at me. You can’t do anything like that. Let’s go home, take care of you - you’ll feed, you’ll heal and we’ll come back. This isn’t a suicide mission. I can’t fucking lose the both of you. Do you understand me?!” That look, bloody and distant, bored and evil. Orobas was certainly moving on his instinct, slaying and hurting whatever came his way. She knew what he was thinking - he was controlling his urge to hurt her too. But she ignored his blade. She ignored his impulses and focused on taking care of him. How could she love a man who had to control himself not to kill her? That was a query hard to answer, yet she was still there for him if he needed her.

His hand lifted and in a frightening disjointed amount of speed, it pressed harshly into her cheeks, covering her mouth from speaking more soft caring words when his emotions felt like a hard strum of a string instrument in the back on his mind. A snarl burned all his eyes to red, the whites dissolving into crimson, unblinking and staring inches from her face. He stepped closer, staring keenly at her face. And then walked passed her, releasing his hold and stepping a few more steps. “Why? I don’t want this anymore. I want to find him tonight. I don’t care the cost.”

She cared. She cared more than she dared to say it aloud. But having his hand grip her face and control her movement, keeping her steady, like a rag doll, that wasn’t alright. No doubt Francesca respected him. He was double her age, about to become an elder and more often than not was caught with a deadly gaze in his handsome eyes. Only someone daft wouldn’t respect that. But she didn’t exactly fear him, for whatever reason. Maybe she should.

Growling quietly when she was released, the brunette exhaled loudly through her nostrils, angry. Angry that he was letting himself get to that point, angry that, through the years, more often than not, took his frustrations out on her. What the fuck was she? “Really? Isn’t it obvious?! You’re severely hurt, you probably haven’t had a shut-eye in days, all that blood there is probably splattered on walls instead of in your lips - how the fuck do you think you got like that?” Keeping her distance this time, Francesca was done being loving. It didn’t make a difference, anyway. “Now, I’m not bloody helping you like that. I’m not going to be an accomplice to your exhaustion just because you got to do every fucking thing your way. You’re always like this, you act like you don’t give a shite, you never call, you let people get out of your life and suddenly you’re putting yourself in harms way to protect them! Do you fucking believe Carrington would want to see you like that? Madonna, look at yourself. You’re more bat than vampire.” Scoffing, she turned around nervously, so angered to the point she didn’t want to look at him. There was more to just worrying for Carrington’s safety in that speech. There was anger about a lot of things. Like he’d often get to where they were now, as if on purpose, as some kind of masochist cleanse? He was hot and cold with her, he treated her bad then good, then carry on acting like nothing. She was fed up with everything, from Carrington’s disappearance to Orobas ways of treating her. “Merda, I’m so done.”

Her words barely got through to him, distorted, echoing. The beastal part of him starved-- hallowing his face, skin paper thin and barely draped over his cheekbones. He knew she was correct in the why he was appearing like this. He hadn’t eaten well as said, he always hacked his victims up over drinking. Francesca knew him for too long. His mind swam in red, like a lapping ocean against his sight, even as he looked out, everything dimmed in darkness less the pulse point of blood vibrated through the air to lure him. Lust suddenly cut into him like a jagged crystal, a hard lump that settled in his throat, a deep thirst he’s not experienced since Haxian locked him in a coffin for ten years. His jaw clenched, teeth sharp, and as she kept telling him off he felt a screech confirming his transformation barely stop from coming out of his mouth. His back to her the entire time, he tilted his head back, looking at her when she spoke the last words. He felt the need to say he ‘wasn’t like this all the time’ when it wasn’t true. He’s done this in the past centuries-- and it never worked out for him. They are all dead less Harsh and Francesca… and now Carrington, who else in the future? When you have lived this long you fell on repeat. A circle of shit that proved it was your core personality over and over. He just looked at her. Barely seeing, barely even knowing it was her. 

“Francesca,” the name came out as it always did, though far from being in control it came out dark, demented like someone else was speaking. He turned to walk back towards her. 

“You of all people know this is me. Mhm? The real me--” his head tilted again, the bones creaking. “I believe I’ve figure it out. For once, I am ready to have a family. I want-- us together and I will do anything, absolutely anything, to have my way. You think all this for Carrington is taking it too far--” he leaned forward, a crooked sharp, monstrous fanged smile. “I’d create an army of spawn to find you if you were in this situation. I’d find the person who hurt you and kill every member of their bloodline-- I will take it too far, because this is what I am becoming. You can handle it and me right now. You are probably the only one in this moment who can. So help me, mhm?”

“Non - non fare così, non ‘Francesca’ mi,” she spoke under her breath in complaint, denying him the right to call out to her. This time she was the one who kept her back turned at him. It was always the same script. He’d call her, call out her name and, somehow, she’d listen. This time, however, she forcefully ignored it, which took her all her strength, to a point where she didn’t notice the change in his voice. Whatever was happening right now, she couldn’t deal with it. Why couldn’t he act rational now, like he always did? Why let himself get to this point now?

As the bones cracked behind her, so close that they snapped in her ears, the woman turned to look at him. She couldn’t recognize him. Why? She questioned herself once more. Francesca shook her head in denial. “You’re going to kill yourself.” Hands turned into fists, arms flat to her sides. That anger grew hotter, boiling inside. She didn’t want to truly burst, not now, not when Orobas was this mess; this handsomely frightening mess. “Yes! Yes, I do think it’s too far! I told you - I’m not willing to lose you. Or him. Much less the both of you, one after the other.” Sappy words, he was just trying to calm her down and have her listen to him, get on board with his plan. But she disagreed with his plan when that could get him killed because he was acting sloppy. “You don’t know what you’re saying. Haxian doesn’t let you stick around long enough to have a family. You’ll leave again.” Her words were cruel, but they reflected her fears. She knew he had always been absent, distant, and now he was with somebody else. She’s smelled her on his belongings a few times when dropping by Bloodhaven. She was willing to accept all that, bury her anger again, as long as he stopped being careless. 

Everything spoken burned through his skull, not understanding why she couldn’t just say okay and do what they always did. “This time I’m not,” he growled, not wanting to believe it. It had been him holding her back from moments like this, toying with her thirst like pulling on pigtails until he had to save them from the mess. Now, it was justified to himself, at least, that was all the emotion is could strongly hold onto right now. The jab at Haxian, at his maker was sharp and she knew it. Orobas didn’t have a choice in that, and worse-- he’s always listen to Haxian no matter what. Rarely has he said no, and even then when comparing someone, anyone else to his maker-- Haxian would always come on top. Too much time together, too much of their conscious bled as one unit. Even now, he could feel him in his mind, urging him to kill more, because Haxian would always have his back no matter how far he took it.

“Ok. I’ll help.” Her response was cold, yet decisive. “Follow me.” And she disappeared, leading the way to a dark alley. From there, in the shadows, the vampire spotted a man standing by his threshold, about to enter his home. Fran appeared right next to him, dragging Orobas along. “Evening,” she greeted the human. A healthy, perhaps a bit tired, adult human. He looked at her, surprised. “It’s a bit chilly outside. I could really use a warm place to wait for my cab. Could you please invite me in?” Eyes locked with hers, the man nodded, saying the words: please, come in, wait inside. Fran passed through the frame along with the man. “Are you alone?” He nodded. “Good. Would you mind inviting my mate inside too? You understand - a woman in a man’s home, all by herself, can be dangerous.” Come in and be with your friend, he said to the vampire standing outside. Francesca broke eye contact with the human, waiting on Orobas. “Eat,” she told him sternly. She was only helping any further if he got himself better. There was no arguing there.

When she kept on urging him to eat Orobas felt conflicted and angry, but when he followed and the man allowed him entrance, he paused on the stoop. The moment the man locked eyes with him fear surfaced, the flush of color raced away from his face, and his pulse ticked faster and faster. Orobas watched the bob of his throat as nerves made him swallow the spit in his mouth, the tendons and muscles ready to scream, and the monster there smirked and in a burst of speed broke the fragile body against the far wall. Suspended in the air, their spine snapped instantly, and all their ribs shattered from the impact. Blood gushed from their mouth as they exhaled the forced shove of air from their punctured lungs and began to gag on it. Their scream muffed in a gurgling sound as Orobas looked them in the eye, there was a second where it appeared like he still wouldn’t feed. The pulse weakening as the limp body was only held up by his hand, but he conceded, the scent too much and bit into their neck, teeth like serrated blades punctured the artery and Orobas drank deeply. Consuming the rest of their blood until the artery deflated from the lack of liquid. He let go, the body crumbling at his feet, the broken drywall bloody from the impact. Orobas let it heal him, and made to unbutton his shirt, tossing the ruined item on the floor. 

His red eyes looked over at her, the blood not enough to quell his dangerous mood, but he looked better. He took a jacket from the human off the wall and pulled it on his shoulders. 

It was unfair that he didn’t even take a moment to compel the man out of his terror. Watching the human stare, completely frozen and horror-stuck, was pitiful. Yet it was understandable. If the circumstances were different… Well, if they were different, nothing would’ve changed. Because that’s how things always played out when the two got together, apparently. There was suffering in every aspect - physical from others and emotional from unresolved feelings from them. Francesca always would put up a fight, treated him coldly, just as much as he’d keep his hot-and-cold thing. They always hurt, cut open, gutted and killed together. It’s always been like this, as if he still could awaken the animalistic side of hers that’s been implanted in her so many years ago by her sire.

The chandelier of the living room shook above their heads as the man’s body crashed against the wall. Still standing on the side, the Italian intently watched, slightly apprehensive that Orobas simply wouldn’t do what she told him to do. It was common sense that he had to feed sooner than later, she couldn’t understand why he was putting up a fight. Was it only because she was the one forcing him to do so, instead of it being by his own will? Nonetheless, he heard her. The temptation was probably too strong for him to resist and persist with his stubbornness. When fangs ripped open the human’s throat, Fran decided to take a seat in an armchair and start thinking what the bloody hell they could do next. Run up and down the bloody place looking for a lead? Find vampires and torture them, wish they knew anything about Carrington and make more enemies in the process?

She realized Orobas had been looking at her, the man now flat on the ground like a sack of potatoes, in a pool of his own blood. Fran stood from her seat, noticing through the layer of blood how there were no more sunburns over his skin. “You’re looking terrible in that jacket.” It was her way of complimenting him, actually, because she was still quite angry - maybe she’d be constantly pissed off for five decades or so. Sadly, he could never look terrible in her eyes in any way. And it only got her all the more annoyed. “Certo. E che facciamo adesso? How can I help?” Finally, she yelled to him. At least he wasn’t that hurt anymore, in spite of the obvious mental exhaustion.

“Should I forgo everything then?” He teased while she yelled at him, unzipping it and depositing it on the ground to walk around the house and find a bedroom. The man lived a boring life, a soul easily forgotten if the lack of pictures of family was to go by. Though of course, he didn’t have any photos of his friends either-- should he? Did their kind do that sorta thing? Haxian and him aren’t in one photo together, no need to pull such old memories when the future was right there. 

He couldn’t possibly be teasing her right now. Hazel eyes squinted at him in response, not really taking the time to lash back at him. But as she carried on with genuine questions to pressing matters, he simply turned him back on her and walked further into the house! Orobas wasn’t taking the piss, after all, he was truly going after the man’s closet to try and find something more fitting to his personality. Why not take a shower while at it? She thought. Maybe put some of his cologne. Mentally drained, Francesca fell in the sofa and rubbed her face, the portrait of frustration. Both of her hands were placed on her stomach as her questioning eyes stared at the ceiling. A crack opened there too when the man’s body hit the drywall. She didn’t know what to do.

A pang of something frustrating surfaced as he found a dress shirt in their closet, and he washed his hands and face in the bathroom. Ignoring her wasn’t entirely on purpose, though on brand for Orobas when she raised her voice at him. He was thinking of a better plan than interrogating people and trying to find out who knew what. There was a bad feeling in his gut that someone knew something, but was keeping quiet for the fear of the label of rat being put on their back. Droplets of water clung to his face, still exhausted, thin and gray. Eyes a deep crimson, he licked his lips, the taste of blood still present and his stomach coiled in thirst for more. Walking out of the bedroom, he gave her a look as if to ask, ‘is this better?’, but was already buttoning up the dress shirt and made to sit with her on the couch. 

“Someone said they could do a locating spell, but it’s going to be too late. I just can’t believe it will work without people bargaining for stuff while we won’t have time,” he scratched at his fang with a nail, lounging back improperly and stared at the mangled corpse. “The person I killed before I got you, said they saw someone on the beach with a truck and swore they took someone from the water. Maybe it’s him, maybe it's just another human corpse. He has to be on Amity Road. I think, the best course is to find the truck. Black, overly large with equipment in the back.” 

Orobas’ return caught her by surprise. When she heard the water running, Fran truly thought he was washing off all the blood. Which wouldn’t have been a bad idea, it just sounded wrong taking a shower when all she could think of was Carrington. When he sat next to her, her expressive eyes were nearly overflowing with water. She quickly sat up and rubbed them, humming in agreement in a weakened voice to the silent question he threw her way. Not really though, he still looked terrible and she still preferred him in his own clothes, but - Francesca cleared her throat, inhaling quietly. The last thing she wanted was for the vampire to notice she was crying right there. The woman who had been quietly waiting for him to finish draining a man from his blood was now crying in his sofa. It was pathetic. She felt pathetic. Yet she couldn’t help it. Fran without her emotions just wasn’t Fran.

“Fine,” almost promptly, the brunette stood up to her feed, running her hand through her dark hair, clearly distraught. Fran, who’s never been patient, now just seemed restless, unable to stay still for too long. “Let’s move then.” 

Orobas sensed the emotion in her easily. Attuned to suffering within people. He stood up and grabbed her hand, and made to look her in the eyes. People crying was Orobas’ greatest weakness. Not in wanting to console them, but to savor it. When someone got to that point of emotion, where it swelled their eyes, and fell in tracks down their cheeks-- it was truly beautiful and distracting. Orobas’ gaze was predatory, but for once he didn’t lash out and make her feel ridiculous, didn’t say something to have her anger rise and to lash out at him. Though he quite enjoyed that too, he felt the heaviness in his chest over the situation. Carrington was making both these ruthless monsters emotional to the point of confusing. He pressed and kiss to her cheek, and walked past her and towards the door. 

“Let’s move then--” 

Orobas darted for a good part of the night, around Amity Road looking for the truck that was scene. It was the only lead they had, and for tonight, it could be the only one they should follow so it didn’t get distracting. He battled the desires for mayhem. His anger at its peak, his concern a confusing anxiety driven reaction, but as they looked, he was thankful he had Fran with him tonight. So they could keep one another in check. As the sun was only two hours away, he finally found it in a parking lot. Looking around nothing really moved, the place quiet as it should be this early in the day. No. “Francesca--” in a dissipation of speed to ran towards him. 

Carrington wasn’t quite sure how long he had been walking. The road seemed to lead nowhere, even though he knew where he was. Didn’t he? Amity Road. Wasn’t it? Had he passed that street already? Was that the same car parked there on the corner? Carrington swiped a hand over his eyes. Surely he wasn’t walking in circles. 

He looked up at the sky. What time was it? How long until the sun came up? He’d need to either find his way home or find shelter. It wouldn’t do to have survived the hell of the last week (or was it longer?) only to perish at sunrise because he couldn’t find his bloody way home. His watch and his phone weren’t working, and there were no clocks or signs to let him know the time. Only sallow, greasy light from the streetlamps, the smell of wet and rot, and the feeling of simply wanting to sit down… just for a moment. To rest. Perhaps he would. 

Carrington stumbled… and fell to the sidewalk. And this time he didn’t get back up. Christ, he was so tired. Lying down wouldn’t do any harm. He would rest. Just for a moment…

That complicity gesture forced her to swallow the lump of sadness that gathered in her throat. Discarding those overwhelming emotions was the only way to focus on what was important: the task ahead. They had to find Carrington, or at least a second lead that got them anywhere closer to finding him. Anything but remaining where they were now.

Whist one would look in the right, the other would sweep the left, going through block by block following the same pattern, covering the area as quick as possible; not exactly together as in side by side, but hardly apart, for with a whisper and the blink of an eye Fran would be standing standing beside him. But nor their speed nor their insistence seemed to matter when that bloody truck was nowhere to be found. Maybe they’d given him a wrong lead just so Orobas would get off their back, somehow believing they wouldn’t end up dead in a ditch after Orobas was done with them after that lie.

Exhausted, Fran was about to give up. She was hungry, the sun would come up in a few moments and they couldn’t find a vehicle that was probably nonexistent or maybe was some type of invisible-kombi from the high-on-drugs-and-seeing-things-that-don’t-exist fae world. 

Turning her back to the vampire, she sighed loudly, a hand on her hip and another on her face. That’s when she heard the quiet call and immediately ran to Oroba’s side. That’s when she saw him. Or was it some drunk, homeless man? He smelled different. Past the dirt, the worn-out clothes and lack of his typical aftershave. Did he drink from someone on drugs? Why was he lying there?! Was he... dead? “... is it… him…?” After a couple of second of uncontrollable first-shock and strong fear, Francesca threw herself to the ground, kneeling and, as carefully as her disperair allowed her, rolled him over. Her hand delicately touched his face. “Carring? You’re fine. You’re fine, we got you,” she tried to sound as confident as possible, but without even noticing, Fran was already silently crying. For a second she looked back at Orobas, wanting to tell him thanks for not giving up on him, for finding the lead to him, for finding him, for getting to that point for him - but no words came out.

Orobas didn’t want to see her despair right now, and her tears-- ever delightful and distracting, almost had him letting them have their moment, but they were all cutting it close, and in the morning-- someone would likely call the police on their bodies. When she looked up at him as he stood there, Carrington starved, wearing clothes not atypical, and his general state in her arms, he grew impossibly mad. It was wildfire, and his gaze didn’t hide it. The frustration of it all almost consuming, because he didn’t know the why, and he wasn’t sure Carrington would even explain. He knew he probably wouldn’t-- if this situation was reversed. His fists curled inward, and Orobas had to calm down or he’d walk away from this. Haxian-- we found him. He felt his master close, not intruding on their hunt, nor helping, but was in their car waiting patiently to be sure they didn’t get caught in the sun. I’m coming. He crouched down, running the edges of his fingertips over Francesca's cheeks, and once more looked at Carrington.

 “Come--” Haxian pulled up fast to the parking lot and the group sped off towards Bloodhaven.

[madamsixx]

Beyond The Leather Chapter 88: The Diaries Pt.1

Morning...

"Nik hurry up!"

I called to Nikki from my living room waiting for him to get his stuff together. We're heading over to Jade's house then from there we're going to Rachel's place.

"I'm here." He groaned in annoyance walking out of the room holding onto two duffel bags.

"Where's the rest of your stuff?" I ask standing up to help him.

"At my house." He breathed out.

"Alright, well." I sighed and scratched my neck. "We can apologize to them first and then get the rest of your things from your house."

"Cool." He rolled his eyes and walked past me.

"I hope you cleaned your mess as well." I was referring to the dirty clothes scattered all over the floor in my room. "I'm not your maid."

"Well according to Jess's dad, you are." He grinned smugly. "Men need to run a tight household. There's no room for lazy woman. So, make sure my dirty clothes are picked up and cleaned." He laughed walking passed me.

I stayed put right where I was and crossed my arms over my chest raising one brow. He stopped and turned around smiling.

"Oh, come on Mani it's a joke." He laughed humorously.

"It better be, I'm not picking up after you." I started walking towards my door. "You're a grown man who can clean up after himself."

"Babe, when I'm on tour and I come back with dirty clothes and I'm exhausted...you're telling me that you wouldn't do my laundry?" He asked as we locked up and walked towards his car.

"No, why should I?" I snorted getting into his car.

He got into his car and stared at me.

"What?" I shrugged putting on my seat belt.

"You really wouldn't help me with my laundry?" He questioned looking at me.

"Am I supposed to?" I furrowed my brows.

He sighed and shook his head. He started up the car and started driving. I don't understand what the big deal is. It's like he wants me to be doing things for him that he can easily do himself.

We arrived outside of Jade's place. I know he's upset...well...angry with the fact that we're apologizing to Rachel and Jade. But it needs to be done, I really cannot have them talking about me to other people or even mentioning anything to Tamara. It would get back to my mom and that's when we'll have real problems.

"You ready?" I ask looking at him.

No response.

"Nikki?" I put my hand on his thigh. He finally turns and looks at me. "You ready?"

"Do you think I'm trash?" He asks without looking at me.

"What?" I chuckled hesitantly.

He turns and looks me in the eye. "Do you think I'm trash? Do you think I'm a gutter rat? Do you think I'm a devil worshipping rock star?"

"N...no I don't." I shook my head taken aback by what he's asking.

"Then why am I apologizing?" He asks sounding annoyed.

"Nikki please don't start this, you know why." I groan rubbing my face.

"I can't do it Mani." He shook his head and turned back facing the front. "I won't apologize to girls who look at me like I'm the shit beneath their shoe. I know what I'm worth-"

"Nikki it's not about that-"

"No Mani it is." He said with a firm tone turning to me. "They should be the ones to apologize for being narrow minded judgemental bitches. They looked at me...without even knowing who I am or what my personality was like. They looked at me...the same way you use to look at me. Like I was nothing but a dirty leather wearing rock star."

My face softened as I stared back at him.

"My whole life that's what I was told from my family, friends, people in the industry, you, and many others. And I never apologized to any one for it. So why should I start now? Because of the whole secret thing?" He waved his hands. "I love you... and you know I would do anything for you. But this." He points towards Jade's house. "I can't do." He shakes his head. "It's not a pride thing...it's about respect. Your friends have none for me. So, I won't apologize to them because you don't want them saying anything. And if you agree that I'm not any of those things. Then you'll support me in my decision." He says and turns from me. "I'm not trash and I'm not a gutter rat. I'm Nikki Sixx from the hottest rock band there is right now."

I continued to stare at him. He was right, they should apologize to him. Nikki is none of those things. And I always feel bad for how I use to look at him and judge him.

"You're right." I spoke up making him look at me. "You shouldn't have to apologize for ignorance."

"No, I shouldn't." He smiled.

"Let's get going to your place. You have a plane to catch." I rubbed his cheek making him blush.

Nikki's house...

We arrived at Nikki's house. His house maid Loretta was here looking after his house and his dog. We went upstairs to Nikki's room to get some more of his things for his tour.

"I need all these clothes." He says stuffing his suitcase with mostly leather pants.

"What else do you need?" I walk over with his base guitar.

"Um." He looks around lifting papers off his dresser. "My lyric book, I think I left it in my office."

"I'll get it." I turn to walk.

"It's a brown notebook, it's probably inside my desk!" He yelled.

"Alright!"

I walked into his office and headed straight for the desk. I opened the first drawer and moved the papers around that were in there, but I didn't see any lyric book in there. I closed it up and opened the second drawer. There was a stack of duo tangs in there. I lifted them up to see if I could see anything on the bottom but there was nothing there. I moved to the bottom of the drawer and opened it up. Bingo! I found four brown books that looked like journals. This must be it.

"I wonder what songs he's written in here." I mumbled to myself.

I opened the book up and started reading it.

December 25th, 1986 Van Nuys, 7:30 p.m.

Merry Christmas. Well, that's what people say at Christmas, right? Except normally they have somebody to say it to. They have their friends and family all around them. They haven't been crouched naked under a Christmas tree with a needle in their arm like an insane person in a mansion in Van Nuys. They're not out of their minds and writing in a diary and they're not watching their holiday spirit coagulating in a spoon. I didn't speak to a single person today...I thought of calling Bob Timmons, but why should I ruin his Christmas? I guess I've decided to start another diary this time for a few different reasons...

1. I have no friends left.

2. So I can read back and remember what I did the day before.

3. So I can rant to you about how much I fucking hate Mani but I care about her at the same time. Does that make sense?

4. So if I die, at least I leave a paper trail of my life (nice lil suicide note). Merry Christmas...it's just you and me, diary. Welcome to my life.

"Wait... what?" I furrowed my brows and looked up. "What is this?"

I turned the page to read what was written next.

December 26th, 1986

Van Nuys, 2:10 a.m.

Jason came over again today. I was touched...so there is a Santa Claus, after all. He came mooching in, with his greasy James Dean hair and his junkie eyes that are sunk so deep in his elongated face that he looks like he's wearing makeup, and he stood by the tree and asked me how my Christmas had been. Like he cares...like he doesn't know already that it was exactly the same as his. Sometimes Jason pisses me off when he tries to make small talk. He asked me how much gear I wanted, and I asked, how much have you got? And he gave me this contemptuous, sneering look and said, that must be nice... His Betty Page-wannabe Goth girlfriend Anastasia isn't much better. Oh, she's nice enuff, but I know on the inside I'm just her meal ticket to an easier, softer life. I know she tells Jason to jump when I call because she, more than he, wants the money. Not just for the junk, they make enuff off me to maintain their cheap little habits, but she likes to decorate their little one-room rat's nest with the extra money they have left over. That's the real reason she demands he comes at my beck and call...she likes that extra cash for thrift shops and second-hand stores. I see her as a sorta Suzie Homemaker from Hell, but it's all just a fantasy-she's stuck with a habit too...

What the hell did I stumble on? Is this Nikki's drug diary? I was scared to turn the page and see what was next, but at the same time I wanted to know more about what was going on in his head when he was writing this.

December 27th, 1986

Van Nuys, 4:15 a.m.

The best part of freebase is before the first hit. I love that moment, right before I put the glass pipe to my lips...that moment when everything is sane, and the craving, the salivating, the excitement all feels fresh and innocent. It's like foreplay...the ache that's always better than the orgasm. Yet as soon as I hit the pipe, within 30 seconds all hell breaks lose in my brain...and I keep on doing it and doing it and doing it and doing it, and I can't stop. Every day that I sit here and write, it's always the same. So-why? Why do I do this? I hate it...I hate it so much, but I love it even more. The worst part of freebase is running out. But I have a new jones-speedballs of any kind. The junk just isn't enough anymore...I feel like I'm only halfway there...

I turn the page to read what is written next.

December 28th, 1986

Van Nuys, 9:40 p.m.

After I binged last night-or was it tonight-I was convinced yet again that there were people coming to get me. It was more than just shadows and voices, more than just fantasies...it was real, and I was scared to my core. My bones were shaking...my heart was pounding...I thought I was going to explode. I'm glad I have you to talk to, to write this down...I tried to keep it all together, but then I gave in to the madness and became one with my insanity... I always end up in the closet in my bedroom. Let me tell you about that place, my closet. It's more than a closet-it's a haven for me. It's where I keep my dope and where I keep my gun. I know when I'm in there I'm safe, at least until I get too high. I can't be out in the house-there are too many windows and I know I'm being watched. Right now, it seems impossible that cops are peering in from the trees outside or people are looking at me thru the peephole at the front door. But when the drugs kick in, I can't control my mind... Today, last night feels like a lifetime ago. But the sick thing is I could do it again tonight.

"Mani!"

I fumbled with the book nearly dropping it as I heard Nikki's footsteps coming close. I caught it, closed it up, then threw it back inside the desk and shut it. I ran over to his dresser and opened it up to make it look like I was looking in there.

"Mani?" He called walking in the room.

"Uh...y... yes?" I scratched my neck trying to act casual as I turned around.

"Did you find my lyric book?" He asked.

"Oh...uh no." I stuttered. "I looked in your dresser but didn't see anything." I said nervously.

"Princess, I said desk not my drawer." He pointed to the desk.

"Oh...uh sorry." I chuckled hesitantly.

He started opening each desk drawer looking around and shifting papers and duo tangs. When he reached the last drawer, he paused for a moment.

I hope he doesn't find out that I read it. I thought to myself.

He picked up the book slowly and breathed out just staring at it. He opened the book and started reading the first page. His hand got a little shaky.

"U...um, is that the lyric book?" I ask.

No response.

"Nikki." I called to him.

No response, he just turns the page and stares at what he's written.

"Nikki!" I called to him again a bit louder this time.

"Huh...what?" He looked up at me.

"Are you...are you ok?" I ask feeling nervous.

"Um...yeah." He barely whispered. "Um, we should get going." He says dropping the book back into the desk. "You said you didn't go in here, right?" He furrowed his brows.

"Oh no... I uh...I only looked in your drawers from your dresser. Sorry, wasn't thinking."

"That's alright." He nodded. He grabbed the key from on top of the desk and locked up the desk drawers. "Um let's get going."

"Alright." I scratched my neck following him out.

We picked up his bags and headed downstairs.

"Oh shit, it's right here." He chuckled picking it off the drawer by his phone. "I was probably talking on the phone with someone and forgot about it."

"Ha- ha." I faked laughed. "Glad you found it."

The limo came and the chauffeur helped get his bags in the car. Nikki was talking nonstop about the tour and a bunch of other stuff I couldn't care less about. Well I did care, but my mind was on those three pages I read in his diaries. I'm wondering if that's the same diary I read back in 87 when he said he was going down to the clinic for a 30-day program to get clean. I really wanted to know what else he wrote in his diary. I'm wondering if he would let me look after his home while he's on tour. But then that means I would have to watch shadow. And I'm not up for that. I just want to see those journals.

"Mani?'

"Huh...yes." I shook my head snapping from my thoughts.

"So, can you?" He asks.

"Yes, yes I can." I answered quickly, not knowing what he asked me.

"Alright we're here."

I looked out the window to see the plane and a bunch of other people loading things up. The driver opened the door and we climbed out. I saw Tommy, Mick, Emi, and Vince on the other side. Sharise and Heather were already here. I wasn't able to go past this area. So, I had to say my goodbyes now.

Nikki sighed looking at me. "Can't believe have to go back again on tour."

"Well, you're a musician." I shrug. "This is what you guys do, tour."

"I sometimes love it but hate it. Love it cause we've worked hard to get where we are. But I hate it because I have to leave you and travel."

"Awe, Nik." I smiled putting my arms around his neck. "I'll be here waiting for you." I mumbled close to his lips.

"Mmmm." He groaned against my lips placing gentle kisses. "At least you're coming on the ninth."

"The ninth, what for?" I furrowed my brows.

"Mani, I told you in the limo that we had time off on the ninth. I asked you if you can come down. You said yes."

Oh shoot, that's what I said yes to.

"Alright fuck you two!" Vince yelled. "It doesn't take long to say goodbye!"

I rolled my eyes and pulled away from Nikki.

"I'll call when we arrive." He smiled and kissed me for the last time.

"Ok, love you."

"Love you too."

He walked past security and met up with the guys. I waved to them smiling as he got on the plane. I turned to wave at Sharise making her wave back. I glared at Heather, she kept staring at me. She better not even try to talk to me. If she knows what's good, she'll stay right were she is.

"Mani, can we talk?" Heather asked.

I turned and walked towards my limo. I had nothing to say to that snake.

"Iman please." She walked after me.

"What could you possibly say to me that's going to make me forgive you?" I ask with attitude.

"First of all, you started when-

"Oh, shut up Heather!" I yelled at her. "I apologized to you!"

"Oh, come oooon." She chuckled. "It was just a bit of payback. Nikki obviously couldn't have been that upset. You guys are still talking."

"That's not the point!" I yelled again. "If I apologize for doing something wrong to you don't turn around and try to get even with me! Especially if you're telling me you forgive me! It's the one thing I cannot stand from people! That's why I'm not talking to Tommy."

"Iman, Nikki got scissor crazy with your hair. Yet you're talking to him."

"Alright you two stop." Sharise spoke up.

"We didn't sort out our problems at the time he did that!" I got her in face. "Next time just be straight up and say you're still angry with me instead of stabbing me in back!"

I turned and got into the limo looking away from her as the driver drove off.

Afternoon...

When I arrived home after seeing Nikki off Jess came over to hang out for a bit. I told her I was going to call some movers to get my broken bed out of the room, however she suggested that we do it our selves. She said I have two hands and legs so I should use them. Jess is annoying sometimes. I have the money to pay someone...so why should I do it?

"Woo!" I plopped down on the couch. "I'm exhausted!"

"Here." She hands me a bottle of water then sits down on my couch and drinks hers. "So, I called Ashley's company. Your new bed will be here by next Tuesday."

"Alright sounds great. Oh, by the way, I need a ticket and plane to Dallas Texas for the ninth. I subconsciously agreed to go visit Nikki."

"Huh." Jess raised a brow.

"Long story." I chuckled. "So, I uh...wanted to tell you something I found at Nikki's house."

"Oh...ok what did you find?" She turned to face me.

"I don't know, I think it was his diary. He was writing about his...drug dealer named Jason, then writing about how much he loves free basing and hates it at the same time, and then writing about how he started a new diary because in case he dies he'll have a paper trail of his life. It was really creepy."

"Wow." Jess raised her brows. "Did you read only one page?"

"I read four." I leaned back on the couch. "But he wrote that this was a new diary. He has more. In 87 I read one of his journals of him talking about the day Tom came over and how he wanted to get clean for me."

"Well I remember a point when he was starting to look a bit healthier."

"Yeah, I do too." I nodded. "The last page though was really scary. He wrote about people coming after him. I remember when Nikki use to hide in his closet. He would stay in there for days Jess. I didn't know what was in his closet. But now I know...it was his dope."

"He wrote that in there?" Jess asks with concern.

"Yes. He wrote that his closet was his haven and that he would pull an all nighter of drug binges. Heroin actually."

"Jeez." Jess mumbled. "So, these are like... his heroin diaries?"

"I honestly think so. He talks about loving the drugs so much that he can't stop." I shrugged. "It said that he was crouched under his Christmas tree with a needle in his arm."

"He doesn't know you read them... right?"

"Oh god no." My eyes went wide. "He even looked panicked when he thought I saw the journal."

"Makes you feel sorry for him."

"Yeah, I know." I mumbled.

"Iman." I looked up and stared at Jess as she gave me a look of concern. "That is not Nikki anymore. That man you were reading about in those diaries is not the same man you're dating right now."

"How do you know?" I question. "I mean he's going on tour again. And when ever he goes on tour, he goes crazy. You didn't see him on the girl's tour Jess. He was so out of it, he was scary, he was mean, he was violent, he was doing drugs right in front of my face and sleeping with different girls as well. He was also aggressive with me."

"Iman slow down." Jess sat at the edge of the couch trying to calm me. "If Nikki's doing drugs you would have seen his behaviour change."

"No Jess...I wouldn't. I didn't even know he was a serious drug addict until February 14th of 86 when he overdosed in London."

Jess sighed and walked over towards me. She sat down beside me and put an arm around my neck.

"Sweetie, Nikki is not that guy anymore. He loves you, and I know one hundred percent that he'll never put you through that drugged out life again. Ok." She assured.

"OK." I nod. "But I would still like to read the rest. I'm going to go back-"

"Mani." Jess chuckled hesitantly interrupting me. "Don't go looking for trouble. If he was panicked when he thought you saw them. It means he doesn't want you reading them. Maybe there's things in that journal that you weren't meant to read."

"Yes but-"

"Iman, I mean it. Leave those journals alone."

"Ok, I will.

What she's saying is true, but at the same time. If you saw a glimpse of what was written in that journal. Wouldn't you want to read the rest?

______

Saturday, January 6th

I decided to take a couple beach pictures in my bikini to give to Nikki. I know he'll like them. Plus, I rather him jerk off to the pictures than steal my panties. Every time I look in my drawer, I've noticed that my panties have gone missing.

"Alright I'm done." Jess says as she picks up her bag. "We've taken about a hundred pictures. Choose from the ones I took and give them to Nikki."

"You're so grumpy my goodness." I groan getting up and putting my tights back on. "You act as if you don't send Fred dirty pictures."

"Pfft." She scoffed. "I don't...he sends them to me." She chuckled.

We both laughed and headed over to her car. I took the camera from her and started looking through the pictures.

"I should have worn a black bikini instead. He likes black."

"No, the blue and white looks nice."

"This one is hot; can you make this one into a poster?" I turn the camera so Jess can take a quick look. "He'll like this one for sure."

"Sure, I can." She parked by my house. "Alright, so I got you a flight on the ninth for three pm. That's the best I could do. Tamara won't know a thing. Your flight the following morning is at 10am."

"Alright thanks."

____

I sat on the couch still thinking about those journals. I was restless, I felt like I had a right to know what he wrote. Like seriously, I hate Mani, but I care about her. What was that all about? I looked down at my nails and noticed that I was biting them. Tamara's going to be pissed.

"To hell with Jess, I need to know."

I stood up and ran to my room to get ready. I grabbed a small bag so I could at least take one and read it while Nikki was still on tour. I called a car service for myself and gave them Nikki's address. When I arrived, I saw Loretta's car out front? I'm hoping she'll let me in Nikki's house. I mean she knows me and Nikki are dating, so why shouldn't she let me in? Unless Nikki's hiding something...his journals.

I pressed the buzzer and waited for an answer.

"Hello, Sixx residence."

"Hi Loretta, it's Iman."

"Hi Iman, what can I do for you?"

"Uh, I called Nikki earlier and told him I had some dresses that I left at his place. I'm going to an event this weekend and I really need them."

Good lie.

"Oh, uh Mr. Sixx never told me anything."

"He probably forgot to tell you or maybe he was just really busy. Do you think I can just come in quick and get them?"

Please say yes.

"Uh, well alright. I guess he'll call later to let me know."

Buzzzzz

"Yes." I smirked.

The driver drove in and I hopped out of the car and walked to the door.

"Hi Iman, come on in." She said as she opened the door for me moving to the side.

Oh no shadow! I groaned as shadow came running and jumping all over me. Loretta grabbed him by the collar and pulled him towards another room.

"I'll just grab them and head out alright."

"No problem Iman." She waved and smiled as she held onto shadow.

I ran upstairs into Nikki's bedroom. I peeked out to make sure Loretta was gone and I was in the clear. I opened his door and made my way to his office. I opened the door silently and closed it behind me. I tip toed to the desk and saw the key. I felt like I was burglar robbing Nikki's home. I picked up the key then opened the bottom drawer. Why is my heart racing? I looked at the four journals just laying there, waiting for someone to take a sneak peek. I thought back to what Jess said about not reading them. There could be something in there that I'm not supposed to see. I closed the desk back up then stood up.

"Iman you're here already you might as well just read one." I grumbled to myself.

I opened back up the desk and pulled one of the four out. I took a deep breath then opened one of them up.

"1986." I mumbled.

I opened the journal and started reading an entry.

January 22nd, 1986

U.K.

This is our first European headlining tour. We have Cheap Trick as special guests on nine of the dates. We jammed together on stage to the AC/DC classic Highway to Hell, but we changed the lyrics to Highway to Krell. Get it!

I shook my head and turned the page to read more.

February 9th, 1986

U.K.

I'm so fucking tired. We caused so much debauchery last night. We smashed up the hotel rooms and drew penises on the walls ha-ha. We pulled our pants down and mooned all the people who were waiting for the elevator. Fred also punched Vince in the stomach, he said he was pissing him off.

I haven't seen Mani yet. I did knock on her door, but I guess she wasn't there. I'm hoping that I'll get to see her. I feel bad that I called her a side whore at Tommy's engagement party. She didn't deserve that. I really like her. She's a sweet girl. Anyways gotta go.

February 10, 1986

Yesterday I saw Mani at a club. Her and her model friends were all there. I tried to talk to her at the club, but she yelled at me and told me to leave her alone. I don't blame her. I'm hoping tomorrow morning she'll calm down and talk to me.

On a good note, I took me home a nice brunette with big tits. Can't wait to get my dick wet.

This asshole!

February 10th, 1986

I just left Iman's room. I don't even know how to say this without sounding like an asshole. I saw Iman's naked body for the first time. And she's so fucking hot! However, her boobs are small. She could use a boob job. Anyways we kissed and touched. But we got interrupted by that annoying guy... or is it a girl assistant of hers. We couldn't go further. Fuck! I want her so bad. I've been patiently waiting like a vulture to get into her dress...I can't say pants because I never see her in any. But god I just want to fuck her and go. She's being difficult.

"I can't believe this guy!" I whisper shout. "Boob job, sleeping with another girl while he's trying to talk to me, just wanting to sleep with me and dip! How dare him!"

I turned the page with anger looking at another entry.

February 12th, 1986

Shit so diary. This is huge. I now know why Iman won't give up the goods. She's a fucking virgin. Like holy shit! Well it's to be expected, I think she's a sheltered child. I said to her yesterday that she can't give up her pussy to anyone else. She agreed. For some reason I think she can be easily manipulated. I can't say a hundred percent yet...but I kind of have the feeling that she's that type of girl to do what someone tells her to do.

But anyways, before I left her room. We kind of had a feeling talk. If that's what it's called. She said that if she finds a guy she likes then she'll stop talking to me and go with him. I told her that's fine. But for some reason there was this feeling that came over me. I don't know what it was. But I didn't like when she said that.

P.s Tommy's knocking...time to snort.

"I never should have read these." I groaned, but still turned the page.

February 14th, 1986

This fucking bitch! This fucking unbelievable ungrateful bitch! I was supposed to take Iman out on the tour bus yesterday and you'll never believe what she did. I walked over to her table where her air head model friends were, and I said to her we should get going cause the tour bus will leave soon. And do you know what she did? She acted as if she didn't know me. She fucking said to her prissy bitch friends that she didn't fucking know me! I felt so humiliated and embarrassed. I could have caused a scene, but I chose not to. Instead I walked away.

This girl is fucked up I tell you. One minute she's this sweet caring girl then next she's this mean bitch who doesn't give a fuck about people's feelings. Judging me on the way I look. There's the bitch Iman and then there's sweet Mani.

And I kind of realized she's a bit slow in the head as well. She's been sheltered for most of her life. She can't fucking think for herself. I'm certain that she's puppet to her fucking friends. When they tell her to jump. She'll say how high. Who wants to live like that? A life in total control. Fuck this bitch! Her pussy's probably dry any ways. I'd rather spend my money on dope than take that fake ass anywhere.

I hope during her walk she trips over her heel and snaps that long giraffe neck of hers. Fuck her! At least I have Nicole.

Anyways, I'm heading out with Andy McCoy tonight. We're going to go score some heroin tonight. At least this will take my mind off Iman Cuntington. Ha-ha that should be her new last name.

"How dare this bastard speak about me like that!" I yelled slamming the book down.

"Iman!"

I screamed as the door burst open revealing an angry looking Loretta.

"Lo...Loretta-"

"You can't be in here!" She raised her voice. "His office is off limits! Plus, you said you were just getting your dresses!"

"Yeah sorry um." I slowly grabbed the journal and put it back in the drawer. "I was going to get my dresses, but I needed something in his office as well. Please don't tell Nikki."

"Iman please get out. You're going to get us both in trouble."

"Alright I'm sorry."

I walked out of Nikki's office. Loretta closed the door behind us. I walked downstairs and waited at the bottom for her to come down.

"Please don't tell Nikki, he'll be really pissed off." I begged.

"You shouldn't have been in there. Where are your dresses?" She asks.

"Oh...uh the ones I need weren't there." I laughed hesitantly. "Alright I'm going to go."

"Ok, bye." She said. ____

Sunday, January 9th

Dallas Texas

My plane landed; I was excited to see Nikki. It seems like Loretta didn't tell him. Before I left, we were talking on the phone, and he didn't mention anything. Thank God. I kept thinking back to what he wrote about me. I'm really pissed off. By I can't yell at him or anything. Because then he'll know I read his journals.

I got off the plane to see the limo waiting there for me. I climbed in and the limo took me to the hotel. After I checked in at the front desk, I had to wait for Nikki to come down.

"Mani."

I turned to see Nikki walking towards me.

"Hey." I smiled.

He wrapped his arms around my waist and picked me up, so my feet were dangling off the ground.

"Mmm." He mumbled on my lips. "You're so beautiful."

"Where the boys?" I ask as he put me back down.

"Not going to be with us tonight. It's just you and me." He chuckled.

He grabbed my bag and we headed upstairs to his room.

1 hour later...

I finished showering then started to get dressed.

"So, where we going anyways?" I ask.

"A place called Kenny's Italian Kitchen. They serve Italian food. I was told it's the best in town. So, I want to take you there."

"Ok sounds good."

"I'm going to go call and see if the limo is downstairs." He walks out of the bedroom and into the living room part.

Ever since I read that dam journal. I've been also feeling a little self conscious about my breasts. I bought a push up bra to wear with this red dress. It made them look bigger plus it also complements my waist. I fixed up my hair, did my make up, then put on my heels.

"Alright the limos-" He came back in the room and stared at me. Or I think he was because I couldn't see his eyes. "You look...different."

Different! He's supposed to say sexy, beautiful, gorgeous, lovely. He probably wants a big, boobed brunette. Brandi!

"Well I think I look nice." I said dryly picking up my purse.

"Mani." He grabbed my wrist as I tried to walk past him. "You do look gorgeous, alright. You always do."

"Thank you."

The limo dropped us off at this fancy place. In all honesty, I didn't like what Nikki was wearing. It wasn't restaurant appropriate. He looked like a typical rock star in all black as usual, however he called me judgmental in his diaries. So, I'm choosing not to say anything.

"You've been quiet through out the car ride. Is something wrong?"

"Oh...no... I'm just in awe at this place." I smiled.

"Ok." He shrugged.

"Mr. Sixx, right this way." The waitress said as we followed her.

We walked into the restaurant. I looked up at Nikki to see if he was staring at the waitress butt. But once again I couldn't tell because his bangs were covering his face. I mean seriously...move your hair!

"What are we doing outside?" I furrowed my brows.

"Look." He pointed straight ahead.

"Awe Nik that's beautiful." I smiled touching my chest.

There was a gazebo straight ahead with candles lit all around. The waitress led us over and got us seated. It was like our own little booth, but outside.

"You like it?" He smiled.

"Yes, I love it."

We placed our orders and chatted for a bit while we waited for our food to come.

"Here you go." She said as she placed my plate down in front of me. "And here you go." She placed Nikki's down in front of him.

"Thank you." He looked at her.

Did he just glance at her boobs. Rrrrr this asshole! I buffed up my chest so that my breasts were sticking out even more. He hasn't even complimented them yet.

"Mmm." I said after taking a bite of my Gnocchi Asiago. "This is really good."

"Glad you like it. I miss my Nona's cooking. She used to make some of the food they have here."

"Are you Italian?" I furrow my brows.

"Mani...Serafino Feranna?" He chuckles.

"Well I didn't know that was Italian?" I shrugged.

He shook his head and chuckled again. I see what's going on. He's probably thinking I'm slow in the head like he did in his journals. Prick!

"Can you speak the language?"

"No never learned. Can you speak yours?"

"Some words here and there. My mom tried to teach us when we were younger, but then she started school. So, she stopped."

"What's the language called that you speak?"

"Tieve."

"Oh wow." He says as he bites into his food.

"We also have traditional colours depending on where you're from."

"So where are you from?"

"Benue State, so our cultural colours are black and white. When a woman gets married to a guy, she has to do a traditional wedding first wearing the black and white colours."

"So, if I marry you, we have to do a traditional wedding first before a white wedding?"

"That's only in Nigeria." I chuckled. "Here it would be a church wedding."

"And then babies." He smirked at me.

"Oh my god." I shook my head smiling.

"Nigerian and Italian." He smiled. "We would make some cute babies."

"Nikki." I groaned.

"Ok, ok." He chuckled. "Oh, I wanted to tell you that Dr. Feelgood is up for an AMA at the awards show coming up for best hard rock band. We're also up for a Grammy in February."

"Nikki that's great!" I squealed. I got up and leaned over the table giving him a kiss. "Wow that's wonderful. Your album is doing so well, and your tours sold out. You guys can definitely win."

"I hope so. In the past I remember saying that I never really cared about awards, but now it would be nice to get some recognition from the music industry."

"I can understand that. When I first started as a model no one took me seriously. I was doing these teen magazines. And they don't really get you far. It's when I started my T.V show in 1984 that I made a name for myself."

"The shows pretty good. Especially with you on it." He smiled.

"Thanks." I smiled sweetly at him. "So, are you guys attending the awards?"

"AMA's no, but we are attending the Grammys. We have to give out an award."

"Well guess what." I grinned. "I'm attending the Grammys as well."

His facial expression changed...or at least I think it did. His dam hair.

"Shit really?"

"Yes, I'm presenting an award too." I nodded.

"Can we go together?"

I cleared my throat then grabbed my drink to take a sip. He groaned and leaned back on his chair.

"Nikki don't start this please." I pleaded. "We're having a good dinner."

He sighed and rubbed his hair. "Fine."

"I got you a present." I smirked deviously at him and leaned forward.

"Oh." He smiled leaning forward.

"You can have it when we get back to the hotel." I whispered.

"Then what the fuck are we waiting for." He glanced down at my breasts. Finally! Then looked at me with a huge smile. "Let's get the fuck outta here!" ____

I burst through the hotel door giggling as Nikki chased me. He picked me up and threw me on the bed like he always does making me laugh. He grabbed me by ankles and dragged me down to him making my dress go up. He then dipped his head between my legs and started kissing my inner thighs.

"Uh...yes." I groaned rubbing his raven hair arching my back.

I felt my panties come off and his tongue started swirling around my hole.

"Mmmm, taste like candy." He lifted his head up and hovered over me.

"You're so crazy." I burst out laughing.

"God these look so fucking delic...a push up bra!?" He raised his voice as he squeezed my chest. "What the fuck?" He burst out laughing.

"Get off me!" I pushed him away getting up and pulling my dress down.

"Wait...Mani." He laughed pulling my arm.

"Let go Nikki!" I yelled.

"Hey, hey, hey, ok, wait, hang on!" He raised his voice holding onto me. "I thought that was my surprise?"

"What?" I asked looking at him with confusion.

"I thought you got breast implants. Your breasts looked... huge?" He pointed to them.

"Yeah, cause that's what you want!" I pulled my arm away from him. "You wrote that you want me to get a boob job! You like big, boobed brunettes. "

"A boob job...what the fuck, when did I ever say that-" He stopped and looked at me. He moved his hair out of his face. His expression turned from confusion to anger in two seconds. "Iman."

I dried gulped hearing him call me Iman. He never calls me that. I messed up...big time. Crap!

"Did you read my journals?" He asks dryly.

I stared at him and scratched the back of my neck. I backed up a bit when he took slow steps closer to me.

"Did- you- read-my- journals!" He gritted his teeth getting in my face.

"I didn't mean too."

"Oh, my fucking god!" He groaned and rubbed his face.

"You said to look for your lyric book and I did! I thought the journals were your books! I didn't know-"

"Notebook Iman! I said notebook, did those look like notebooks!" He yelled. "Those look like journals! You've seen me write my lyrics in notebooks!"

"It was an accident Nikki! I didn't mean to read it!" I shouted at him.

"Ok, ok." He breathed out. "What did you read? Did you read 87?" He asks with panic on his face.

"I don't know, in one of them you were talking about being alone on Christmas and the other was in 86 when we were in London." I shrugged.

"In one of them? You read two?" He furrowed his brows. "How'd you have time to read two?"

Iman...you really should stop talking. You messed up again.

I stared at him and scratched my neck again.

"Did you only go back to my house... to read them?" He asks with anger.

"Nikki, I promise you I didn't read a lot Loretta-"

He grabbed the remote and threw it making it smash against the wall. The room goes silent.

"Sit down." He demanded.

I immediately did as I was told.

"You know why I like Loretta." He said as he sat across from me with anger written all over his face. "Because she tells me everything that's going on in my house. She told me you came over to get a couple of your dresses and I was fine with that. She said she wasn't even going to let you in. But I told her you're the only one who's allowed inside my home when I'm gone. Because I trust you. And you're my girlfriend."

"Nikki-"

"Don't talk!" He pointed in my face. "I never thought that you would ever go snooping in my office to read something that doesn't belong to you. When I'm in your house I never snoop through your shit. Even when you're not home. So, you shouldn't have done that to me Mani."

I nodded my head but stayed quiet.

"Look at me princess."

I looked up at him.

"What did you read?" He asks calmly. "From the first journal?"

"In the first journal I only read a small part of the first entry. You wrote Merry Christmas and that you had no one to say it to. That's it." I lied.

"So, you only read that line, you didn't read more than that?" He raised his brows.

"No, I didn't." I lied again. "I was about to but then you called me, so I put it back down. I promise you I didn't read beyond those lines."

He breathed out and rubbed his hair. "Ok, and the other journal?"

"When I came back to your house, I read from 86. It was mostly January and February. We were in London."

"Did you read after the 14th when I overdosed?"

"No, I didn't, I stopped just before you went out with Andy." I mumbled.

"Ok." He nodded. "What did I write?"

"That...you...just wanted to sleep with me, that I have a long giraffe neck and you hope I trip and snap it, that you have Nicole, I'm a c -u- n- t, I'm a b-i-t-c-h, I'm judgemental, I'm slow, I'm... a... slave to everyone, you brought a big boobed brunette girl home. Oh, and that I need a boob job." I say trying not to feel bad.

He stayed quiet. He breathed out and rubbed his face. "You were off today. You weren't nitpicking about my appearance, you weren't complaining and bitching, you didn't even mention anything about people seeing us. There was no fire in your eyes. You weren't that snappy Mani that I'm used to seeing. I knew something was up."

I fiddled with my fingers not bothering to respond.

"I wrote that when I was high out of my mind. However, there's no excuse for me writing those things about you. I mean, some things are true."

"Nikki!" I slapped his arm.

"I think you're a bitch sometimes for sure." He chuckled humorously. "But you have a beautiful long giraffe neck." He leaned and kissed my neck making me giggle. "You have a slow but beautiful mind." He kissed my forehead. "I don't want any other woman except for you." He kissed my nose. "I'm definitely a slave for you." He kissed my lips. He moved back and pulled the top half of my dress down. He undid the back of my bra strap and took off the push up. "And there is nothing wrong with these." He says as he cups my breasts. "Don't ever change your appearance because of something stupid I wrote in my journal 5 years ago. You are so fucking beautiful, you're perfect."

I feel like my heart just shattered into a million pieces. Here he is telling me how perfect I am. And here I am always judging him on the way he looks. When I should be telling him how perfect he is.

"Nikki." I spoke softly.

"Yeah, princess."

"I'm still working on myself; I promise you I'll get there." I barely whispered.

"I know you will princess. When you've been doing something your whole life, it's hard to stop. It takes time. Especially when you're raised like that."

I nodded my head. "I shouldn't have read them." I let out a shaky breath.

"No, you shouldn't have." He chuckled. "You're not ready to."

I furrowed my brows. "So, you mean you do want me to read them eventually?"

"Absolutely, but you're not ready for them now. And neither am I. So please, don't ever go trying to read them again."

"Trust me I won't." I chuckled. "All day I was thinking about what you wrote about me."

"So, you did say you have a surprise for me?"

"I do." I smiled. I got up and pulled out a poster that was wrapped in wrapping paper. "Here you go." I handed it to him.

He took it and started ripping the paper off it. "Mmmmm." He groaned smiling with all teeth showing. "All this for me?"

"Yes Nik." I chuckled. "All that's for you. So, you can stop stealing my panties."

"This is great. Now I'll be using 2 out of 5 of my senses when you leave."

"Huh?" I furrow my brows.

"Mani you really are slow." He chuckled.

"I'm not, I know you're going to jerk off looking at my poster!"

"Of course. So, what do you think I do with your panties?"

"I know you sniff them. That's actually disturbing."

"There clean." He shrugged.

"It's gross."

He burst out laughing. "If you think that's gross." I watched as he picked my underwear off the ground and pressed it to his face smelling it.

"You are so disgusting Nikki!" I yelled snatching it out of his hand.

He tackled me onto the bed and started peppering my face with kisses making me laugh.

In all honesty, I'm glad I didn't mention anything about me reading more than those lines in his 87 diary. The look on his face says it all to me. Whatever is in that 87 diary had him panicking. And from those three entries I've read about him with a needle and loving the drugs. I don't think I want to read anymore of that one. That diary seems like it's dark. I wouldn't be surprised if it were though. 87 was a bad year for the both of us.

[taztaas]

Come Home

Characters: Magnus, Taako & Kravitz Implied Magnus/Julia & implied Taakitz

MIND THE TAGS! Character death, suicidal intention, self-destructive behavior, eating issues, depression, modern AU, angst, hurt/comfort

Magnus can’t believe he’s back here. Back home. Or what used to be home. He isn’t sure where or what home is anymore. He pushes the gate open before he loses his nerve.

Leaving was easy, in a way. He had a plan. He wasn’t going to come back. There was nothing left to hold on to, or that’s how he felt. How he still feels.

Like he’s about to jump off a swing or something, but he knows the cruel reality that there’s nothing and no one waiting to catch him.

Coming back is…

It feels like acceptance. No, like resignation. Like he’s admitting it happened, and in a way he is, but he still doesn’t want to believe it.

Everything is harder now, difficult. The smallest things require an insane amount of effort.

At least the breathing got easier, in time. Though the sky still looks gray to his eyes, instead of blue.

It’s dark out and it’s definitely past midnight though Magnus can’t remember the last time he looked at the time. His phone has been turned off for at least a week. He isn’t sure. Time got kinda fuzzy after…

After.

Pretty much everything turned fuzzy and Magnus isn’t sure what it feels like when things aren’t that way. He can’t remember.

The windows of the house cast squares of light on the lawn. They remind him of searchlights for some reason. Like someone’s just waiting for him to come closer and target him with the lights. Reveal him, what’s left of him for the whole world to see. He feels ashamed for what he’s done but at the same time, he feels like nothing.

The worst thing that could happen has already happened. There’s nothing left that could shake him.

The front door slams open and Magnus realizes he’s been trudging up the path leading to it. Slowly but surely, without conscious effort.

He blinks against the sudden brightness. There are two people silhouetted in the yellow rectangle. He doesn’t have time to figure out who they are before one of them rushes forward and slams into him. A pair of skinny arms wrap around his shoulders.

“I missed you, you stupid piece of shit,” Taako says and Magnus would smile if he wasn’t so tired of everything. He hugs Taako back and thinks he’s gotten even thinner.

“Have you been eating?”

“Fuck you,” Taako says into his shoulder, then steps back. Magnus looks at him and thinks his eyes look a little too shiny, a little too red around the edges.

“Kravitz got a cat,” Taako says, “It’s fuckin’ terrible.”

Magnus understands immediately that Taako loves the cat. He looks at Kravitz, still standing in the doorway. He offers a little wave.

Out of the blue, Taako punches him the arm. Magnus jumps, glares at Taako and rubs his arm. Taako’s got sharp knuckles and the hit actually kind of hurt.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Taako hisses and oh, now he looks absolutely livid, instead of sad and tired. Magnus wants to get angry, wants to yell at Taako but finds that he is still too sad and tired. His exhaustion is bone-deep.

“My girlfriend died, Taako,” Magnus says quietly, needlessly. Like everyone doesn’t already know that Julia died. A week ago. A month ago? A lifetime ago.

“But you’re still alive, you idiot!”

“Taako,” Kravitz calls quietly because Taako sometimes forgets to take the feelings of others into account before he opens his mouth.

Taako whips around and stomps back in the house before Magnus sees if his expression has changed. Magnus follows because, at this point, he doesn’t exactly have a choice.

Magnus notices something when Taako is fully under the light.

“Is that my shirt?”

“Not anymore, asshole!” Taako yells over his shoulder, walks into a room and disappears from sight.

Magnus pauses at the threshold and looks at Kravitz. He looks tired but he smiles at Magnus anyway.

“Glad you’re home, Magnus,” he says, even though they aren’t that close. Magnus suddenly feels a lump in his throat. He can’t stop himself from throwing an arm around Kravitz’s shoulder and pulling him into a hug.

Kravitz stiffens and Magnus realizes he’s never seen Kravitz be physically close with anyone but Taako. He’s about to pull away and apologize when Kravitz lifts up his arms and hugs him back. It’s quick and awkward, but his hand lingers on Magnus’ shoulder after.

“Welcome back,” Kravitz says, grinning, and Magnus picks up the sound of Taako banging around the kitchen and realizes he’s hungry. He’s starving. When was the last time he ate?

“I’m home,” he says and tries to grin back. He hopes that too will get easier, in time.

[beerecordings]

I can’t help but think of if Anti ever does come back to reclaim his puppet, that JJ would be so absolutely terrified of the involuntary relief he feels. He’s been so scared of him coming back for so long that now that he’s back it feels like he doesn’t have to be on edge anymore. He’s been teetering on the edge of cliff and this is what begins his free fall to the ground.

wanting Anti back is another form of suicidality and he knows it

but it’d be a lot easier than being alive

so maybe Anti comes back and he’s just this keening noise at the end of a hallway, this glitch at every corner of your vision, this silhouette moving forward without moving at all, and screens are shattered across the house. Jackie screams and grabs his brothers, yanking them towards the back door, but JJ is still standing in the middle of the hallway, slack, entranced, trying to get up the strength to move.

“Hey, baby,” purrs Anti, creeping forward like oil. “Hey, puppy, you missed me?”

“JJ, come away,” howls Jackie, dashing back towards him to grab his arm. “J, J, come back to me, man! Anti, stay the fuck away! Stay the fuck away from him!”

Jameson shivers and grabs Jackie’s tugging hand, staying firmly planted between the walls of the house, and Jackie swears ferociously, but he isn’t about to leave him alone.

“Come here, honey,” says Anti.

He is just a shadow, a shadow through the whole hall, consuming every light until only Jackie’s remains, a ball of gold clutched in his hands and his little brother tucked under the other, Jackie’s light and a pair of red eyes, unembodied, glowing though the darkness.

“Come here and I’ll even let your big brother go. Come here, it’ll just be the two of us again, and things will be easy. Things will be easy. All you have to do is sleep... and sleep... and sleep.”

And you know, he could go. He could. And the thing is, Anti’s probably not lying. He knows that. He’s slept through weeks and weeks before, and then he’s left back at the house, to eat and wait and read and sleep some more, waiting for the next time Anti needs him. Somehow it’s both excruciatingly painful and very very easy. Jackie wouldn’t have to risk his life for him ever again, Marvin wouldn’t have to sit by his side, Chase wouldn’t cry when he cried, and Henrik would never waste gauze and energy on him. It could just be over.

He closes his eyes, feeling numb from his own body. Distantly, he sees his family, sees his home. Birthdays with everyone eating pizza on the couch, holidays chasing Marvin around town, everyone buying him socks with fun patterns on them because they know he loves them, the hummingbirds in the feeder outside his window, Marvin’s forest, his paintings and charcoals, the forget-me-nots he got to sprout in the garden, the people at swing dance and the football field, the library, the church that’s always so quiet and so sweet-smelling, his hair growing healthy, his face filling up with color and his eyes clearing, his bones disappearing beneath the weight he’s gained, the warm hands of his brothers wrapping around him in a hug, the only thing that feels real at the end of long, long, exhausting days, surviving despite everything, surviving despite it all -

This is his fucking life.

In a split second, the stiffness is gone from his limbs, vanished with the despair, and he reaches into the vest that he bought for himself and draws out a knife meant for throwing and sends it spinning through the air in a whirl of light, and if Anti screams for the touch of burning silver, Jameson does not hear - he is already sprinting down the hallway towards the back door, pulling Jackie along with him, fleeing the darkness, fleeing his own anguish, and running away was never, in the history of mankind, so much an act of courage as it was in that moment.

And later, when they have finally stopped running, when they are finally away, Jackie sucks in a huge breath through his panting, and darts forward to grab him, pulling him off his feet and into a hug, screaming hoarsely, “that’s my boy, goddamn! That’s my baby brother, oh, I knew you had it in you, that’s my JJ! This kid is a fucking fighter! My brother’s a fucking fighter!” and all he can do is hug him back, flailing for purchase in the air and laughing hard, shaking too, but safe for now, safe for now, fighting still, fighting for his life.

Jackie sobs against his chest and they hold on to each other for a long time.

Fuck the relief of Anti. Fuck the edge of this goddamn cliff. He secures a lifeline and holds on for dear life.

Dear, incredible, fantastic, exhausting, wild, worthwhile life.

“I’m really glad you didn’t go with him,” whispers Jackie, setting him back down on solid ground.

“Yeah,” signs JJ, setting his head against his shoulder, breathing deep. “Yeah, me too.”