#it's so mournful and bittersweet and it fits these two so well

[snowthatareblack]

His Sunshine

TW: mentions of death and dying, mourning, emotional pain, spoilers for one of the endings of ADWD (Despondent), spoiler of Grim's real name.

Inspired by: Die With A Smile, and The Night We Met. (So I recommend you listen to either one or both of these songs while reading!)

wc: 600+ words

The grim reaper had gotten used to the way the souls of mortals would glow and shine, the way the soul ember would float to his hand like a magnet once he had reaped their lives, the way that when the time comes when a mortals soul would leave their body, there were the rare percentage of bodies that would simply be reduced to ashes, that would blow in the wind and fall to the ground.

That was the grim reaper's job. He was death. He knew it.

And yet he would never get used to and forget the way his Sunshine had looked up at him, with a smile on their face, as the soul in their body slowly dwindled out, like a small fire weakly losing it's life and light.

“You win.” They had said, both the grim repear and his Sunshine knew this was it, this was the end of their bet, his Sunshine was dying. And that would mean he would win the bet.

He remembers how they were scared, not of death, not of dying, not of him, the grim reaper, but of leaving. Leaving their pet alone, leaving their life behind, leaving him behind?... And yet they had that smile on their face, the smile that he would always see through their video calls, the smile that would tease him all the time, making him- though he would never ever confess this in his ever immortal life- flustered and feel something, something different and new and weird.

The way their smile would come out as they laughed at their own jokes and the conversations that they had, the way it would make him feel, in awe and happy and make himself, smile as well. The way their smile, that goshdamn smile, was still on their face now, as they looked up at him with shining tears in their eyes, it was the same ever smile, and yet this last one was the most bittersweet.

Casper was crying, with his Sunshine, in his arms, painfully losing the light that lives inside of them, even though they represent light themselves. “Life is unfair. The only fairness is in death.” Is what he remembered saying. But now all he had was fear. Fear of losing them. Fear of losing his Sunshine. He was scared of losing his first and only love ever.

Because how could death be fair if it was taking away his one and only person forever?

“And, Casper?” They whispered lowly to him, he didn't even have to close his eyes and concentrate on the connection between them to know it was unraveling. The tug no longer being fully there anymore, just a distant spiritual touch despite the physical contact they were having in his Sunshine's last moments.

Even with his vision completely blurry, full of his tears that were streaming down his face without mercy nor bashfulness, they still looked absolutely captivating as ever.

“I... Think I really like you too—” And then they stopped. Frozen, but still with that sweet sweet smile on their face.

As their body started to fall apart and fall into bits because their soul was shattering in their body, the fractures spreading everywhere, inside and out. But instead of disintegrating into ashes like all the other mortals and souls Casper had reaped before, theirs glowed.

They floated in the air and shined like the light and life they were to him, every bit of them, slowly becoming the Life that they themselves have represented and was. They were like the sun, his Sunshine.

(Hello everyone on Tumblr! I am Snow and Casper has singlehandedly brought me back from my years of writers block hahaha, this was also inspired by one of my posts before about Despondent, one of the two bad endings in ADWD. Sorry if this might've been seen as rushed, especially the ending, but I feel like this all fits together in the end and for the possible typos. Thank you for reading!)

[dawn-moths]

"Epitaph"

Undertaker x Female Reader

word count: 15,900+

(requested by @anxious-chick // After running into the mysterious guest known as “Undertaker” at several of Rachel and Vincent Phantomhive’s weekly parties, the two of you eventually take an interest in one another, even if your part in that begins as somewhat reluctant. However, over time, as you grow more comfortable around one another, you find perhaps there's a reason you two were destined to meet, starting with the fact that he's the first one to show you physical touch isn't something to be afraid of.)

disclaimer/content warning: 18+ content! minors dni! plot heavy in the beginning (sort of slow burn) with smut at the end, loss of virginity, best way i can describe this is like a one-sided reluctant acquaintances to lovers lol, bittersweet ending, some mentions of drinking/alcohol.

*ao3 mirror*

***

The cemetery beyond the mortuary was empty at this time of night, the small, early morning hours just beginning to creep over the horizon, staining the dark velvets of night with a fine veil of ghostly greys, the moonlight breaking through the thick shield of clouds overhead. Through the latticed windows of the kitchenette, silver beams slipped through the glass to lay on the cool tile floor, the table by the sill where you used to sit and read your mystery novels now overgrown with houseplants.

It was all he had left of you— ferns and pothos and calatheas.

Houseplants, and the loop of your hair that was preserved behind the glass of his mourning lockets.

Out of the countless bodies he’d seen through death, tended to and prepared to be placed perfectly in their eternal resting place, you had been the most beautiful and the most heartbreaking.

It had been years since he’d shed even a single tear over one of the deceased— decades— maybe even over a century— but for you, after all this time, he guessed he still had a few lingering shreds of humanity left in his crypt of a heart after all. No matter how far he tried to bury his grief, his mourning, your passing had finally been the thing to unearth it.

Standing before your headstone beneath the kitchen window, facing the direction of the setting sun, your favorite time of day, tracing the letters of your name with his sullen chartreuse gaze, slivers of emerald slipping through the gaps of his curtain of silver bags, he just let the tears fall. If anyone else had been around to see, they would’ve never believed the funeral director was actually crying over one of his corpses.

But you had been so much more than just a body, once upon a time. It haunted him to think one day he might be the only soul left to remember you’d even existed at all. But then again, those were all memories he still held dear. He could recall them as if they’d occurred only yesterday, could see the curve of your profile from across the room, feel the way the dip of your waist fit perfectly into his palm, hear the lilt of your laugh, able to amuse you with anything he said if he really wanted to once he’d finally deciphered your sense of humor.

Those days were over for you now, but he could still relive pieces of them, their echo reverberating through his mind as soon as he plucked the first string on one. No matter how melancholy the tune, the melody was still just as sweet.

Strolling away from your resting place, venturing further into the garden of graves that lay beyond, he began to hum a quiet song to himself, one he’d heard time and time again back when you two had first fallen into each other’s orbit. Despite the sadness, it made him smile. He wished he would’ve asked to dance with you sooner, danced with you more, once he’d finally gotten the chance.

He could almost feel the waltz welling within him, doing a turn and imagining your hands clasped with his, twirling you gracefully, allowing you to unravel just far enough to give the illusion of breaking away only to return to him, wearing that mischievous smile he so adored.

How he longed to revisit those nights in more than just his memories— the mysterious gatherings, the lavish parties, no matter what menagerie of wealthy, well-bred guests were in attendance, his interest always locking in on you.

But even he couldn’t have guessed, back then, that he would’ve ever grown so attached as to weep for you once you were dead…

***

It had all began at one of the Phantomhive’s illustrious, notorious nighttime banquets, each and every guest hand picked and carefully curated, placed strategically within the mansion’s hosting perimeter, down to the seating arrangements at dinner and the order in which the carriages arrived to deliver you all home at the end of the event.

The first few times you’d been invited, you hadn’t a clue why you were there. Because what could Vincent and Rachel Phantomhive possibly want to do with a local news column writer such as yourself? They’d barely spoken to you upon your arrival, too busy mingling with the more important guests, but as you’d awkwardly skirted the corners of the room, the neglect had given you the opportunity to do what it was you were best at.

Survey the crowd.

People watch.

Discover the strengths and weaknesses of your fellow party-goers all while remaining anonymous and tucked away into the shadows.

It was how you’d quickly began to rise through the ranks of the journalists at your press department, sniffing out mysterious stories and the savage truths behind them before anyone else even had the chance to pick a direction to start in.

To yourself, you thought it just made you a good journalist. To others, it made you dangerous.

And if anyone besides the hosts of the evening knew just exactly how lethal you could become with a pen and notepad in your hand, they’d all be anxiously vying to convince you they weren’t like other arms dealers and black market traders or any other less-than-ethical variety of underworld rat skittering through London’s secret mazes.

But that had all been a part of Vincent and Rachel’s plan. Have you stir things up just enough to have the vermin scatter, then all they’d need to do would be to divert them towards the trap.

By the fifth time you’d accepted their ominous invitation— why you kept returning despite the uneasiness it all gave you, you weren’t sure, other than your innate curiosity and just so happening to have most nights free from your busy work schedule— your hosts had finally found it appropriate to introduce themselves to you personally.

Even before you’d begun attending the parties, seen the infamous Phantomhive’s with your own eyes, you’d heard the rumors— not just of their wealth, but of their beauty as well.

Rachel and Vincent both bore striking appearances. They had this air about them, something you just couldn’t put your finger on, that made you both weary and trusting of them on sight. Like a siren singing from a rock near the shore, they lured you in with their elegant charms, but get too close and you’d find yourself drowning.

“Ah, there she is,” Vincent had said as he and his wife gracefully approached you. “The woman of the hour. Welcome, welcome.” You gave them a respectful courtesy, bowing your head and clutching your skirts, hoping to hide how your hands had begun to shake, your nerves getting the better of you.

“Thank you for having me,” you replied, trying to sound actually grateful instead of skeptical. You were going to keep your confusion to yourself, just let it go and enjoy being able to attend while it lasted, but then something inside you decided against it and you asked, “But— and excuse me if this is out of turn— why, exactly, have I been invited…?”

Rachel and Vincent both laughed and, for a moment, all air of intimidation seemed to disappear from them. Until they’d looked at each other, then looked back at you, smiling like cats who’d just caught a mouse and intended on teasing the poor creature for a bit before sinking its fangs down into the rodent’s throat.

Vincent leaned in, close enough to make you flinch, close enough to raise a slight heat into your cheeks. “Because, my dear journalist…” he’d whispered, “Rachel and I have a very important favor to ask of you.”

The favor in question, as it turned out, was more so a job. The Phantomhive’s couldn’t be discovered as double agents or else their entire cover operation would be blown, so naturally they sought out second hand services. But your willingness to spy on their guests for them didn’t come for free. They’d never even dream of inferring that you work without compensation of some kind. So, in exchange for your services, they were willing to put in a good word for you at the top newspaper in all of London.

“Just take your pick of the columns,” Rachel had said with a sly wink. “Any one your heart desires, do this for us and it shall be yours.”

At first, it almost seemed, and felt, too good to be true. But you were tired of getting stuck with the inane, mundane, and oftentimes completely domestic stories handed off to you by the other men at the office. If you came in with a headline worthy story, it was always one of them who got to claim it, making you do all the work only to sign it off with their name, as if any one of them could ever even hope to be half the writer— half the detective— you’d been with half the time in the game.

It was tempting, though, what was it they said about temptation again? Something about surrending to it in case it never came your way again?

Perhaps that was the reason you’d been so inclined to accept their offer in the end. Because, if they really were the sirens you suspected them to be, this opportunity felt like a liferaft tossed out to sea. You’d already made the mistake of drawing too close to the beast. Now all you could do was grasp onto the first thing that could help you escape the icy waters unscathed.

So, from there on out, every event of theirs that you attended you made sure to stay diligent, deceptively demure as you shied away from the thickest crowds, wearing clothes that looked nice enough to blend in but not so extravagant as to be the center of attention, your hair fixed into an elegant, albeit modest updo, always seeming to be holding a glass of whatever alcohol was being served that night that never found itself empty. Although, unlike most of the other guests, that wasn’t because the servants kept coming around to refill it. You had to stay focused, so, raising the rim of the crystal to your lips, you merely pretended to drink, yet another way to blend in.

However, despite the fact your eye for booking someone as shady or salacious was a very sharp, very skilled one, there had been one guest that, no matter how hard you studied him, how carefully you watched, gave nothing— absolutely nothing— away as to why he belonged in the room among the rest of the guests.

You were supposed to be the secret outlier, you thought, and the man’s presence haunted you from one week into the next. By your second soiree as a spy, you’d already gathered ample information on the ones you’d deemed guilty, still keeping a watch on the others out of the corner of your eye while you continued trying to dig a deeper hole for the rats to fall in, but at the end of that night drifting around the manor like your own kind of phantom, you still came up empty on your mystery man.

Until the very end, just as you were about to head out to the carriage arranged to take you home.

“I must say, Vincent,” his gravelly voice sounded from a little further into the main foyer, the remnants of a laugh fading off the end of his words, “If the Queen knew her watchdog had such a sense of humor, I think she’d prefer to take you on as her personal entertainer instead.”

You stopped, pretending to search your purse for something as you listened in.

The Earl let out a devious chuckle of his own, going on to reply, “Yes, but if I did that, then who would be around to entertain you, Undertaker?”

You clasped your purse shut with a muted click and continued towards the carriage. For tonight, you had all you needed. And though it was just a title, barely even a name to know him by, the moment you got home and scribbled down the ten letters of Undertaker onto your growing web of information gathered from these parties, you could already sense that he was the key to the biggest mystery you’d been faced with yet.

***

Though you couldn’t see his eyes through the thick silver curtain of his hair, from across the room you knew— could practically feel it as a fresh wave of chills spiked up your spine— that Undertaker was staring straight at you. You stared back, lips slightly parted as your next breath caught halfway up your throat, his silent acknowledgment of you making you feel suddenly naked, vulnerable under his recognition.

He offered you a mischievous crack of a smile, all teeth, and a playful, waggling wave of his black-nailed fingers. You felt your cheeks heat, feeling startlingly self-conscious, though not entirely sure why, and turned to excuse yourself to the nearest washroom to collect yourself.

Staring down your reflection in the mirror, you reminded yourself why you were here. To investigate. To uncover. To expose. Not just for the promotion that had been generously promised to you, but for the sake of the common good as well. Or, at least, that’s one of the stories you’d started telling yourself to make your duplicity to all the people who you’d pretended to enjoy the company of a little less guilt-tripping.

Besides, the Phantomhive’s also knew you couldn’t resist a cause where injustice was being done, and while it sort of made you sick to watch this group of miscreants chatting and laughing like they’d never harmed the orphaned or the sick or the poor week after week, you knew, in the end, their evil would not prevail.

Resolute in your mission here once again, you exited the washroom, intending to migrate back into the lion’s den, when all of a sudden that familiar, bone-chilling voice sounded from behind you, making you flinch.

“You know…” Undertaker began, who’d been leaning against the nearest wall before pushing off with one shoulder to lessen the gap between you, the layers of black fabric he wore lightly billowing behind him with each heel-to-toe step. His arms were crossed, and his shadow began to creep over you, seeming as if it could swallow you up at any moment. But still he wore an amused grin like he was about to tell a charming joke and was simply awaiting the perfect moment to deliver the punchline. He continued, “The guest list of these parties changes every week, yet, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, there are only ever two who get invited every single time…”

You had noticed that actually, keeping the little tidbit of information close to your chest, sometimes purposely acting like it was your first time attending such a gathering if you noticed the roster was entirely fresh, but he was right.

The only other person besides yourself who graced the Phantomhive manor on a weekly basis, other than the Phantomhives themselves, of course, was the silver shadow known as Undertaker. The man had been nearly as elusive and calculating as you had thus far, but now, it seemed, he wished to show part of his hand.

Undertaker cocked his head to one side, seeming to study you through the shaggy fringe concealing half his face like a mask, and said, “Sort of odd, don’t you think?”

And it really wasn’t his sudden and unexpected presence that had caught you so off guard. You were used to potential targets confronting you, whether to try and scare you off from a possible story they were at the root of or convince you there was nothing to see here. This, however, was different. Because the increased pounding of your heart and the sudden loss for words didn’t seem to be out of fear, but, perhaps, out of the kind of flustered intrigue that comes with finding a stranger very, very attractive.

“I, uh…” was all you had time to say before Vincent Phantomhive was approaching from down the hall, seemingly with something urgent to discuss with Undertaker, giving you a smile and a nod as if to say keep up the good work before he and his guest continued down the hall and disappeared around the next corner, all that black fabric fluttering in his wake.

You spent the remainder of the night distracted, off your game, growing frustrated with yourself and with him for having your thoughts interrupted by that shining scar that cut diagonally across his pale face, the lilting hum to his tone that had indicated something you didn’t even dare explore, even within the confines of your own imagination, and all those long strands of silver that looked like threads spun from moonlight.

Needless to say, you didn’t gather much intel that night, and you were honestly just counting down the hours until it would be time for you to go home. But as each guest departed, one after another, their carriages formally announced to be awaiting them, something else strange and rather off-script happened to you.

Normally, you were among the middle group to say your thank yous and goodbyes to the hosts before exiting through the grand entrance, heading down the curved double staircase before being whisked away back into the grey-toned city. But tonight, after watching the last of the guests thank the Phantomhives for their glittering hospitality and departing the manor, you found you were the final guest that remained.

You, and, much to your dismay, surprise, and general curiosity, Undertaker as well.

You were sure your carriage would be pulling up any moment now, and so you hung close to the doors to search out the horse pulling it through the dark. You hoped this served as an indicator you wished to be left alone with your own thoughts, but, alas, that looming shadow of a man who’d suddenly and quite unexplainably taken an interest in you was hovering by your side again like a crow waiting for you to drop some crumbs.

“Do you think it’s true?” he unceremoniously prompted, voice hushed to a low, sultry whisper, making the thin hairs on the back of your neck rise with suspense.

You cast him a glance over your shoulder, trying to act indifferent and completely unbothered. “Do I think what’s true?” you asked, an edge of irritation splicing through your forced boredom.

Undertaker breathed out a knowing chuckle, something from beneath his wide sleeves clinking and chiming together lightly before he applied more pressure to silence it. He then cleared his throat and said, “This place, they say it’s haunted, you know.”

“And?” you pressed, and though you were trying to make it seem like you couldn’t have cared less, your skin was crawling with the anticipation to know more, more, more.

“And,” he mimicked, leaning in a little closer to you, testing to see how far you’d let him invade your personal space, “do you think it’s true?”

You turned to face him, scrutinizing him now, a crooked mask to hide your true intrigue, wanting nothing more than to reach up and gently push his bangs away from his eyes just to discover what color they were beneath the curtain that so carefully protected that information. You wanted to trace the lines of his scars, especially the one wrapped around his neck like a collar, a chain, a reminder of something horrific he’d once endured, and learn the story behind every single mark.

You wanted to learn his name, his true one, not just his job description or whatever morbid title Vincent had given him as part of some kind of inside joke they shared.

You opened your mouth to say something— what, you weren’t entirely sure— but just then, the feeling in the air seemed to change, an energy charged in the small space between your bodies, the scent of a storm carrying on a breeze, an invisible electricity sparking through you, lacing through your bones and frizzling your brain.

“They say sometimes you can feel them touch you,” Undertaker continued, and for a moment, just a mere hair of a second, you swore you could see a glint of light shimmering from behind his bangs, a flash of emerald here and then gone again before your eyes could even register the color. “They say it’s heavy, and cold as ice, like a stone lifted from a freezing sea, the sensation coming and going as quick as a breath in a winter’s breeze…”

The first time his pale, cold hand had brushed against the dip of your waist it had already been too late. His long, lithe fingers had lingered there for but a moment, just long enough to allow the shape of his touch to drape itself upon your body, the memory of it a thrilling, frightening thing. But when you’d flinched away, drawn in a sudden, sharp gasp under your breath, he retracted. Still, despite the new distance put between you two, he wore that mischievous smile, his broad shoulders shivering with the containment of some kind of mean laughter.

It was then that your carriage arrived, the Phantomhives’ butler announcing this to you, but just before you could turn and leave, Undertaker said, “Remember, miss journalist, sometimes the answers to our biggest questions are found in the things we can’t see…” as he slinked back off into the dark, leaving you standing in the center of the foyer alone.

If you hadn’t seen Vincent interact directly with him just earlier that evening, you would’ve deduced that he was the very spirit he’d warned you of, but then, about halfway home as the carriage traveled over the country’s uneven terrain, you realized something even more terrifying.

You’d never told him you were a journalist. The Phantomhives had assured you that no one besides themselves were to know, lest your cover and this whole operation they’d gotten you involved with be blown.

It kept you up at night, his words, his scars, his touch. But now you had an entirely new mission, one that was all your own.

And that was to discover just exactly who, or perhaps, what, this man called Undertaker truly was.

***

Some time passed before there was another party, what with the celebration of the Phantomhives’ sons’ birthdays and the Christmas holiday falling a little under two weeks apart. But, with the arrival of the New Year of 1885 quickly approaching, you weren’t surprised when you received yet another one of the crisp, cream and gold colored invitation cards in the mail announcing a grand celebration event at the manor.

This would be the biggest crowd you’d hidden amongst thus far, though, surely, you thought, the Phantomhives didn’t intend for you to be working too hard on such an occasion? Besides, you’d already turned in the extent of information you’d been able to gather on their people of interest. As far as you were concerned, this case, or at least your part in it, was closed. They’d already assured you they’d hold up their end of the deal as soon as you chose your desired position at the new press company you’d be working at come the new year too. Now, all you had to do was sit back and relax as the hours ticked down until midnight.

At least, that’s what you would’ve been able to do if not for the incessant appearance of him.

All night, Undertaker seemed to trail you like a shadow. No matter how many times you tried to slip out of one room and into another unnoticed, tuck yourself within a new crowd, folded between different nobles, it was only a matter of minutes until you looked over and saw his pale figure swathed in layers of black. A few times, he even dared to give you one of those cheeky grins and teasing waves, as if tormenting you was his most favorite game, and every time you met the gesture with a huff of a frustrated sigh and a swift turning on your heel, heading off to pick at the many food options set up around the different rooms or grab another drink as a servant carrying a tray of them passed by, not pretending to sip this time but actually allowing yourself to indulge.

But you should’ve really known by now that showing your back and trying to ignore him was probably your worst bet at actually being left alone. He was like a naughty child, continuously doing that which would get him the most reaction or attention, despite the consequences. And, like the tired parent who would do just about anything to get the child to behave, you eventually caved in and gave him exactly what he wanted.

“What?” you asked, walking right up to him where he was leaning against a wall, your arms crossed and attempting to wrestle your features into a look of grim displeasure rather than fluster-fueled nervousness. It was like a spell had suddenly been released into the air once you two were standing face to face, your prior agitation slowly but surely melting away until all you could focus on was the way his silver hair caught the dim light and those scars that just barely peeked out from his collar and curtain of bangs as if too shy to properly say hello.

“Good evening to you too, miss journalist,” he sarcastically greeted, though you detected no hint of malice, merely an air of teasing charm. Instead of irking you that time, the sentiment made your cheeks heat. You pretended to cough and look away, hoping it wasn’t showing too clearly on your face. He gestured to the party encircling you both, an endless, overlapping barrage of laughter and conversation filling the room, and asked with a slight raise to his voice, “What a wonderful way to ring in the new year, don’t you agree?”

Frankly, you realized you were still far too sober to be in this situation right now, but when you searched the room for any more of those silver trays holding flutes of bubbling liquid, you found, for once, there were none in sight.

“Listen,” you said, lowering your voice despite the loud chatter that tried to drown it out, clearly still in the investigation mindset despite your earlier resolution to enjoy a night away from work, “let’s just stop with the smalltalk. Off the record, why don’t you just tell me what it is you want and why I have to be a part of it?”

When he found it appropriate to laugh at this notion, one of which you were sincerely serious about, you found yourself flaring more towards anger than intrigue. “What’s so funny?” you hissed, suddenly wanting nothing more than your own shadow to hide inside of when you glanced around and noticed a few other party-goers trying to listen in on your conversation. You were used to coveting and collecting gossip, not being the source of it.

But Undertaker seemed largely undisturbed by the growing sets of eyes landing upon your shared corner of the ballroom, flicking one black-nailed finger beneath the hem of his fringe to wipe away a tear of amusement before replying through a chuckle-laced breath, “You are, my dear. Simply hilarious.”

Wanting to turn and stalk away from him again, you resisted the urge, now determined to beat him at his own game, the rules of which you still weren’t entirely clear on. “Oh, so you like jokes then?” you baited, a smirk beginning to curve up on your lips now. “Well why didn’t you just say so? How about you and I make a deal then?” At this, Undertaker’s expression turned comically inquisitive, regarding you with a new kind of focus, his silence prompting you to continue. “If I can tell you something funny enough to make you laugh before the end of the night, you leave me alone after that.”

“And if you lose?” he posed, beginning to circle you until it was your back towards the wall instead, a hunter closing in on its prey. “What do I get if I win?”

You took a moment to think about that. You didn’t have much to give, if you were being honest. So you made the mistake of asking him, “What do you want?”

The smile that carved across his pale features then sent another one of those cold, electric shivers down your spine, and instantly you regretted allowing him so much freedom in choosing his prize. Tapping his chin with a finger as he pretended to sort through his options, he quickly and proudly settled on, “How about you have dinner with me?”

Aghast, you truly didn’t know what to say. Wanting to play it cool, not show how ridiculous the idea seemed to you when stated so shamelessly out of the blue, your throat bobbed with a particularly hard swallow and your voice shook slightly as you began to say, “That’s really what you want?”

Undertaker nodded, his smile not faltering. “That’s what I want.”

Not happy with the consequences but still clearly up for the challenge, you steeled your expression and agreed with a semi-confident, “Alright then. All I have to do is make you laugh before the clock strikes twelve,” and then I’ll never have to be bothered by you again. Should be easy, if he thought you were so hilarious without even trying.

However, as you searched the far corners of your mind for a joke or anecdote you thought would knock him out on the first try, you suddenly found your temporary confidence dying like an ember fading out in its hearth. You resided in the world of logic and facts, not entertainment and tomfoolery. You had a sense of humor, sure. Someone in your line of work had to, once in a while, lest they go mad when constantly being reintroduced to the bleakest parts of humanity.

Finally, you recalled a particular story that you’d nearly cried at upon hearing the first time, you’d laughed so hard. Surely, this was the one. You remembered it perfectly too, only, the further you ventured into telling it without so much as a twitch of a smirk appearing at the corner of Undertaker’s lips, the more you began to sense that you’d been lured right into a trap.

“Amusing,” he stated, monotone and mocking you. “But if you want to win, you’re going to have to do a lot better than that.”

You stood there, staring at him, seething, knowing this had all been according to his plan all along. You figured you could always just find a moment to slip away from the party and into one of the carriages already lined up outside before the new year rang in, perhaps voiding this odd and informal little contract you two had entered into together, but a part of you also knew that, whether a week or a month or a year from now, you’d find yourself faced with him again some way or another. Perhaps it was better to just keep trying even if only to prove to yourself you’d fought instead of running away.

“Oh, don’t worry,” you taunted, some of your indignance slipping through the vengeful grin spreading across your lips, “I’m just warming up.”

Undertaker tapped his wrist, miming where a watch would be, if he wore one, and said, “Tick tock… Only five more hours till midnight.”

And thus the game began.

***

Every hour that passed, with every attempted joke that was told without the desired reaction, the more dejected you began to feel.

And now, with less than half an hour to go, you’d already accepted your imminent defeat.

There had been a few times you could tell he was seriously having to hold back, the promise of a chuckle choked out behind his teeth or a burst of a laugh strangled somewhere deep in his chest before it had time to rise from his lungs. He had a lot more self control than you would’ve originally given him credit for, that much you couldn’t deny, but it almost seemed the brunt of his amusement came from how each attempt you made became more desperate, some of the words leaving your mouth shameful enough to make your mother faint had she been around to hear you say them, digging up the darkest, most shocking lines you’d ever uttered in your entire life.

You were a few drinks over the limit of caring if any of the other ladies in attendance that night heard you saying such depraved things in public, and to a man you barely even knew on top of it all, but one thing was for certain.

Undertaker was cracking.

You’d nearly gotten him on a few of the last ones, suddenly grateful for all the horrid things you’d heard the men exchanging and laughing about in the press office— another place you were used to acting like a shadow within. Though, even if you felt like you were maybe getting closer to winning, your dignity would lose regardless. You felt as if you were stooping to some unacceptable level you’d normally turn your nose up at, behaving in such an undignified way, yet the itch to prove him wrong and reclaim your pride was hard not to scratch, and right now there was only one way to do so.

“You know,” Undertaker said, only fifteen minutes to midnight, “I will admit, you’re really starting to make me regret entering the mortuary field and wishing I’d gone into journalism instead. Do your colleagues truly say such audacious things?” Just then he nearly made himself laugh, though you figured that wouldn’t count.

By now, you had a few cards left to play, having saved your best ones for the final hour, just in case, though that bank had nearly run dry. You had one last ridiculous tale left up your sleeve before you’d truly have to hang your head and admit defeat, and for a moment, you let hope get the better of you. It truly seemed this would be the one to best him, and as you loudly and, thanks to the several glasses of champagne flowing through your veins, very confidently delivered the perfect punchline, you counted the seconds until he’d inevitably burst with laughter and be forced to forgo his mission to unexplainably irritate you.

But he swallowed it down, dousing it with his next and final gulp of champagne, having drank nearly as much as you throughout the night, probably more, yet somehow unaffected, and as he sighed out a satisfied exhale, sans the expected howl of laughter, your expression of victory crumbled down to forlorn.

“Are you kidding me?” you confronted, clearly fed up— with him, mostly, but also with yourself— before you began stammering out a mess of jumbled syllables proclaiming how this entire thing had been rigged in the first place.

“Technically there’s still a few minutes,” Undertaker reminded you, nodding towards the grand clock adorning the mansion’s foyer. “Though if I were you…” he leaned in, so close his lips were practically pressed against your ear, his breath tickling the side of your exposed neck, “I’d just count myself lucky you didn’t wager a kiss at midnight in the case of your defeat.”

Between the warmth of the alcohol and the dizziness those words had just washed over you, you feared for a moment you might faint, your posture suddenly swaying before Undertaker instinctively reached out to help steady you, both his palms pressed firmly to your waist, reminding you of the night he’d tried to spook you with ghost stories and gotten a little too close for your comfort.

Only this time, you didn’t flinch away instantly. Instead, you allowed his hands to stay there for a moment, staring up at him with perhaps the softest expression you’d worn all night. You felt your mouth opening, though again found yourself unsure what you would say, when suddenly, faster than you were ready for, the chorus of counting down the seconds until the new year filled the room and startled you back to reality.

You pulled away from his orbit, smoothing down your skirts with your sweaty palms, and turned your gaze to the smallest hand on the clock, barely mouthing the numbers of the countdown until it was only ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two…

“Happy New Year!” Undertaker chanted, shouting out with the crowd but looking straight at you, as if the celebratory words were meant for only one person in the room. He raised his empty glass your way, wearing one of those sinfully sly smiles, and said, now only loud enough for you to hear, “How’s next Friday at seven sound, hm?”

You could barely understand what he was talking about. You were already too far gone. All you could remember at that point was the sinking feeling of dread laced with a familiar sense of excitement, as if you’d just been the key witness to a very important event and now had the chance to give the first testimony of the case.

But isn’t this what you’d wanted all along? A way to get closer to him and uncover whatever it was he was hiding— because you knew he was hiding something.

Your initial intrigue had never really faded, no matter how much you’d tried to convince yourself you loathed him, that he was insufferable, more trouble than he was worth. But, then again, if it was answers you wanted, it should be easy for you to get them.

You’d always been good at solving mysterious events. How would solving a mysterious person really be any different?

***

You’d upheld your end of the bargain and joined Undertaker for dinner, which had been stranger than fiction but a rather good story to file away for your personal collection. Much to your surprise— and perhaps slightly to your disappointment— things had started and ended with dinner. Just dinner. You’d tried to pry, tried to get him to open up, learn more about him, but somehow he always found a way to seamlessly direct the topic of conversation back around to you.

You’d decided he maybe wasn’t so bad afterall, had even agreed to do it all again sometime. 

But now, a year later, there were no more parties. 

All that had been left in the wake of the once pristine and lively Phantomhive manor was ash and the crumbing, scorched remains that had outlasted the fire. Not even the children had survived, and though you’d only seen them a handful of times as their nanny had led them up the grand staircase by the hand to put them to bed just as the first batch of guests were beginning to arrive, it still made your heart twist with the tragedy of it all.

At least they’re together, you tried to console yourself as you stood before Rachel and Vincent’s graves, your previous hosts reduced to nothing but a matching set of stones sticking out from the cold earth. You wouldn’t exactly have considered them friends, per se, more so something closer to employers, but you couldn’t help it. You’d grown more attached to them than you’d originally intended.

“Do you think it’s true?” a familiar voice suddenly asked from right behind you, making you jolt and turn to face him. You’d already known it was Undertaker, yet, as you tried to meet the glimpse of green you’d once caught shielded behind all that silver, you still found a part of you was surprised to find him standing in the same graveyard, as if having completely forgotten he was, after all, a mortician. 

“Do I think what’s true?” you asked, a slow wave of deja vu rolling through your mind.

“That humans really go to a better place after they die…?” The way he said it, gazing almost longingly down at the tombstones as they lay still and heavy on the frost-laced grass, made you start to see him in a new light. He was holding a shovel in one hand. You realized he’d probably been the one to dig the ditches and then bury the couple six feet deep.

Instead of giving him an answer though, you instead turned your view back to the graves, reading their names, their dates of birth and death, and then, carved beneath the proof that there were indeed people sleeping beneath the slabs, the matching epitaphs marking the smooth stones.

“Potentia Regere…” you repeated, more to yourself than anyone else. “What does it mean?”

Stabbing the shovel’s sharp tip down into the ground, Undertaker simply stated, “Power to rule…” It was the Phantomhive’s motto, in a sense, the latin words appearing on the family’s coat of arms. You were just about to make a comment about how surreal it all seemed, the fact that something that quickly had become so commonplace in your weekly schedule was now no more, but then the gentle clinking of a mysterious sound you’d heard before interrupted your reminiscence.

“What is that?” you asked, searching for the source. When Undertaker gave you a confused look, you clarified, “That sound? I’ve heard it around you before…”

“Ah…” he answered, a small, sad grin cracking on his lips. Then he pulled a brassy strand of several lockets from beneath his coat, the mementos chiming together more aggressively as he dangled them before you. “That would be these.”

As if requesting permission to take a closer look, you shyly cupped your hands out before you, allowing him to settle the chain into your palms for further investigation.

“They’re beautiful…” you sighed, inspecting each one individually, reading the names spelled out in neat cursive scrawl, the different shades of the hair tied into simple loops and pressed beneath the glass. Some of the dates engraved went back far before you were born, and, though his age often presented itself as ambiguous, definitely far before Undertaker could’ve been in this business. Though, instead of inquiring about this curious detail, the journalist part of you always hungry for answers, for the truth, you just swallowed and said, “There’s so many…”

In reply, Undertaker offered, “Well, I’ve known the Phantomhive family for a very long time.”

You handed the lockets back to him, watching as they disappeared back between the many folds of black fabric, and then the two of you stood in silence before the graves for what felt like a long time, the only sound the quiet whisper of the winter breeze.

Without even realizing, you found yourself crying, crystalline tears welling in your eyes, sparkling on the edge of your lashes, and then rolling down your cheeks in pairs. You tried to stay quiet, as if that alone could hide the emotion from the man standing directly beside you. And he wanted to reach out the moment he’d seen the tears welling, toss his shovel to the side and pull you into his chest, just let you cry into all his dark clothing until you had no more tears left.

But he remembered how you’d flinched the first time he’d tried to touch you, withdrawing from his proximity as if it were a plague. So instead, he settled for reaching for your hand, which was clenched into a fist and trembling by your side. That time, you didn’t pull away. Just shot him a sort of terror-struck look before your gaze softened and you used your free hand to cover your mouth, catching the first sobs that escaped through your lips, even giving his hand a squeeze as if to help ease your own pain.

Sensing that, perhaps this time, his touch was actually offering you some comfort, he decided to chance gently pulling you into his side, one long, slender arm snaking across your shoulders and back, hand rubbing up and down your arm as your body continued to shake with sorrow.

“I don’t even know—” you began, voice cracked and broken as you sucked in panicked, gasping breaths, “why I’m crying. I mean— they were— I was— it’s just—”

I know, he wanted to say, giving your shoulder a light squeeze, hoping the message was still delivered despite being unspoken. I know, you’re in pain right now.

And I’m sorry.

Human lives were so fragile. The only thing more delicate were their emotions.

Once you were finally able to catch your breath and calm down a little, you seemed to register his touch and quickly, albeit much more elegantly than before, distance yourself from it, clearing your throat as you settled your stance across from him, unable to meet his eyes— or at least the space that they should’ve been— that time around.

“I suppose we won’t be seeing each other quite as often anymore,” you noted, trying to force a smile, but it just came out crooked and sad. “I know we didn’t start off on the right foot but…” You paused, feeling yourself wanting to hold the rest of your sentiment back but then forcing yourself to say it anyway. “I guess what I’m trying to say is I’m glad we both skirted the edges of those parties before.”

Now you allowed yourself to look up and offer him a new kind of smile, this one bittersweet and almost apologetic. And he could feel you already trying to sever the invisible tie that loosely stretched between you two, the purpose of your shared proximity suddenly gone and therefore pointless.

You were just about to turn and bid him farewell when he spoke, more urgent than you’d heard him yet. He said, “Would you like to join me for some tea?”

You considered him, as if this were another one of his games, a riddle to solve. “Wha— Now?” you asked, as if it were the most preposterous proposition anyone had ever presented you with.

“If now suits you,” he said, trying to regain some of his composure, pulling his coat tighter over his shoulders as the wind picked up. “I can’t say it’s as grand as the Phantomhive manor, but where I live isn’t too far from here.” He smiled again, soft and soothing, as he continued, “Though, I can promise the quality of the tea is just as refined.”

It was his last ditch attempt at making a joke in the current situation and, over the more personal time you’d spent with him, you’d come to gain a new appreciation for his dark sense of humor, so you gave a timid nod and said, “Alright then. Lead the way.”

He dropped the shovel and started walking, you trailing beside him over the stone spotted hills.

***

Undertaker’s living space was indeed a far cry from the luxurious, spanning halls of the Phantomhive manor. It couldn’t even really be considered a house, as far as you could tell. It was, in all honesty, a mortuary practice that just happened to have a small kitchenette and an even tinier bedroom hidden behind a curtain in the back. You supposed it made sense when he’d said he didn’t live far from the cemetery, when that was his workplace. But you didn’t care right now. The tea in the mug between your palms was hot, the aroma sweet as the steam rose from the surface of the liquid, Undertaker generously leaving the small jar of sugar cubes on the table before you to scoop in to your preference.

He was sitting across from you, your legs nearly intertwined under the cramped table, Undertaker more relaxed while you just tried to stay within your own personal space. Again it occurred to him, your aversion to physical touch, and he took a moment to study you, as if tracing the features of your face beneath the thin black netting of the mourning veil or the intricate lace detailing of the collar of your dress— black, to match him for once— could uncover your truth to him, your past.

“Been to a lot of funerals in your time, I imagine…” you commented, suddenly overwhelmed by the pressing silence, the steady ticking of the wall clock unbearably awkward. “If I may ask, what made you choose this line of work to begin with?”

Undertaker took a sip of his own tea, which tonight was bitter and black. It would’ve surprised you to learn he usually stirred several cubes of sugar into his tea, no matter the strength or blend of it. Looks could be misleading, this you knew first hand from all the undercover work you’d done, as well as the many apparently innocent faces that had turned out to be gruesomely guilty. But also, on the opposite hand, some people really did show you exactly who they were right from the start.

You were starting to think maybe he was nestled somewhere in between.

“It’s a solitary kind of life…” Undertaker replied, masking loneliness under a grin. “I suppose, at the time, I was suited to it.” He gave a shrug as he raised the cup to his lips again, like that answer didn’t pave way for a hundred more questions.

“At the time…” you repeated. “Meaning, not any longer?”

You weren’t even sure what the purpose of that inquiry was. Normally, every question you posed was carefully chosen, hand-picked in order to serve a specific purpose that would paint a broader picture of the overall story.

Undertaker’s picture had so far just been one big canvas filled in with black, a few streaks of silver, and a flicker of green. There was no clear shape, no clear narrative, but suddenly, by slipping into something a little more specific, something to fulfill your own personal curiosities rather than that of straightforward facts, it was like you’d decided to take your own brush to an artwork you’d only ever been an observer of.

You were not a painter, but sometimes even an inexperienced hand could craft a masterpiece.

Undertaker’s smile didn’t falter, but something in the lines of his figure tensed, as if you’d shone a light into all that darkness expecting a gruesome beast, only to find there was something vulnerable living inside after all. Something genuine. Something lonely. Something you could relate to.

“How about you answer me something…” he began, pitching his weight slightly forward to lean closer to you over the table, his chin now resting in his palm. “You don’t like being touched…” At first, he said it more as an observation than a question. Then, after allowing discomfort to fill you during the pause, he concluded with a curious and perhaps even slightly sympathetic, “Why?”

At this statement, you felt yourself stiffen. Undertaker didn’t so much as flinch, just continued to consider you as if you were a puzzle he was trying to solve, working through every angle before making his first move. After a while, with you offering no answer or comment to this, he added, “If you’d rather not talk about it—”

Your throat bobbed with a thick, dry swallow, as if you’d just been caught for a crime you’d tried desperately to cover up, like the word GUILTY was branded into your forehead. Your mouth opened and closed and opened again, some excuse or alibi withering and dying on the tip of your tongue. Then you said, “It’s not that I don’t like it, I just…” You were absentmindedly toying with a piece of frayed lace off the hem of your sleeve, searching for a believable story to tell him that wasn’t a complete lie, but also wasn’t the entire truth either. But then you sighed, defeated, and looked him in the eyes, that glint of emerald peeking through, and admitted, “It’s just hard for me. I’m not used to it, it’s… complicated.”

The legs of his chair scraped softly against the uneven hardwood as he leaned in even closer, his arm draped over the surface, palm facing upwards, beckoning you to reach into it, to give him a chance. You glanced from his hand, a scar crossing over the love line etched into his alabaster skin, then back to his face, wishing you felt brave enough to take his invitation, wanting to, but finding the fear of physical contact swelling inside of you like a balloon that was one breath away from bursting.

It was so hard for you to trust. It always had been. Had only gotten harder since you’d entered into your current line of work, all of humanity’s ugliest sides revealed to you on a weekly, sometimes even daily basis. But what did you do when you got scared while chasing a story?

You felt the fear and you did it anyway.

So, hesitantly inching your hand closer to his open-faced palm, merely hovering there for a moment, as if trying to figure out whether this was some kind of trap or not, you finally allowed yourself to make contact, fighting the urge to pull back upon the first flinch of his fingers beginning to curl around your own.

Once his hand had completely closed around yours, it was as if all the tension gathered within your frame burst like a firework, the glittering embers giving way to something uncharted. Something new, and slightly nerve-wracking, but pleasant all the same, once you actually allowed yourself to enjoy it.

Undertaker stroked his thumb along the top of your hand, his long, cool fingers brushing delicately against your soft skin, and you felt your next exhale stutter, eyes threatening to well with tears for an entirely different reason now.

“Perhaps I can show you…” he said, the words merely a whisper on his pale lips, “that there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

When you met his gaze then, it was like seeing him for the first time, both of his emerald eyes on full display, as if he’d just decided you were worthy of his trust, to know and keep his secrets the same as he seemed so intent on knowing and keeping yours.

There was still a small part of you that wanted to protest, that had the urge to pull away and put as much distance between you and him as possible. But that voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a well now, distant and unintelligible. What took over was a voice you’d never heard before, one you didn’t even think you had, and all it was telling you was to allow yourself to fall. That he would be there to catch you when you did.

***

Your breath hitched before his fingers even made contact with your skin, eyes fluttering closed, like you thought not seeing would make accepting what was about to happen any easier.

“I’ve got you…” Undertaker murmured, the cold press of his palm finally reaching your cheek. He gave you a moment, patient with you while you allowed yourself to relax against his touch, your gaze slowly opening and glancing up to meet his eyes. Being this close, you came to realize they weren’t just green, like you’d originally thought, but laced through with a webbing of ambers and golds, a thin ring of teal rimming the edge of each iris. You’d never seen eyes like that before, dangerously entrancing, enticing, and it once again resurfaced the notion that the question wasn’t necessarily who he was, but what.

“See?” he smiled, not a hint of malice or mischief tucked into the corners of his mouth that time, only gentle reassurance. “I’ve got you.”

You placed your hand around his wrist, grip light, just to let him know you wanted a little more time to let this sink in. He was right. There was really nothing to be afraid of. Only, your quick-fire heartbeat still seemed to want to convince you otherwise.

There’s nothing to be afraid of, you kept repeating in your mind, nothing to be afraid of.

You let your view of him slip shut again as he slowly moved his fingers further back to lightly comb through your hair, finding the pin that had been holding it in place and pulling it free, your locks spilling down from the tightly wound coil of a bun that had been perched at the back of your head.

He’d never seen you with your hair completely down, every Phantomhive party that you’d attended making sure to tie it back, keep it out of your way, so you could stay focused on your job and not find yourself fiddling with it. He gently combed his fingers through it, disturbing a few loose knots, smoothing it down and laying it over your shoulders after removing the veiled hat from its place on your head.

“Such a shame…” he remarked, voice still low and soothing. “You’ve been hiding such beautiful hair all this time.” You remembered his mourning lockets, the different shades of strands that had been encapsulated behind the glass. You wondered if anyone would ever grow to love you so much as to always keep a lock of yours on their person. The notion made your lonely heart pulse with a dull ache.

Letting out a stuttering exhale, you now set your view upon the cascade of silver that framed all those black clothes of his, the strands almost sparkling under the low light as they shifted from white to grey and back again depending on how he moved. What you wouldn’t give to be able to carry a strand of it around, secured in a locket and resting against your heart, like capturing a sprinkle of stardust to call your own.

“Can I…” you began to ask, trying to swallow down the slight tremble in your voice as you gingerly reached one shaky hand forward. “Can I touch your hair as well?”

At this, Undertaker let out a silky hum of a chuckle, his long fingers finding the nape of your neck and resting there as he replied, “But of course.”

You let your fingertips brush against the silky silver, threading your fingers through and lightly dragging them down, not a single tangle or knot to be found. You wondered how long it had taken him to grow this much hair, how often he must have to brush it to keep it so pristine, how many others had admired or envied it the very same way you were now.

“Would you like to come closer?” he asked next, catching you a little off guard. You let your hand fall back to your lap, his returning to rest on his knee, and your eyes filled with uncertainty. Then he added, “Only if you’d like, of course.”

You scanned his form, unsure exactly what he meant by come closer, though, based on the way he was sitting, you could only really think of one possibility and the mere suggestion alone was enough to make your cheeks heat and your head spin.

The embarrassment must’ve shown on your face, because a quiet laugh trailed after his next exhale as he assured you, “If that’s too much for you you’re still welcome to sit by my side…” And then, knowing you had a habit of accepting challenges, he added on, voice sultry and only slightly sinister, “Though, if you’re worried about your skirts getting in the way, I’d gladly assist you in removing them and—”

“Oh, just hush for once, will you?” you cut him off, growing a little indignant and far more flustered than before. Even so, you still found yourself standing, eying his lap wearily as you approached, both hands curled into tight fists around your skirts, lifting them a little as you went to settle over the tops of his thighs, having to take purchase on his shoulders for balance halfway through assuming this position.

You’d never been this intimately close with another body before, not since you were very small and your mother had scooped you up in her arms and carried you off to bed, your little legs lightly wrapping around her waist and not wanting to let go, wishing she’d let you sleep in her bed to help keep the nightmares away.

But now, being at this age, in this body, and feeling the press of him as you relaxed with your legs straddling his hips, things were much, much different.

His hands brushed against your waist, hovering there before finally settling, giving you time to adjust to the foreign touch. “Is this alright?” he asked, his voice a mere whisper. “If you need more time, I can—”

“No,” you interrupted, your voice also quiet, forcing your gaze back up to his, as if to defy your hesitance. “No, this is fine. I’m fine.”

“You know,” he murmured, his lips pressed close to your ear, his breath fanning featherlight over the shell of it, and you could practically hear the way he was suppressing a smirk, “I must say, it really is a surprise how a woman as striking as yourself has gone this long without being spoken for. So which is it? Too particular to find the right partner or too spoiled by being overwhelmed with choice?”

You coughed out an abashed chuckle. “No, nothing like that…” you said. Then, falling more somber, “It’s more like… Being alone has just always been so much easier. I don’t have to answer to anyone. I don’t have to pretend. I get to do as a please whenever I please and…” You flashed him a guilty look. “I guess I never saw myself as the marrying type, so…”

Undertaker stared at you, all that chartreuse alight as if finally seeming to uncover what he’d long been looking for. Then his expression softened and he said, “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

Before you had time to think up some kind of rebuttal or rebuke, his fingertips were tracing the hem running up the side of your funeral dress, the dulled touch registering on your hips, then your waist, through your clothes, sending a gentle, ebbing wave of chills over your flesh, a delicate ghost of a gasp just barely sighed through your lips. His other hand came up to caress your neck, thumb brushing tenderly across your jaw, your cheek, allowing you time to decide you enjoyed it and sink deeper into his palm, the cool touch of his skin helping to soothe you.

And then, before you knew it, he was kissing you, taking the rest of your breath away as the hand that had found your waist began to roam, the careful path of his contact curving around to the small of your back, up towards your shoulder blades, your collar bones, down your arm to find the sensitive skin of your inner wrist, brushing against the faint thumping of your wild pulse just to feel the life humming from inside of you.

What surprised you even more was that you were kissing him back, leaning into the warmth of his mouth, chasing his tongue when he playfully tried to pull away, testing to see if you’d follow, if you’d try to seek him out once you got a taste. He let out a low chuckle, putting only enough space between your lips to look you in the eyes, see the way your pupils had blown wide with lust all from some simple touching and kissing alone.

“I wonder…” he murmured, that lilt of mischief stitched back into his tone, “if the other men who attended those parties ever fantasized about having you like this…” He then lightly took your chin between his lithe grip, slowly turning your view to face an old, dusty mirror perched against the wall, exposing the reflection of you straddling his lap, his hands touching you in a way you’d never let another man touch you before, and you felt your entire body catch flame, molten embarrassment welling from within the pit of your stomach and flooding up towards your head, the sudden, stifling heat making you dizzy with desire.

Undertaker sighed a puff of a laugh against the side of your neck before his lips found your throat, sucking a light bruise there, making something within you flutter, arousal flaring to life before settling to a slow, steady roll. And despite wanting to look away, shame halfway to choking you, you couldn’t tear your gaze from the view of your two bodies intertwined like this.

All this time, you’d thought it would be scary, being this vulnerable with someone, giving up that kind of control, but it wasn’t. It was like floating, rising from your body and leaving all the worry behind, allowing your world to become merely yourself, him, and the small, dimly lit room.

It was simple.

It was nice.

And, for once, everything just felt right.

But as his kisses became more messy, more urgent, and his hands were reaching under your skirts to knead at the bit of bare skin available on your upper thigh, his eager fingers hooking under the hem of your stockings, you felt yourself tensing, slipping from the moment as the fear of moving too fast flashed across your thoughts like a lighthouse beacon— just quick enough to warn of the oncoming danger that would befall you if you ventured too close to the rocky shore.

“Is this alright?” he asked, slowing down a little then, and you swore you heard something almost insecure flicker in his voice.

You took in a deep, grounding breath, nodded, and said, “It’s alright… I’ll tell you if it’s not,” and that was all the validation he needed to continue, his cool palms a relief against your heating skin, hands continuing to knead at the plush of your upper thigh, though a little more gently this time, fingertips nearly brushing against where you ran most hot and needy for him, causing a broken whine to escape your throat. Undertaker wondered if you’d ever heard yourself make those kinds of involuntary, beautifully obscene sounds before, if you’d ever pleasured yourself late at night once you finally found yourself alone, or if even the idea of that had been too much for you to bear.

He intended to introduce you to each and every one of your lovely, lustful notes tonight, wanting to discover just exactly what he could do to elicit specific moans or whines. You’d be upset with him if he told you his plan, surely, yet still, he couldn’t help himself.

Similar to how you couldn’t deny yourself a challenge, he had a habit of overindulging himself with his games.

“Wait…” you murmured, pulling away from the cradle of his chest just a fraction. “I want you to…” You swallowed, finding a lump in your throat that stuck like a dry pill, afraid to say what rested on the tip of your tongue. You looked at him through your thick curtain of lashes, almost feeling like you could cry again, so many intense emotions to face in a single day mixing together in your head. “I want you to take my clothes off…” The last half of your request all but withered and died into a pathetic whisper by the time it left your mouth, averting your gaze then.

Part of you expected Undertaker to tease you for your request, to try and rile you just to see the adorable look your face made whenever you were mad at him, but he didn’t. Instead, he hummed out a satisfied note, beginning to strip you of the many layers of your funeral attire one by one until all you were left wearing was your silky underclothes and stockings. He went to remove those as well, but you stopped him before he could, growing bolder in asking for what you wanted when you suggested he let you undress him first.

Unlike you, this was not Undertaker’s first experience with sex. It was, however, the first time he’d allowed someone to see all his scars in the fading daylight, usually preferring to hide them behind the shadows herded in by nightfall and the dimly candle lit rooms of London’s most high-end pleasure houses.

But he supposed this put you both on more equal ground, so he didn’t mind. Plus, he hardly thought you’d find them newsworthy enough to go around sharing to anyone who might ask. He also supposed, like you, he had some things that were complicated to explain too…

“Kiss me…” you sighed, your hands lightly settling back on his shoulders as you now stood mere inches apart, breathing in each other’s oxygen like the thick opium smoke that wastfed though the East End.

That time, neither of you seemed to hesitate. Hitching one of your legs up, a big palm splayed under the back of your thigh to keep it in place over his hip, Undertaker had your back pressed to the wall, the hard length of him that seemed to be growing more impatient by the minute nudging further into you until he couldn’t help but grind against your lace-clad core, pulling one of those delicate, delicious whines from your throat, swallowing it down into his own mouth and trading it for one of his choked-out groans as he pressed his erection even harder against you, both of you hungry— starving— for one another’s bodies by now.

You hadn’t even realized your hand had migrated down between his legs, just barely beginning to cup the bulge of him in your inexperienced little palm, until you felt him twitch beneath his underwear, suddenly gasping and going a little rigid with uncertainty again.

He was kissing you deep, the fervor of it all dying down a little once he sensed your hesitation. “Go ahead,” he panted, holding your chin between his fingers, searching your gaze, pleading with it. “Touch me. It’s ok…”

So you did.

You attempted to stroke what strained through the thin fabric until he just couldn’t take it anymore and reached under the waistband himself to free his cock from its confines, hissing through clenched teeth once it was in his hand, soon passed off into yours.

Truthfully, you were only half sure of what you were supposed to do. You’d heard some of the few ladies you’d grown close to occasionally share— or perhaps overshare— some of the details of their marriages, sex lives included, and whether they were bragging or complaining or just making a comment in jest, you’d picked up bits and pieces here and there throughout the years.

Whatever you were doing though, you seemed to be doing it right, because before long, Undertaker seemed to be losing any composure or control he had left. He braced himself against the wall with his forearm, hunched over you as a thin sheen of sweat began to break out over his pale skin like glazed alabaster, grunts and growls and groans slipping from his lips while you gripped him in your palm, hand sliding easily along his velvety length as more and more of his pearly pre-cum gathered and began to drip down the shaft.

“Fuck—” he swore, and for a moment, you feared you’d hurt him in some way, pausing and looking up at him with an apologetic worry tugging at your features. But then he was smiling at you, chest still heaving with labored breaths, but wearing a glow of pride. He’d meant it earlier when he’d said you kept finding ways to surprise him, but this was on an entirely different level. If he hadn’t already known what you did for a living, he would’ve guessed you hailed from one of London’s aforementioned brothels, the ones that only served the elite or those tied to them.

Though he was sure you still had some things to learn, he was glad he was laying claim to you first.

He’d be lying if he said he’d ever be willing to share you with anyone else after this.

“Don’t look so afraid, my dear,” he cooed, slowly beginning to guide you towards his tiny bedroom nook, your eyes locked on him, trusting he wouldn’t let you trip as you walked backwards, holding his hands to help steady you. “We’re only just getting started…”

Before you knew it, the backs of your knees were hitting the edge of the bed, you collapsing back to the mattress as Undertaker climbed atop you, all that silky silver hair creating a canopy around you as he admired the way you looked splayed out beneath him. It was too bad you were a fragile human, your years so numbered when compared to the countless ones he’d already lived and the countless more he’d experience long after you were gone. He wished there were a way he could keep you like this forever— so beautiful, so his—  but he knew that living souls weren’t as easily frozen in time as things like mementos and photographs.

If only he’d met you a few decades from now. Perhaps by then, he’d have found a way…

Before he could dwell on it for too long though, he became distracted with removing more of your clothes, the last shred of his lost somewhere along the short distance from the kitchen to the bed, and seeing you fully exposed to him now, presented in your rawest, ravishing state, it took his breath away.

He’d seen many bodies in his life, living and dead, only a handful of them on both sides that he’d truly considered stunning. But yours…

Yours was nothing short of divine. 

He wanted to touch every inch of you, learn your figure in a way he’d never forget. He wanted to know that, even long after you were gone someday, he’d still be able to remember the exact shape of your breasts, the raise of your ribs as you drew in breath and the dip of your waist, the soft curve of your tummy and the plushness of your thighs.

He wanted to be able to rewatch this night over and over again in his head, rewinding the film reel until it frayed, each and every frame already burned into his memory.

“Hey…” you spoke, quiet and concerned as you reached up to cup your little palm to his jaw, tracing the line of the scar that cut diagonally across his face by his cheek. “Is something…?”

Before you could utter the word “wrong”, Undertaker cradled his hand over your own, sinking closer into your touch now, soaking in its human warmth, and smiled for a moment, attempting to mask the melancholy behind amusement. “Are you sure you still want to do this?” he asked you, and it was then that any and all lingering uncertainty you had went out like candle flame swallowed by a strong breeze. You nodded, told him you were sure.

A part of you was still scared, but not of him. Just of the unknown.

Feel the fear and do it anyway.

You were choosing to trust him, but once you’d made up your mind about it, there was no going back. That’s just the kind of person you were, the kind of person he’d discovered you to be.

So, trying to help you further relax, he continued to reintroduce you to his touch, discovering the places you liked best and paying special attention there, earning more of those sweet, lilting mewls and whimpers that he’d quickly become so addicted to, until it came time for him to explore the most intimate parts of you, preparing you for what was to come.

“You’re beautiful…” you swore you heard him sigh, your pounding heartbeat drumming in your ears and drowning out the quieter sounds. As soon as he so much as brushed a teasing finger through your soaked folds, still careful to be gentle with you, you let out a choked cry, gripping his biceps for support, needing something— anything— to anchor yourself to.

“Just relax…” he said, voice low and soothing as he applied a little more pressure, spreading your growing slick further around, marveling at the way your sensitive little bud was already pulsing in pleasure, tight hole fluttering in anticipation. But you took a deep breath and tried to follow his instruction, allowing your body to sink further into the mattress. Praising you as he began to massage slow, skillful circles onto your clit, he said, “Just like that… So good, my beautiful girl…”

And then that thick, sticky heat was filling you from the inside again, threatening to spill out. It was unlike anything you’d ever felt before and you didn’t want it to stop. For a moment, you wondered if this was all somehow some sort of very vivid dream, a fantasy, fearing you’d wake up to find you’d never even gone to visit the graves at all. But the way the sensation gripped you, body and mind and soul, was telling you otherwise, every nerve alight with the intensity of it all.

Warning you what he was about to do next might be a little uncomfortable at first, Undertaker slipped one of his slender fingers inside of you, causing you to wince at the slight soreness the sensation provided, but as he slowly pumped it in and out of you, helping you get used to the feeling, eventually you were wet enough that he could insert two, the stretch from his fingers alone causing a small squeak of pain to escape your throat, but still you didn’t want him to stop.

As he began to carefully scissor his digits inside your tight cunt he continued working on stimulating your clit to distract you from the discomfort. The mix of pleasure and pain was almost enough to put you over the edge, your back arching off the bed and your neck craning as you felt the coil winding tight within your core threatening to snap. Gasping out a curse, legs trembling as the crescendo crashed over every nerve in your body, you came undone for the first time that night, the high that filled your veins mixed with the fading adrenaline making your brain melt into a hazy, sated state.

He was whispering something to you then, pressing gentle kisses along your forehead, your temples, your nose, your jaw, as his sweet sentiments were lost amidst the thumping of your pulse between your ears. You exhaled a shuddering sigh, eyes fluttering closed, feeling as if you could drift right off to sleep. But there would be plenty of time for rest later.

Undertaker still wasn’t done with you yet.

Sliding his thick cock between the dewy petals of your folds, he guided you back to the waking world, being the most tender he had with you yet. “Are you still doing alright?” he murmured, brushing a few stray strands of your hair away from your face and behind your ear. He was gazing down at you like he couldn’t even believe you were there, with him, like this, the angel he’d lured into his underworld.

You gave a feeble nod, gasping when you felt the tip of his cock catch on your fluttering little hole. In all truth, you weren’t sure how he was going to fit. You just hoped he’d prepared you well enough, though knew the first time would be the most trying.

“Just breathe…” he instructed, interlocking his fingers with yours, your hands pressed into the mattress on either side of your head. “Take as much time as you need. Just relax…”

As the first inch or two fought its way into your tight entrance, your body reflexively tensed to combat the pain. The stretch of him took your breath away, fragile, sensitive skin feeling as if it were about to tear to allow him more room, teetering on a razor’s edge of arousal and agony. But he was talking you through it, whispering reassuring praises into your ear, waiting until he felt your body adjust to him, rigidity melting away as he continued to pepper featherlight kisses across your skin, letting you squeeze his hand as hard as you needed to until the sensation subsided.

Inch by inch, he worked his way deeper, and when you needed him closer, needed his chest pressed to yours to feel the stuttering beat of his heart, he obliged, scooping you up to straddle him again, both of you upright, face to face, him helping you begin to bounce lightly on his cock.

As the pace began to pick up speed, nearly every thrust into you had one of those melodic moans or lilting whines clawing their way up your throat, mouth remaining agape with silent cries as you felt yourself once again approaching that steep edge. With your head thrown back, neck exposed to him, Undertaker took the opportunity to suck a few more bruises into the column of your throat, his teeth grazing your racing pulse, choking on his next growl as your cunt clenched around him painfully tight.

He gave one more harsh thrust upward into your wet heat, feeling you come undone, glistening arousal staining you both, before forcing himself to pull out, finishing no more than two seconds later as his warm, sticky seed spilled over your stomach and thighs, mingling with the sheen of your pleasure as it mixed between both your bodies.

Both of you were panting, shallow, ragged huffs fanning against each other’s skin as you slumped over him, completely spent, and he wrapped his arms around you, keeping you close, never wanting to let you go.

He’d have to, eventually, but for now, he allowed himself to pretend you couldn’t be touched by things like disease or disaster or death, erasing your mortality from his mind, even if it were just for the duration he’d have you in his arms.

Suddenly, he was speaking your name, a gentle breeze of syllables leaving his lips as he rubbed soothing circles against your spine, coaxing you back to consciousness. Without lifting your head from his shoulder, all your limbs heavy, blood flowing slow and sweet as if your veins had been filled with honey, you nuzzled further into the crook of his neck and breathed in his scent.

His question barely registered to you, causing you to mutter out a sleepy, “What…?” which caused him to quietly chuckle, feeling the light mirth rumble through his scarred chest.

“I said,” he repeated, “Are you feeling alright?”

You felt more than alright. You felt fantastic, but not in the loud, excited, energetic kind of way.

More like waking up after a long, much-needed sleep, still floating off the edge of your dreams, feeling tired but fulfilled.

Once the high faded, you were sure you’d feel the soreness, a dull ache already beginning to pulse between your legs, but you didn’t necessarily mind.

It would just be another reminder of him and the time you’d spent together.

And, truthfully, there was so much you wanted to say then. Like how you’d never thought you’d be able to connect with someone in this way, feel completely safe in their hands, even feel— dare you say it— loved.

But instead, all you managed in reply was, “I’m ok…” before you felt sleep swooping back in to claim you.

As you drifted off that time, you briefly wondered what a life with him would be like. If you’d eventually have to learn to call this curious place home, a cemetery sprawled across your backyard, a closet full of funeral clothing. Or if perhaps he’d be willing to trade some of his darkness for the pale light of your apartment, if he’d remember to water your flowers while you were at work and leave scraps out for the stray cats that came begging by your front door.

And if those within your circle— the ones who were always badgering you about when you were getting married or if anyone was currently courting you— would be surprised if you told them that, yes, you’d started seeing someone despite the numerous occasions you’d written off such partnerships as just not for you…

They’d surely have some opinions on the matter, and that would even be before they saw him standing at your side.

But let them gossip, let them talk, you figured.

You didn’t care what people said, what they thought. You just wanted to be able to see him again, to be with him again, and for a little while, at least, discover all the things fear had once convinced you that you’d never get to experience for yourself.

***

A few years after your first night spent with him, having had many more in all the time between, fate had called you away, choosing to relocate further up north once your mother grew ill, spending her remaining days by her side. Once she was gone and you found yourself back in funeral blacks, for some reason, you’d decided to stay. You’d written Undertaker, of course, and for that first year apart the back and forth correspondence had been quite regular.

You awaited his letters with a childlike giddiness, excitement unfurling its wings within your heart whenever a black envelope sealed with shining silver wax appeared among your mail, already beginning to tear it open before you’d even gone back inside from retrieving that day’s delivery from the mailbox down the hill from your late mother’s home, the house you now called your own.

You’d sit down to write him back the moment you finished reading the last word of his looping cursive scrawl, elegance and sharpness somehow occupying the same space.

But then, after so much time away from London, away from the life you’d grown so accustomed to, you’d found yourself growing lonely. Only, this time, instead of the dull ache your former solitary life had nurtured within you, the pain was now a knife’s stabbing edge, carving a hole out in your heart until it nearly became too much to bear.

Until you’d eventually met someone. Another man whose hair was just beginning to grey at the temples, yet nothing like Undertaker’s silver shine, and whose eyes were a deep forest green, not the startling chartreuse of your former lover’s gaze. 

Six months later, you wrote back to London to inform Undertaker of the wedding that would be held in the spring. He’d congratulated you, though was glad it was only on paper— if he’d been forced to fake a smile and sweeten his words to you in person you would’ve known it was a lie, seen the heartbreak etched onto his face as obviously as one of those jagged, shining scars— and after that, the flow of the letters slowly came to a halt.

You had ten beautiful years with your husband until death’s kiss touched him, leaving you a widow and, once again, alone.

By then, the north had become so small, its claws closing around you until it began to resemble a prison, a cage.

You fled, returning to London, unsure whether you were running from things you wanted to forget or towards a flame you thought you might rekindle.

But in all that time away, you’d gotten married. Perhaps it was unfair to assume Undertaker hadn’t done the same.

However, once you found him, grateful the funeral parlor was still right where you’d left it nearly fifteen years ago, you entered the shop, expecting to be greeted by a man who was all at once familiar to you and also not, surprised to find him just as you’d left him like an image out of an old photograph.

You’d expected time to have touched him, run its fingers through his hair, turning silver to ivory, leaving the first signs of laugh lines cupping his smile and crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes, similar to the ways it had begun to touch you. The sight should’ve brought you comfort but instead you found yourself feeling…

Uneasy.

The years had passed for Undertaker as quickly as the season’s had changed for you. But as you inched, slowly but surely, towards the winter of your life, there wasn’t even so much as a veil of frost creeping in to cover him.

Somehow, he had remained exactly the same, no matter how many days, weeks, months, or years went by.

You’d planned to smile and say something like, “It’s been a while, so I understand if you don’t recognize me,” but what came out of your mouth instead was a gasp and, “You’re—” before Undertaker stopped you.

“—Just about to sit down for some afternoon tea,” he filled in, his grin widening as if he’d been expecting you. And then, before you even had a chance to process the theories that were beginning to blossom in your brain, each one more ridiculous and paranormal than the last, he asked, “Would you care to join me?”

Your mouth hung open, any and all remaining questions dying on your tongue, a few sputtering squeaks catching in your throat before you closed your lips, cleared your throat and said, “Alright then.”

The time you spent sitting at that little table, legs nearly intertwined once more as you sipped at your cup of Earl Grey, two cubes of sugar stirred in, made you feel like no time— not years or over a decade— had passed at all since you’d seen him last.

Nothing had changed— truly nothing. Not his looks or his humor or the way being around him just made you feel calm.

He’d been in the middle of regaling some amusing tale to you from while you’d been away when all of a sudden you realized your eyes were welling with tears. His bout of laughter died down to a stark stoicism once he noticed, leaning forward, reaching out to rest his hand over yours, the familiarity of his cool touch only making more tears race down your cheeks in shimmering pairs.  He asked, “My love, whatever is the matter?”

You choked on a sob, gave his hand a squeeze. “I just missed you…” you admitted, trying to smile, though it just came out crooked and sad.

With his other hand, fingers partially warmed from holding his cup of tea, he lightly brushed away your tears, rubbing the back of your hand with the pad of his thumb, soothing you until your sobbing subsided.

Then he said, “I’ve missed you, too… In more ways than you can even imagine.”

You felt a new wave of sorrow threaten to wrack through you. Something akin to guilt. To shame. To mourning the life you could’ve had if only you’d come back sooner. If only you’d stayed.

“But please,” he continued, gazing upon you with concern now. “If you’re weeping on my behalf, don’t. Now that you’re here, we can just pick up where we left off… A human life is only so long, after all…”

You looked at him, half confused, half afraid, and he almost told you then. Told you that he wasn’t like you, wasn’t burdened with the fragile shortness of a mortal life. But he didn’t.

He wanted you to ask first. Wanted to hear you say the words you’d been wondering since the very first night you met.

And you would, eventually.

But for now you just wanted him to hold you while you finished your tea and try and make up for so much lost time.

***

Twenty years later, you were unmarried, plagued by the illness that had claimed your mother, and had long given up tracking down shocking stories to fuel your own morbid curiosities.

But you were not alone.

You’d remained in the funeral shop, though made several more cozy additions to its decor over the years— a couple little houseplants dotting the windowsills, your mother’s cookbook placed up in the cabinets of the little kitchenette, lace hems and embroidery on the pillowcases fluffed upon the freshly made bed.

This place had become home before you’d ever even made the decision to stay, though perhaps that was more due to Undertaker’s proximity than anything else.

Even as your joints grew stiff and your movement became sluggish, your hair greying and your eyesight failing, Undertaker still remembered to remind you how beautiful he thought you were, how much he loved you, how you’d always be his most favorite girl. He’d dance with you by the light of the moon, leading you in a lulling waltz as he hummed out a melancholy tune. He’d carry you to bed when he found you sleeping in a chair, whatever mystery novel you were reading open face-down on your lap.

To experience love in this way was the greatest gift either of you had ever received, the devotion binding at times, yet there was still one last secret you had to uncover before you didn’t have the chance to anymore.

It wasn’t until you were nearing your life’s end that you finally asked him, “What are you?” and he actually gave you the truth.

“So you’re the dark cloaked figure who comes to guide souls into the afterlife, are you?” you joked after he’d given a surprisingly detailed explanation of what he was— what he’d been, before he’d defected— and what he’d continue to be no matter how long he tried to hide behind the mask of the eccentric funeral director. You coughed out a weak chuckle from where you lay tucked into bed, reaching out to run your rigid, wrinkled fingers through his long silver locks. Dreamily, quietly, as if only to yourself, you muttered, “I should’ve known…”

“I wanted to tell you…” he admitted, “Before, I mean…”

“No,” you said, “it’s better you didn’t. I don’t think I would’ve understood back then. I wouldn’t have been able to handle it.”

Now, with your death so imminent, learning his identity actually made the thought of your final breaths more comforting. Because you now knew dying would feel like falling asleep in the arms of a lover, gentle and safe. Protected. Cared for.

And when that fateful day finally came to pass, it was Undertaker who claimed your soul, wanting to be the first and last person to lay their hands on it, not intent on allowing any of those dispatch drones to touch it with their sharp tools and sterile indifference. 

He dressed your body, laid you in your coffin, and dug your grave. Though it wasn’t in the cemetery among all the other headstones. It was right outside the kitchen window, where your houseplants continued to grow, the sun rising to shed its soft golden light upon the room through the eastern window and bathing the place in deep amber as it lowered below the horizon in the west, your favorite place to sit and drink your morning tea and read in evenings.

Losing you was the hardest thing he’d ever done, but whenever he was feeling lonely, he’d wander out and look down at your name etched into the smooth, pale stone, read your dates to himself, reciting them like a prayer.

You had been so much more than just an epitaph, once upon a time, but at least now Undertaker could come visit you as often as he liked, and tucked beneath his coat, pressed safe behind the glass of his lockets, was a strand of your hair, a piece of you he could carry with him for the rest of his days.

***

(A big thank you to @anxious-chick for your request! I hope it’s ok I sort of took your concept and ran a marathon with it lol, but once I started developing some plot I just got really into it and couldn’t help myself haha. Thank you for being so patient with me as well, I sincerely hope it was worth the wait.

Anyway, thank you to everyone for reading. I’ve been wanting to write for Undertaker again for a long time and I’m glad this opportunity presented itself. Hope everyone has a good day and remembers to be kind to themselves. See you next time <3)

[ghost-bxrd]

I saw your posts about Jason coming back and letting Talon!Dick know but not Bruce or Tim, and Bruce and Tim thinking Dick is hallucinating Jason, and I bring you: Talon!Dick wanting to wrap himself around his owlet, to hold Jason so tightly that nothing will ever be able to pry the two apart again, but finding himself unable to because Jason is so big now.

He feels bittersweet about Jay's size because on one hand, he can't hold his owlet anymore, but on the other Jason is so big and strong now that it'll be hard for anyone to kill him again; he's trained almost as well as Dick now, with the amount of teachers he's had.

And while Dick is mourning that Jason can't fit in his arms anymore Jason just sighs and rolls his eyes before wrapping his arms around Dick, picking him up with ease, and throwing them both in the next he has in his apartment (because of course Jason would build a nest, Dick's nest was the first place he felt truly safe) and just wrapping himself around the Talon, holding him as hard as he can because he knows Dick doesn't get hurt easily. Jason holds Dick like Dick used to hold him, and this might be even better frankly because now Dick is warmer than ever, wrapped up by his owlet and surrounded by the safety of a nest, and his head is right by Jason's neck/chest, meaning he's able to easily hear Jay's strong pulse/heartbeat, a constant reassurance that he's come back.

🦉🦉

Dick would belly flop right on top of Jason at any given opportunity, soaking up all the warmth while simultaneously reassuring himself of Jason’s continued state of aliveness. This position also has the added benefit of his owlet being unable to slip away without Dick noticing.

Yes he’s a little sad his owlet doesn’t fit under his chin like he used to, but- but maybe that’s just as well. Because the last memory Dick has of doing that… Jason was cold, and his bones were wrong and Jason- and—

Maybe it’s better like this.

(And yes, Jason only sleeps in nests. Every bed is immediately converted into a neatly structured formation of blankets and pillows. This habit does not stop even during the time he spends… away.)

[maplemouse-warriors]

Twin Flames Rewrite: A Dangerous Path

Prologue: Thistleclaw is teaching a young Tigerpaw to hunt. He tells the young cat that you can often find prey near the plants they eat, and that you can even set up an ambush by laying a food trail if you have the time. Tigerpaw asks why you would lay a food trail instead of just catching the prey where it is. Thistleclaw gives a short speech about fear, strength, and control. 

At the Gathering, Tigerstar announces himself as leader of ShadowClan. In a fit of rage, Wildflame leaps up with the leaders and announces all of Tigerstar’s crimes to the gathered Clans. After she is done speaking she is removed from the rock, and Tigerstar coolly says “If all that were true, would StarClan have given me my nine lives?”

Bluestar announces she does not recognize Tigerstar as the ShadowClan leader regardless of StarClan’s will. Tallstar and Crookedstar say they are unhappy with him as leader and will be keeping an eye on him. The Gathering proceeds - Featherpaw and Stormpaw are announced as being apprenticed to Mistyfoot and Stonefur. 

After finding blood and getting reports of weird noises and smells, Wildflame determines there is something large living at Snakerocks, guessing that it is some kind of large dog. She reports it to Sandstorm, and the two get into an argument. Ultimately, cats are warned to stay away from Snakerocks until whatever is living there has moved on. 

Storkpaw is killed in a border skirmish with ShadowClan; Fireheart, Morningflower, and their kits all mourn together. Soon after, Fireheart’s kits are apprenticed; Leafpaw to Barkface, Squirrelpaw to Whitetail, and Darkpaw to Mudclaw. Fireheart is glad to return to warrior duties, and feels bittersweet about his kits growing up. 

A hawk appears over the ThunderClan camp, and the clearing is quickly evacuated. Bramblekit stumbles on his way to the nursery, and Snowkit leaves the nursery to help the younger tom get to safety. The hawk grabs and kills Snowkit before he can make it back to the nursery. Bramblekit is unfairly blamed by Speckletail, and defended by Wildflame; however, Wildflame and Bramblekit are shocked when Sandstorm doesn’t also stand up for him. Wildflame and Sandstorm argue again. 

Crookedstar loses his final life, and Leopardstar takes charge of RiverClan. She starts her reign by attempting to reclaim Sunningrocks. During the battle, Graystripe doesn’t attack Wildflame, instead choosing to attack Darkstripe. Additionally, when Mistyfoot and Stonefur attack Bluestar, Wildflame intervenes to reveal their true parentage in order to prevent them from hurting their mother. 

Later, Graystripe is brought to ThunderClan camp and asks to return to ThunderClan, as he has been kicked out of RiverClan. He explains that Blackclaw saw him not attack Wildflame when he had the opportunity, and told Leopardstar, who exiled him. While many ThunderClan cats are opposed, some cats believe he should return. When Wildflame consults Bluestar, she replies that it doesn’t matter, as he’s a traitor in a Clan of traitors. Sandstorm allows him to return, but must be on apprentice duties and cannot leave camp without being accompanied by another warrior. 

At the Gathering, Fireheart is excited to see Wildflame after being in the nursery for so long. He proudly introduces her to his kits; Darkpaw tells her she smells bad. She introduces her nephew to Swiftpaw, thinking that the two of them will get along well. 

About half a moon later, when Sandstorm is sending out the dawn patrol, Thornpaw approaches her. Wildflame, who is nearby, joins the conversation, to Sandstorm’s displeasure. Thornpaw reveals that Brightpaw and Swiftpaw went to chase off the intruder at Snakerocks. Without speaking, Sandstorm and Wildflame both race out of camp.

At Snakerocks, they are shocked to discover Fireheart and a scratched up Darkpaw tending to a gravely injured Brightpaw and Swiftpaw. Fireheart explains that Brightpaw, Swiftpaw, and Darkpaw hatched a plan at the Gathering to chase out the animal at Snakerocks. Squirrelpaw woke him this morning before dawn when she realized Darkpaw had been gone all night. He had followed Darkpaw’s trail to Snakerocks.

An additional patrol with Cinderpelt soon arrives, and she helps stabilize the apprentices before everyone - including Fireheart and Darkpaw - return to camp. She thanks Fireheart and Darkpaw for caring for Brightpaw and Swiftpaw before she arrived, as it was likely the reason they were both still alive when she got there. 

Darkpaw explains to Bluestar, Sandstorm, and the other cats gathered in the medicine den that the three apprentices were attacked by something large, and the older apprentices shoved him in a small crack in the rocks before trying to defend him from the attackers, which he was unable to see. He reports the beast was chanting ‘Pack, Pack, Kill, Kill’.

Bluestar gives the two dying apprentices warrior names: Lostleg and Scarface, a reference to Swiftpaw’s amputated leg and Brightpaw’s heavily scarred face. 

Bramblepaw and Tawnypaw are apprenticed: Tawnypaw to Wildflame and Bramblepaw to Sandstorm. While giving the two apprentices a tour of the territory, Sandstorm and Wildflame reminisce and talk to each other without arguing for the first time in a while. By the time they return to camp, Wildflame feels as though they are becoming close again. 

Longtail reports that he saw not only a pack of dogs at Snakerocks, but saw Tigerstar feeding them. Sandstorm and Wildflame begin planning on how to remove them from Snakerocks without endangering the Clan further. Wildflame wants to chase them out immediately before Tigerstar can do damage to ThunderClan with them. Sandstorm doesn’t want to risk injuring warriors attacking such a formidable opponent. The two are able to discuss and plan without arguing. 

Fireheart is on a dawn patrol when he is stopped by Littlecloud at the ShadowClan border. Littlecloud reports that Tigerstar was acting suspicious and Littlecloud saw him in ThunderClan territory; he knows Fireheart’s littermate is in ThunderClan, and Littlecloud is worried for Cinderpelt, and hopes Fireheart is able to do something. Knowing about the beast at Snakerocks, Fireheart immediately leaves for ThunderClan, worried for their safety. 

Wildflame is woken by screaming; Brindleface has been found dead outside of camp. Sandstorm takes charge of calming down the camp while Wildflame and Brackenfur realize there is a dead rabbit nearby. They follow the trail of rabbits from the ThunderClan camp to Snakerocks. When they return with this information, Wildflame is surprised to find Fireheart in the camp relaying Littlecloud’s message. 

Wildflame puts together Tigerstar’s plan. Fireheart suggests leading the dogs somewhere else, as in WindClan they often lead dogs back to their Twolegs when they’re causing problems. Sandstorm thinks of leading them to the gorge, and Wildflame suggests making it a relay so that no cat slows down when they get tired. 

Sandstorm chooses the relay cats, giving herself the first leg and Wildflame the last leg. Fireheart insists that he is also part of the relay. 

Fireheart is the POV for the evacuation of ThunderClan’s camp and the beginning of the relay; he notes how close Wildflame and Sandstorm are, as well as her friendship with Graystripe and Cinderpelt, and is glad that she has a family here.

Wildflame’s POV picks up just before her section of the relay; she picks it up from Graystripe, and nearly makes it to the gorge before she is attacked and held down by Tigerstar. She tells him that if he doesn’t get up they will both die here; he replies that he has lives to spare. Once the dogs catch up, Tigerstar disappears; the lead dog catches Wildflame and shakes her around. 

Bluestar bursts out of the treeline and attacks the lead dog, driving the leader off the top of the gorge. They fall into the water below together; the remaining dogs scatter. 

Wildflame rushes to Bluestar, working with Mistyfoot and Stonefur who happened to be nearby, to get Bluestar out of the water and onto shore. Bluestar and her kits have a moment; Bluestar then calls Wildflame over and reveals to her the wildfire prophecy, believing that it is about Wildflame and Fireheart. Bluestar then dies after making peace with her kits.

Wildflame is upset by Bluestar’s death; Sandstorm, Fireheart, and Graystripe soon find them and comfort her. Mistyfoot and Stonefur accompany ThunderClan back to their camp, helping to carry Bluestar. 

That evening, Wildflame and Sandstorm work together to clean the Leader’s Den, as Sandstorm will be leaving the next morning to go to the Moonstone and receive her nine lives; they chat while they work, and Wildflame comes to the realization that she is in love with Sandstorm. She panics and immediately confesses; Sandstorm happily returns her feelings. 

They fall asleep together in Sandstorm’s new den.

Prev | Next

[meonlyred]

My emotions took a beating from this game so fucking hard: spoilers for Phantom Liberty and the new ending under cut.

I never expected there to ever be a 100% happy ending of V. I knew there would always be a bittersweetness or uncertainty to the endings at best. But damn I didn't expect the FIA ending to be so fucking painfully cynical.

Phantom Liberty is everything I wanted it to be. It's a fucking love letter to the spy thrillers I love to much. Even a James Bond style ending credits. Chefs kiss. This DLC was made for me specifically.

I sided with Songbird up until she reveals that there is only enough juice for one of them to be cured and she knew that from the beginning. So my Street Kid V sold her out to Reed for a cure.

As for the new ending this DLC adds: I didn't expect to take hit after hit of bad news once V wakes up from their coma.

I always thought the change to making this game first person was a good one. And I feel that even more so now. I felt like I was running through V's emotions with them as Reed gave them the bad news. First that they would never be able to use their implants again. Okay that is okay, I romanced River. He will be more than happy to have V at home maybe they can live a normal life. Oh wait its been two years? And River moved on, made some mistakes and now hates himself so much he doesn't want V around. Well fuck.

Then finding out everyone has moved on for better or worse. In only two years Vik had to sell out to the Corps and he is miserable. Street Kid V also finding out that Padre has lost control of Haywood. I am glad to find out that at least Judy and Misty get somewhat of a happy ending.

I know the world of Cyberpunk is fucked. The people are fucked. The world is fucked. The future is completely fucked. And I think the FIA ending demonstrates that the most out off all of them.

Something that kept getting repeated in the base game was "never fade away" and that V can talk about how they are so afraid of not mattering, that no one will mourn them when they are gone. That happens with this ending. V gets to live but the people they were close to with can't or won't be there for them now. V leaves their conversation with Misty by fading into the crowd. They become just another wretch in this deeply wretched world. They fade away.

So fucking depressing and cynical. I mean, I fucking love it. Its so well done but Jesus fucking tap dancing Christ that was rough to go through.

For my main V I think I will keep the Sun ending with the secret solo version of it. I think it fits them the most. As good as this ending is, story wise, fuck me it's too depressing.

Finished CP77 new ending... man...

[vexredain]

☀ for younger aedwen & vex?

“There'll be cheerin’ an’ callin’...  No more squabblin’ an’ bawlin’...” Morning certainly was maddening, the fires of jealousy were never quite sated, no matter what she did, it was always there. As much as Vex didn’t want to admit it, she’d never hate her, and doubted she ever could, it did nothing to quench the roiling flames that oft took hold in her head, however. Perhaps that was why she’d found herself singing, to distract herself from the confusion, though maybe it only made it worse, the intense intimacy, the gentle touch of silken pale skin against her own sea-bitten slate. 

“When we’ve th’wind in our sails... When we’ve our feet on th’ground...” Yet here they were, atop an all-too-comfortable bed in the Mizzenmast, and down more than half a wardrobe each, if the haphazard spread of clothing around the room was anything to go by, and she was all too aware of the woman’s head nestled into the soft, barely-toned dusky skin of her stomach. As her fingers made a trailing path down lustrous skin, eventually reaching the base of the Hyur’s neck, the gentle rise and fall of her voice emanating throughout her body. 

“We’ll sow our good fortune ‘round... There’ll be feastin’ an’ pleasure...” Morning yawned, the first sound she’d made for a while, it was hard to tell if she was enjoying herself other than by the stillness of her form, the lack of any feline features Vex was so used to taking measure from simply weren’t there to betray pleasure, happiness, contentment. A deep-seated voice inferring that she shouldn’t have cared about any such emotions, and yet she did care all the same. Jealousy was tricky. 

“No more rationin’ or measure... When we’ve th’wind in our sails...” The last words of the song rumbled out slow, Vex’s own eyelids heavy with the clement pull of sleep. Morning’s breaths betrayed that she had already embraced that same pull, fast asleep in the partial caress of a dusky arm. It had been a good choice of song, one sung as she’d first seen Limsa rise from behind the horizon all those cycles ago, one which had an all too fitting name for the situation she had now found herself in with a woman who caused her eyes to smoulder with jade fire, one that she’d likely sing for far too many cycles to come. Becalmed. 

Acts of Affection Meme open! Check >here if you’d like to send one!

[eggmarr]

hi!! could i ask 4 number eight favorite crime with kazuha please?? cuz hes yk.. kinda a criminal? thank you so much if you do my request!! <3

things i did (143 event drabble)

pairing: kazuha x gn!reader (wanderers, pre-storyline)

warnings: angst, feelings of inadequacy and being unused to love on both sides of a relationship, possible commitment issues on reader’s part, communication issues but technically they just don’t talk about it but understand, possibly ooc kazuha but this is supposed to be part of his character development, a pinch of comfort at the end, 

a/n: this genuinely gave me pain to write. angst. and if you’re asking yourself how this fits in with the event theme, i want to say that this represents the kind of love that only shows itself proper when it’s lost / right person wrong time (GOD IT HURTS JUST TO TYPE IT 😔) also i kinda wrote this in bits and late at night so forgive the coherence in some places :,)

songs: favorite crime - olivia rodrigo, anaheim - niki, movies - conan gray, oceans & engines - niki

The fact that neither you nor Kazuha are used to this kind of love is the bittersweet truth hidden behind each tender embrace.

You can see his hesitation, oh so easy to find when it mirrors your own in the wake of sweet nothings, in linked fingers that stop just short of intertwined and ignoring the fitful nightmares you take turns waking for.

Silent tears stream down his cheeks, a quiet kind of sorrow that only grows as time passes. Your thumbs brush the mourning dew away as it sparkles in the sunlight - something picturesque yet ill-fitting for two wanderers.

Kazuha is bound by his wanderlust; it is his yearning to see the expanse of the world at his fingertips that attracted you to him on that fateful day, and it is that same feeling that splits you into two.

Now, he rests deeply in his cot on the Alcor, breath after breath fading away with the sway of the ship and flickering lamplight. Your fingers card through his loose hair as he slumbers, smoothing the streaks of red and pale blonde across the blanket you share.

(“If you’re still planning on going, you should do it while you still can.” Beidou whispers in your ear, inclining her head at the faraway Kazuha. “You’ll always have a spot on the Alcor, if that’s what you want.”)

…What do you want?

Shouldn’t it be this? This momentary lapse in time, this spare break in the turning wheel where you can simply rest in the hold of someone you-

Ah. That’s it.

You’re scared, aren’t you?

Your hands retract from Kazuha’s, tracing the space as if his touch has burned you.

He’s just as aware of it as you are, and yet this facsimile still persists.

(“You are what appears when the word ‘serendipity’ comes to mind.” He murmurs, tracing patterns and letters into your skin that he has yet to speak aloud.)

He’s still in your grasp, and yet he’s already gone.

You shouldn’t have to convince yourself that this is for the best.

But, before your heart can speak, your head has already made way to mark the end.

———

“For my dear Kazuha,” He reads, ruby eyes stinging at their corners. “I’m sorry.”

Fingers that once stopped just short trace the lines of your script, following line after line of harsh strokes and wrinkled dots in the ink.

“You, of all, understand the quandaries that plague wanderers, no? To follow the wind, and to be truly free, is to understand and release the burdens that haunt you first.”

He finds it within himself to curse those words, letters that fell from his tongue with little thought.

“I despise the fact that I couldn’t say this in person,” Your voice echoes in his ears. “But if I saw you, I don’t think I’d be able to leave.”

He can feel your hands against his face, yet the tears still carve their path.

“Neither of us are at the point where we can stop searching, traveling, yearning for the answers to the questions that follow us to every port.”

How did he not see? How could he be so blind?

“I know you well enough that you must be beating yourself up about this, but the answer is plain and simple; you would regret it for the rest of your life if you found yourself settled right now.”

A sob escapes his throat, stifled with the hand you rewrapped only last night.

“Now, I can’t linger too long-“ He has to blink away the haze, begging your words to last until he can find you again. “-But I do want you to know that our paths are sure to meet again. If not, I’ll make sure of it.”

Kazuha’s voice echoes your final line - “To you, my hope, be well and stay true.”

(Oh, how he hates telling you later that you were right, stumbling through the words as you brush away his tears with a smile brighter than sunlight.)

[dreamwraith]

@floralflowerpower mentioned wanting to read an idea I had, soooo....

Alright, this is largely inspired by the M*A*S*H episode “Who Knew?” It’s a very bittersweet episode. It begins with the news that a nurse died the previous night when she wandered into a minefield. One of the main characters, Hawkeye, was the last one to see her alive. He offers to write her eulogy when no one else steps forward, though he barely knew her himself. He’s stymied by how little anyone can tell him about her, until the priest suggests he reads her diary. He learns who she was through her own words, the person she had hidden beneath a shy exterior that others interpreted as standoffish. She had true feelings for Hawkeye and he never knew. The last entry is how she can’t get Hawkeye out of her thoughts so she’s going to go for a walk. 

As you might guess, my idea starts off with a bittersweet tale. 

Jack and Maddie got the portal working without Danny needing to die, and for two years, Amity Park has been under threat from whatever ghost chooses to try their hand at conquering them. Jack and Maddie are the town’s main defense without Danny Phantom to protect them, and they’re not as skilled or as prompt as canon Danny was at catching ghosts. Sometimes a ghost slips through. Sometimes, people get hurt. 

I don’t have the full details worked out, but in this case, a ghost attacked the school. Danny is almost killed. He’s the son of the town’s defenders, so perhaps he’s an easy, desirable target. One of his classmates saves him by sacrificing himself. He (I’ve been going with the name Alexander in my notes) later dies at the hospital, and Danny, suffering from survivor’s guilt and PTSD, blames himself. He didn’t know his classmate very well, he doesn’t even remember his name right away, he doesn’t understand why Alex saved him. 

He tries to find out more about him, feeling like he owes him that much, but he discovers only superficial information. Alex was a foster of Amity Park; he had no family. No one but Danny is currently mourning him. He’s determined to get answers, though, and that causes him to clash with Dash and teachers when they say things like “Alex was a creep” or “he was a troublemaker; I heard he ran away from his last home.” Danny’s fights get him brought to Lancer’s attention, and it’s during that meeting that Danny is given Alex’s diary. 

Eager but frightened, it takes Danny a long time to work up the courage to begin reading. 

Meanwhile, “Phantom” begins to form in the Ghost Zone. 

Alex hated himself enough that his self-image is dismissed from his spirit, and his last thoughts were of Danny, so when he forms, he takes on a ghostly impression of Danny. It’s an important detail because that’s what makes this pitch pearl, and it’s why Danny doesn’t recognize him. 

He doesn’t have a clearly defined obsession, but he definitely feels a pull toward the human world. Johnny and Kitty help Phantom cross the portal, and that’s when he meets Danny for the first time. Idk why Danny came down to the lab yet, but I know he’s up because of PTSD nightmares/insomnia. Phantom feels his whole being focus on Danny, Danny freezes in place because he had just woken up from a nightmare of a ghost attack, and Johnny and Kitty look between Danny and Phantom, putting two and two together and reaching “Phantom’s purpose”

The three ghosts make a quick escape once protective parents Jack and Maddie come storming down the stairs, but first impressions were made, and now Phantom is determined to find out more about Danny and why his soul is crying out for him. 

Unfortunately, Danny is entangled in Alex’s diary and his own grief. Every effort Phantom makes toward befriending Danny is rebuffed because 1) ghosts can’t be trusted, and 2) Phantom’s resemblance to Danny combined with his interest in him is fucking creepy. In his downward spiral, though, Danny is losing connection with his friends, his grades, his safety, and Phantom isn’t willing to let Danny fade like this. Circumstances change when Phantom saves Danny from a human threat (human crime, let’s goooo) and Danny starts to actually pay attention to him, enough to start letting down his walls at least. 

And just in time for Danny to reach the point in the diary where Alex confesses he had a crush on Danny. Danny’s grief finally breaks, and Phantom comforts him through the loss. Phantom learns about Alex and Danny’s growing feelings for a boy that’s no longer within reach, and reluctantly pushes his own growing feelings for Danny aside. Danny is going through too much to deal with Phantom’s own failings. He needs time to mourn.

A real friendship starts to build.

With his feelings for Danny on hold but satisfied by their friendship, Phantom begins to explore who he is. He begins to take on a protector role, determined to save other humans from feeling the grief Danny is under. He focuses less on fighting and more on saving. A ghost will attack, and he’ll erect a shield around humans to deflect debris or catch someone who is falling or just comfort someone who got hurt. Jack and Maddie are still the ones that ultimately defeat the ghost, but Phantom’s actions begin to catch everyone’s attention. 

He is exactly what they needed, and he begins to be hailed as a guardian.

Danny is happy for him, but something about Phantom’s focus with protection over fighting resonates with Alex’s thoughts in his diary. He begins piecing things together. He proposes his wild idea to Jazz one night, but she warns him not to try to “bring Alex back from the dead” for Danny’s own mental health. 

Danny proposes the idea to Phantom, and at first Phantom thinks it’s nonsense, but Danny insists Phantom read the diary, so Phantom reluctantly (tho he doesn’t understand why he’s so reluctant) humors him. He can only get through five entries before he shoves the diary back into Danny’s hands and refuses to read anymore.

His self-hatred caused him to lose his identity in death, remember? He doesn’t want to remember, it’s painful. He tells Danny to forget about Alex. No one cared about him when he was alive, they won’t care who he was now. But Danny cares, and it tugs at Phantom’s feelings to meet Danny halfway, but does Danny like him because of Alex or because of Phantom, the person he is now?

I don’t have the full details worked out, but I know I want Danny to reveal Phantom’s past as Alex to Amity Park so that they can see their foster son has grown into their defender, savior, protector. He wasn’t loved when he was alive, but they must honor his past because it made him the hero he is now. Amity Park goes wild for the story. They love Phantom all the more, knowing who he was, how he died, and who he became. 

A bittersweet beginning becoming an uplifting, hopeful note, maybe? 

That’s all I have planned :P

I haven’t written anything for it yet because I haven’t figured out how to start. I’m terrible at action scenes, and I feel like I have to describe at least PART of Alex’s sacrifice. But ugh, ghost attack, ugh. Choreography, description, pacing, urgh, I hate action scenes, how do you guys WRITE those, it’s witchcraft I swear

(Side note for the name, Alexander means “defender of men”)

(And because I’m classy as a unripe grape, the story is titled Right Here (Departed) in my folder, which is actually a song by Brandy oiasjdlkfej I song titled it. omg. But listen, listen...it fits)

[characteroulette]

well all rightie then, it’s time to analyse how DGS1 handles grief really well in my opinion

(once again, spoilers for all of DGS1)

(also some spoilers for the original trilogy games) (and a little of DGS2)

okay So my thesis statement here is that Asougi’s character in DGS1 is the vessel through which Ryuunosuke and Susato’s grief is explained. Everything about how they relate to Asougi is their dealing with their grief in a simple message: Loss hits hard, but you have to continue to live and love. Life Goes On, shaping that grief into yourself if you allow it.

We start off with Case 1 as our baseline. The set-up. It’s a routine to show what life is like for Ryuunosuke before tragedy. (Fitting for an AA protagonist to have their baseline of normal being accused of murder.) This case does a really, really good job of setting up Asougi as our friend, our partner, whom we might spend the rest of the game with.

(I mean, the death flag’s kinda obvious if you’re genre-savvy; the mentor must die so that the student may grow into their own. But Asougi’s so likeable! He’s confident, genuine with Ryuunosuke, comfortably teasing, and looks at you with the same eyes as Klavier. What’s not to love? Also that small hint of something deeper is so tantalising that for it to go unresolved is pretty unthinkable.)

It’s important for us to see how much Asougi means to Ryuunosuke, how much the two really are best friends. This set-up is pivotal to what happens next in Case 2: the drop.

The way Ryuunosuke reacts to learning about Asougi’s death is real. He tries to deny it at first, can’t bring himself to believe it. Especially since he’s been accused of the crime! But the moment he sees that photo of Asougi that Sherlock took, that’s where the truth of it hits and he can’t run from it anymore. All he can do is try to push past that biting grief to at least solve his friend’s murder and set things right.

Susato’s own grief is portrayed really well here, too. She’s so angered and clouded by it that she totally ignores the fact that Asougi and Ryuunosuke are best friends and believes Ryuunosuke to be the murderer. Really, she just blames Ryuunosuke because it’s easier that way, since the wound cuts just as deep for her.

What really strikes me, though, is how the whole case isn’t just a one-note misery. Like real life, the two slip into sadness when they remember their dear friend, but they’re still able to joke around. They still get upset or sarcastic or excited. Because, though their grief affects them immensely, the message is that life continues. It can’t just stop for them like it did for their friend; life goes on. Not out of malice, but out of necessity.

Also, the way Sherlock acknowledges their grief is pretty great. That felt hugely validating to me, how he tells them that their mourning is important and how his jovial, joking tone was never properly taking that into account. The way he continues breaking in at the end to lighten the mood, too, is his own genuine way of trying to help, exhausting though he may be. It’s appreciated, at the least, to keep us the players from breaking down into tears as the conclusion rolls with no real satisfaction at the mystery being solved.

That final conversation between Susato and Ryuunosuke, at least, is hugely cathartic to make up for that. It sounds like it should feel rushed, honestly, dealing with the majority of the grieving process in just Case 2, but it doesn’t at all. It seems properly healthy, like the two are doing their best by confiding and taking comfort in one another in order to celebrate Asougi’s goals, to keep going where he can’t. Ryuunosuke and Susato both form their resolve here to continue to live, not just for Asougi, but for themselves as well. For life’s sake.

Because, again, life goes on.

(A brief tangent: Seeing the contrast of this story versus the original trilogy is also a really neat sort of view into Shu Takumi’s growth as a writer. Or the AA series’ growth as a whole. How Edgeworth handled his grief by never really acknowledging it in AA1, how he basically ran away from it by refusing to live as a sort of punishment against himself, is really sad. Then Phoenix handling his grief in JFA by turning to anger and resentment is just as heartbreaking. Phoenix disavows himself from it, trying to spare himself the pain by denying it, which only hurt him more and he had to have everyone around him break him out of that awful mindset. Then in T&T it’s Godot’s grief which drives the plot, as he turns his anger on Phoenix unjustly. He blames Phoenix for Mia’s death and lashes out at everyone instead of allowing himself the time to properly grieve.

And then DGS1 comes along to say that maybe the answer is just that life goes on and we have healthier ways to reconcile with our grief and it’s just real neat to see!)

In Case 3 and 4, we can see through Ryuunosuke’s discussion with Lord Vortex (/Stronghart) the continuation of his handling this grief. It’s a burden, one Ryuunosuke doesn’t fully understand, but he fervently takes upon himself because we want to live for those we’ve lost. (It is the Wright way, the Naruhodou way, to take on the aspirations of the friends you’ve lost. To mimic their mannerisms, their ambitions, in order to keep them close to your heart.)

(That’s a whole other can of worms I could dive into, honestly, how their decision to give Ryuunosuke all of Phoenix’s poses for the whole ancestor vibe while ALSO making it clear that Ryuunosuke took them from Asougi to begin with, it’s just. It’s good, it’s perfect, it’s the same brand of gay the series is known for and I’m love it.)

You also see, as the trial of Case 3 progresses, how Ryuunosuke is basically just living off of ‘what would Asougi do?’ as Susato coaches him along and it’s fun and bittersweet all the way through. Case 4 is where he gains more confidence in himself, but he still defaults to thinking of Asougi’s unwavering trust in him to help him and every time it’s handled with tenderness and shows just how much Ryuunosuke loved his friend.

And, if you’re like me and take every opportunity to examine Asougi’s badge and present it to Susato (/others), you see how they continue to grow with their grief. It starts off with both of them being unable to say much, still weighed down heavily by Asougi’s loss. Though they are continuing and life goes on, it’s still a wound too fresh to approach and hard for them to properly explain.

By Case 5, though, the two of them are more conversational. They’ve found their words, they’ve mended that wound as much as possible so that life won’t leave without them. It still hurts, of course, but it’s easier to think about. It’s easier to reconcile when they’ve been working hard and making friends and continuing to live. It’s small, but the progression is there and I really appreciate it.

Speaking of Case 5, though, everything about this one, in regards to Asougi, is pure catharsis. It really is like they’re looking their grief right in the face and accepting it as a part of themselves. Ryuunosuke looks back on his friend not just with fondness, but with gratefulness that Asougi could make such a big impact on his life.

(This is similar to the whole Phoenix and Mia thing, I feel, since Phoenix often thought of his mentor with the same sort of tone. At least, I think so. Remarkable how Phoenix’s grief can mirror the finalised version of Ryuunosuke’s with the help of spirit channeling! /joke)

Ryuunosuke and Susato have etched Asougi into their hearts and their persons and it’s just really, very good I like it a lot.

(okay time for a few paragraphs on DGS2 and Asougi)

Case 1 one DGS2 is a neat look into Susato’s mind and thought process. You can definitely tell she’s still just a 16-year-old with the mistakes she makes and how she tries to handle her own arguments, which is very cute. We also get to see her actually talking to Asougi’s grave and then see how her own relationship with Asougi has influenced her style (/poses) and aspirations. (Ryuunosuke, too. It’s cute to see how she’s ended up a mixture of both of them.) And it’s a great rug pull moment for the player, since the way that the grief is handled in DGS1 is so good and (almost) final that hearing Asougi might not actually be dead is a bit like digging up old wounds. I mean, we went the entirety of the first game coming to terms with his death, what do you mean his body went missing??

(Case 2 serves as a reminder. Like haha remember how Susato and Ryuunosuke both love Asougi and are sad about his death? Here’s the baseline again, get ready to have it wrecked!)

And Case 3 is phenomenal, too. The way Van Zieks is so understanding in his response to showing him Asougi’s badge is just. It’s perfect, he’s so gentle and empathetic that it shocks Ryuunosuke (even though Ryuunosuke did the same understanding and concern for Van Ziek’s situation Ryuunosuke please). Then the way that Ryuunosuke sees Asougi, disguised in a cloak and mask, and immediately recognises him. To me, that really shows how much he loved his friend. He knew Asougi for about a year and it’s been about nine months since Asougi’s death, yet Ryuunosuke recognises him just by the way he carries himself.

But, to him, Asougi is dead. He’s made peace with that. So, even if it plays on his mind, he can’t allow himself to think that. He puts it out of his mind completely and doesn’t think on it again.

At least, until Susato (who reacted very realistically by shutting down the possibility that Asougi might still be alive because that means Sherlock lied and she couldn’t take having that hope break her worse than before) sees the exact same thing just as immediately and shouts after him. The fact that they both see this disguised man and know it can be no one besides Asougi is insane. It’s love. It makes me cry, I wish they could’ve hugged him during the big reveal (though I know Japanese culture’s just not like that).

Anyway, DGS2 diatribe over. Back to the conclusion.

The whole of DGS1 is just a masterful example of how grief doesn’t have to destroy you, of how life can go on and that doesn’t have to be a bad thing, and how channeling that grief into motivation to keep their memories alive can be powerful. That it’s okay to still feel grief even as you heal, that it’s okay to have fun and keep living even as you mourn. Life is a mixture of levity and tragedy and, to me, DGS1 nails that mixture with perfection.

Absolutely legendary. Join me next time when I dive into the main theme of DGS2, which is literally ‘the dead will come back to life to haunt you’ thanks for coming to my essay talk

[yinglipeggedwenwu]

A headcanon about food memories in the Xu household. (G, bittersweet family stuff, minor spoilers for pre-movie canon events)

He remembers on a Tuesday night at Katy’s:

His mom wasn’t the chef of the family; she could hold her own, but on special occasions it was always his father’s cooking. Xialing was too small to be in the kitchen during these times, but Shangqi remembers standing by his dad at the stove and the billows of steam stinging his eyes when the lid was lifted off the wok. An entire flounder on a plate, dressed with spears of green aromatics and slices of ginger.

“That’s the way to a woman’s heart,” his father would tell him. And Shangqi thought, how did his father seem so confident about romance while wearing a fitted shirt tucked into khakis, hairy toes poking out of slippers, bangs falling over his sweat-dotted forehead?

His parents don’t hold hands or kiss like parents do on the TV programs that his English tutors put on for practice. But on programs, the dads don’t scoop mounds of meaty flounder onto the moms’ bowls. TVs don’t show dads giving their son the skin of the fish to help with their vision.

Xialing begins to cry that Shangqi always gets more than she does. Their father says her eyes are bigger than her stomach. Their mom soothes her and gives Xialing some of hers. Their father is quick to replenish their mom’s bowl, more than what she gave. He picks up the head of the fish with his chopsticks and holds it in front of Xialing, who shakes her head.

“You cry that I don’t give you enough, then you don’t want it when I offer you more?” Shangqi thinks maybe it’s a joke, but no one laughs. The only response is Xialing’s wet sniffles.

The next day, Xialing opens her lunchbox and finds minced up flounder, her portion flatter than Shangqi’s. Hot tears roll down her face, and Shangqi finally speaks up.

“It’s the same amount of fish,” he explains, mashing up his portion up so the tender flakes resemble the mush in Xialing’s lunch. “He does that to get the bones out for you.”

Shangqi holds his box so she can see. Xialing scrutinizes the two lunches. Her face is still screwed up with emotion, but her sniffles are defiant now: she won’t admit he’s right.

“Besides,” Shangqi points with his chopsticks, “he let you have the eyeballs this time.”

At first, Xialing scowls at the offal in her lunch, but then softens when Shangqi adds “That’s his favorite part, you know. I never get eyeballs.” So Xialing sets her face in resolve, though smugness spills out, and she eats her lunch mollified.

Their mother passes shortly after. Dinners become quiet, efficient affairs. Flounder slowly turns into a tough, sour, over-salted dish in their home. A chef joins the staff, but never satiates Shangqi and Xialing’s cravings. The memory of his father in the kitchen, in his undershirt and khakis and slippers, sweating over a wok with a smile on his face, dissipates like steam.

He’s at Katy’s family apartment, at her dining table. It’s flounder tonight. Katy is standing to fill her grandma’s glass, turned away from him while she argues with her brother about who didn’t charge the Switch remotes. 

Everyone’s already had their first helping. He picks up the serving spoon, and scoops some fish for Katy’s grandma. She sees his intent and immediately refuses, then refuses again, and then a third time by placing a hand on his wrist and moves it toward Katy. He gently places the fish in her bowl, then follows with sauce.

The way into a woman’s heart, Shangqi thinks. His face tightens involuntarily.

“Thanks Shaun,” Katy says, and then she takes the serving spoon he’s just put down and returns the gesture. “I know you don’t really eat fish, but it’s honestly hella good, man. And if you don’t like it, I’ll take it back!”

Shangqi wants to refuse, but he can’t with the way Katy’s grandma looks on with that gentle, exepectant smile on her face. He feels the entire family watching him as he lifts his chopsticks to his mouth.

He’s hit with a flood of textures, flavors, memories, emotions balling up in his throat and welling up in his eyes. He chews and chews, and then chews more because his throat is stopped up and he can’t swallow.

“Uh, you good, Shaun?” Katy asks.

Shangqi nods. His lips tremble and his nose begins to run, but he chews and chews until his esophagus permits passage. His belt constricts around his waist, but he takes bite after bite, small ones, as if to stem the cascade of memories.

Steam in his lungs, sweat on brows. Heat. The serving spoon they had at home scooped the perfect squares of flounder for their mother’s bowl. Bowls of rice on his mother’s altar. Fragrant ginger and scallion bringing water to his mouth and eyes. Xialing’s sniffs resonate in his ears–no, it’s him, he’s taking short, sharp sniffles to keep the deluge at bay.

He sees through blurry eyes the concerned faces around him. Shangqi uses enormous effort to manage a nods and smile between the tears threatening to spill and chewing. He takes a moment to swallow down the emotions before he reassures them that these are good tears.

Everyone relaxes, straightens their posture, and the air in the room lightens.

After the good tears come the sadness, the regrets, the mourning, the longing, until they all mix together, and Shangqi can’t tell why the tears keep flowing. 是家的味道, the elders say to each other knowingly, nostalgia in their sighs of a place in their hearts, remembered in the flavors of their food; the taste of home.

[dameronology]

all love {steve rogers}

summary: you had a lot to say to steve rogers after he left. finally, you get your chance. 

warnings: angst, mentions of death

believe it or not, this version is actually the one with the happier ending than all the other ideas i had. so pls don’t hate me, bc this ain’t fluff :) 

- jazz xx

Steve Rogers was a complicated man.

You knew that. You could see it in his eyes because you were just as complicated too. It was a blessing and a curse, really; it meant that you understood him just as much as you didn’t; sympathised with him just as much as you struggled. His emotions were clear as day and somehow, still twisted and unintelligible like a tangle of rainclouds in the middle of a stormy night. The history behind his blue eyes was long and confusing and it was unfair to expect you to decipher it when Steve could barely do it himself. He’d lived about a thousand lifetimes in the span of time that most people lived one - so you gave in on understanding, and chose to just love him instead.

It was easier that way, to just take it day by day and unpack his baggage as the super soldier saw fit. Sometimes it was hours and hours of talking; long and late nights, filled with tired eyes and the smell of caffeine. Stolen glances met with soft giggles and recounts of the war, the good times and the bad. Other times, it was more twisted. Deeper and darker. Strangled screams and cries lost to the night, large hands reaching for the gun under his pillow that posed the question of how fucking long has that been there, Steve? 

In time, the good was worth the bad. You must had the patience of a fucking saint, because Steve finally stopped mourning for the past and began to look to the future. You hadn’t made solid plans -- that was foolish in your line of work. Between fighting aliens and robots, you were both blessed to have even made it this far. So, the day by day method worked in that sense too, and any big plans always became maybe. Maybe we’ll have kids one. Maybe we’ll move out of Brooklyn and to the suburbs. Maybe we’ll find a nice house with a picket fence and a garden big enough for Bucky to run around in. 

What you had was beautiful, in the most complicated way. Because Steve Rogers was a perplexing man, but before that, he was kind and funny and sweet. He looked after you and you looked after him. Wrote you letters on long missions and left little notes for everyday that he was away. Sent you the dumbest good morning texts and the sweetest good night ones. For every emotional pitfall that you found yourselves in, Steve would turn up with a rope, even if he’d been the one to dig the hole in the first place. 

It went more than just skin deep, twisting your souls together in some kind of emotional vortex that you wouldn’t have thought to be true had you not witnessed alien invasions and everything that followed. In fact, it was the everything that followed that you pushed you together even more - because it was the blip that had made you and Steve realised fucking important what you had was. 

Those had been desperate moments. Painful, desperate moments. One minute, you’d been watching Wanda Maximoff cry out in pain for her lost love, and then she was gone. So was Bucky. And T’Challa. And Stephen Strange. In mere seconds; so quickly that your brain couldn’t even comprehend what was going on. It was as though somebody had turned your brain off for a few seconds - and when it rebooted, all you could think about was Steve. 

You didn’t remember much from the seconds that followed, other than the burning in your lungs from how impossibly fast you had run, and how soar your throat was from screaming out his name. Then your bodies had collided with a thud, and you’d been met with a solid chest. Warm arms and big hands, that were completely and entirely there and not being dusted away. You’d never clung onto him so tightly, barely able to breath from how hard reality had just hit you. But he held onto you, and kept you standing - a metaphor which would stick to the next five years in the most bittersweet way. 

The first few months were hard. Hard to stomach, hard to accept, hard to mourn. Everyone was floating around one another, still struggling to truly get over the fact that for once, the Avengers hadn’t won. You hadn’t gotten cocky, but after the Chitauri, and after Ultron, you had become hopeful. Nobody could blame you. Hope was all you’d had, really. 

You found a routine. Steve found a reason to live in you, and you’d found an inkling of ambition in him. After a few months in the Compound, you’d gone back to your apartment in Manhattan. You’d never been more grateful to have it -- because when the entire world had changed around you, at least one thing was still the same. You could shut the door and lock it behind you, just existing as you always had in those four walls. The rest of the world didn’t matter, because it just you, and it was Steve, and that was the world. It was your world, and it was his. 

After everything becoming so unpredictable, the stability that his presence brought was everything you needed. It cemented your need for one another - your love for another. 

But unpredictably has a funny way of working, doesn’t it? 

Never in a million years would you have imagined that the thing brought you closer would have been the thing to tear you apart. That restoring the world back to the state you’d longed for would bring an end to the only thing you thought was certain. You’d calculated every outcome of reversing the blip, thought about every way that it was everything you’d ever wanted. Finally, everything you’d lost would come back, and you and Steve could live as you always wanted. In the world you wanted. 

But he wasn’t there. 

One possibility you hadn’t considered was that Steve would have access to the time stone. You were both getting back to the world’s your mourned for, but they weren’t the same. You’d only been mourning the last five years, whilst Steve had been mourning the last seven decades. Somewhere along the long, you’d convinced yourself that the little bubble you’d built for yourselves was enough to cushion that. That your relationship, and your love, was enough compensation for the fact he’d lost everything. 

Because Steve was good with words, but not quite enough to express to you how truly out of time he’d been. You saw the way his eyes glazed over when he spoke of the forties, but you couldn’t feel the pain in his chest when he heard an old record. You couldn’t fathom the suffocation he felt every time he saw pictures of his lost friends, or the weight on his chest that losing Peggy Carter had given him. It had alleviated slightly when he met you, but truthfully speaking, Steve Rogers hadn’t taken a deep breath since the final moments before his plane hit the ice in 1945. 

The pain you felt when you realised that he’d well and truly left you for his old life was minute compared to what he’d been feeling since he woke up all those years ago. It didn’t matter, because pain was pain regardless. His relief didn’t negate your suffering. And, if you’d ever been wondering what you would have felt if you had lost Steve in the blip, you needn’t had looked any further. This was worst than him dying. This was worst than him slipping away with millions of others, because he’d chosen to do it. He’d thought about you, and everything you’d tried to give him, and he’d decided it wasn’t enough. 

You didn’t get it at first. Couldn’t sympathise with his situation - but let’s face it. Who the fuck could? It wasn’t like there was a WikiHow article on how to get over the love of your life time travelling back to the 1940s and leaving you in ruins. For the first time since you’d met Steve all those years ago, you were forced to process all your emotional trauma on your own. To stand on your own two feet without his broad arms supporting you in the way they had on the battlefield in Wakanda. 

It took time. You processed it with time. Drank a lot, cried a lot, screamed a lot. Found solace in your friendships with Bucky and Sam; even if they’d been a little much at first, forcing you to share the payload of your pain with them had helped. At times, it was like going to group therapy with Spongebob and Patrick, but you held them close to your heart. You learnt to find joy and appreciation in other things, and to tune out Steve, and the mention of his name.

That was until March 2021, almost two years to the day that he had left you standing on the lakeside in the Compound. You’d been driving home from work and his name had been mentioned on the radio - Captain America, former war hero and super soldier, has died aged 103. 

It didn’t sting too much. You’d mourned Steve Rogers a long time ago - at least the version of him that you knew.  It made your chest hurt a little that he was truly and completely gone, and that you would never have a chance to talk to him. You’d toyed with the idea of going to visit him in his old age. Part of you wanted to know if he remembered you, even if for him, everything you’d had together had been decades ago. Even though you’d existed together in the future, your life together was cemented entirely in the past the minute you’d went back. Decades had passed before you existed at the same time again, and you wondered if time had been enough for him to forget. Two years for you had been seventy for him. It was thought that had made you shy away from ever talking to him, because you didn’t want to know. You were scared of the answer. 

Maybe that was why you were only seeing him now; on a rainy day, when the man you’d once loved was six feet under and surrounded by a ridiculous headstone you knew he would hate. The air around you was cool, sky tinged grey and a few droplets splashing against the grey stone, making it turn a slightly darker shade. There were no tears; just a deep sigh, and an awkward shuffle as you wriggled your toes in your boots and thought about what the fuck you wanted to say. 

‘Hey, Cap.’ You murmured. ‘Can I call you that? I used to call you babe. No, I don’t know why I said that. That’s fucking weird. Like this whole situation, because somehow, even though I’ve dealt with aliens and gods, saying goodbye to you is one I was never truly prepared for.’ 

Your eyes fell to the floor, and you continued. ‘You suck, Steve Rogers. You really fucking suck. You know that, right? That it’s a dick move to go back to your old life without even leaving a note? Or a text? Heck, I would have been happy if you spelt it out on the fridge in magnets.’ 

‘It’s okay, though.’ You smiled. ‘I’m not mad anymore. Okay, maybe I am a little, but not as I used to be. I understand why you did it, but I also get that I’ll never understand at all. I’ll never get how existing in a time that wasn’t yours felt, or how out of place you must have been in a world seventy years ahead of what you knew.’

‘And I’m sorry, I guess. Sorry that I didn’t try harder, but also sorry that whatever I tried to give you wasn’t enough to make up for what you’d lost.’ You sniffed. ‘This is where you’d tell me to shut up and stop being so hard on myself. So I will, because we’re both at peace now and that’s the most important thing.’

There were a few tears then; not for the man beneath you, but for the man that had left you. When all the anger subsided, you realised that above all, you just missed him. You missed the late night conversations when you couldn’t sleep, and you missed how warm he felt beside you when you did finally drift off. You missed the way he laughed at your driving skills and the way he would eat your side salad because you hated it. You longed to his hear his singing in the shower in the morning, and to squeal at him for pressing his cold feet to your back to wake you up. 

‘Above all, Steve Rogers, I’m just grateful I had you, even for a few years.’ You took a deep breath. ‘The pain I felt when you left was unbearable, but it wasn’t permanent. The memories you gave me, and the love I felt for you? That’s gonna stay with me forever.’ 

You wiped away a few tears, smiling to yourself when the clouds above you cleared slightly. The grey ones that had been lingering all morning had shifted slightly, allowing for the sunlight to peak through and cast a glow over your surroundings. Tiny, dewy raindrops lingered on the grass, enveloping the world around you in the smell of petrichor and relief. You’d never believed in fate, or the afterlife, or messages from the underworld, but that? You hadn’t felt a rush like that the last time you woke up beside him.

‘So, thanks I guess.’ You glanced up at the sky, blinking under the bright sun. ‘And rest easy, Cap.’ 

[fabulouspotatosister]

is it still you?

summary: getting left behind is never easy. being found is even harder.

word count:  6,127

gif(s) by: @gabrielokun, @elenaglbert​

a/n: hello there, everyone! welcome to my first proper fic since the school year started! you might have seen this on that wip title game i did a little while back, and here it is! thank you to @penguinwithitsarseonfire​ for reminding me that this idea even existed and inspiring me to write it :0 hope you’re all doing well lovelies!

~ o ~

“Amy, I’ll be fine.”

Amy rested against the console, one delicate eyebrow raised as she watched you hover by the Doctor’s side. You were watching him tinker with something on the console, but you could still feel Amy boring holes into you. “Right, just in case we forget the last time you said you were gonna be fine - remind me again why you’re the one doing this?”

“Because I’ve done it a bunch of times!” You glanced up at Amy, then shrunk back at her piercing gaze. You were definitely being judged. You swallowed the urge to say “sorry, mom”. “Reconnaissance. Right, Doctor?”

“Right,” the Doctor replied, sounding slightly distracted. He was peering at what looked like an earbud through a magnifying glass. His coat lay abandoned, flung carelessly over one of the chairs in the console room. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and a pair of large circular goggles rested over his face as he worked. He was cute, but you’d never say that to his face. “I’ve tracked the weapon to this planet, but they’re a hivemind - if they see me, they’ll raise an alarm. I need you to be my eyes and ears.”

“Aye aye, captain,” you said cheerfully, raising a hand to your forehead in a mock salute. “Racked up your fair share of enemies, huh?”

“Oh, you know me.” The Doctor poked at the earbud-thingie with a sparking device. “I’m like James Bond.”

“You wish you were like James Bond,” Amy piped up. 

“Oi!” The Doctor looked up, indignation written over his face even through the huge goggles. “I’d make a great spy.”

Amy grinned at you. Something dangerous glittered in her eyes. “You’d trip over those laser things and set off a bomb with those limbs of yours.” 

The Doctor made a frustrated noise, and buried his nose in the magnifying glass again. 

“Okay, maybe not James Bond,” you said. You let your hand rest on his shoulder, trying not to jostle him as he started connecting some very thin wires. “I think you’ve got the gadgets down, though. You’d be the Quartermaster.”

“The man in the chair,” the Doctor muttered. 

“Yeah, the man in the chair,” you repeated. Absentmindedly, you let your hand wander, travelling down his back slightly. The Doctor went still. “You’ve got a very important job.”

“...Yep.” The Doctor’s voice was strained. 

“Okay, enough, lovebirds,” Amy said. She raised a finger before the Doctor could protest against the “lovebirds” comment. “Is she gonna be gone long?”

“Hopefully not,” the Doctor answered. “Just long enough for me to find out where they’ve landed so I can shut off their queen. It shouldn’t be too far. Twenty minutes, tops. And - aha!”

The Doctor grinned widely at you, pushing the goggles off his face. “That should do it. Look -” He plucked the earbud from the console and beamed at it. “Your very own communicator. Brand new! You don’t even need your phone.” It gleamed silver as he turned it over in his hands. “It links up directly to the TARDIS so we can hear you twenty-four-seven. Or seventy-two seven here.”

“It’s beautiful,” you said, and if it was possible, the Doctor beamed brighter. You reached out to take it, but the Doctor moved forward before you could snatch it from his hand.

“Hang on, let me,” the Doctor said softly. He leaned down, brushing his hand against your hair, and you shuddered. Some kind of heavy silence fell over the two of you as he tucked a piece of hair behind your ear and gently pushed the communicator in - it fit snugly, almost like it was made for you. Which it was. When he spoke again, his voice was hushed. “There we go.”

Amy met your gaze. Lovebirds, she mouthed.

Shut up, you mouthed back. 

The Doctor ran to the other side of the console, picking up the telephone and quickly punching in some numbers. There was the whining sound of feedback in your ear. He tapped the receiver, and the soft tap tap tap felt like someone tapping directly on your brain. “Can you hear this?”

“Loud and clear.” He tapped again, and you winced. “Ow.”

“Sorry,” the Doctor said. He raised the phone to his lips and spoke again, but quieter. The sound sent shivers down your spine, and you tried not to visibly tremble. “It doubles as a tracker, so I’ll know exactly where you are.”

“Useful,” you squeaked out. Amy waggled her eyebrows at you, and you didn’t have the strength to tell her to stop. “Anything else?”

“Nope!” the Doctor said, setting down the phone with a thunk. “Alright! I think you’re all set, mission control.”

You frowned. “I thought you were mission control.”

The Doctor opened his mouth, as if to say something, but caught himself. He settled on smiling instead, the corners of his lips turning up meekly. “My mistake. You’ve been mission control before, I just…”

“Yeah, when you lost the TARDIS with me in it,” you said, giving him the gentlest smile you could muster. “Remember that? Good times.”

The Doctor hummed in reply. He shifted in place, staring at you, his hands hanging limply by his sides. In the dim, yellowish light of the TARDIS interior, you couldn’t tell if he was blushing or not. He stood there for a moment, his lips slightly parted, seemingly lost in thought.

“Hey,” you ventured. The Doctor jumped at the sound of your voice, his gaze darting up to meet yours. “You okay?”

“Always,” he said quickly. “I’m just seeing you off. That’s what I’m doing.”

He was not, in fact, just seeing you off. This was typical Doctor behavior - he was dodging the question. It was almost frustrating, but the way he looked like he was pouting took the edge off the frustration a little bit. But only a little bit. “Are you worried?”

“Me?” The Doctor pulled a confident face, the one he put on when he wasn’t. “Never.”

If you weren’t looking at the Doctor, really looking at him, you would have believed him. But then there was rule one - after some time, the Doctor had turned into an open book for you. The way he stood, very still when he was usually bouncing off the walls, told a different story.

You met his eyes, and something shifted. His face morphed, from confident to bittersweet, to an expression that looked almost mournful. He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Oh, bugger it,” the Doctor muttered under his breath. 

“Doctor - oh!”

He grabbed your arm and pulled you towards him, pulling you flush against his chest. He wrapped his arms around your shoulders and squeezed. He dipped his head down onto your shoulders, his face disappearing into your neck. Amy whistled, but you didn’t hear her - you were too busy focusing on feeling the Doctor’s lips on your skin, and his breath, warm against it, and - well -

“I wasn’t expecting that,” you gasped out.

The Doctor didn’t reply - just squeezed tighter. This face was most definitely a hugger, but they were mostly short and sweet. Little celebratory hugs. These hugs were reserved for certain moments, and certain people. 

“I’m the man in the chair, of course I’m worried,” he finally muttered. “It’s sort of my job.”

“You’ll keep me safe,” you said. You leaned back, and the Doctor lifted his head to look at you. “Mission control, remember? You’ll be there to guide me.”

The Doctor peered at you. “You trust me,” he said quietly, like he couldn’t believe it.

“After all this time, how could I not?” You gave him another soft smile. “You’re trusting me to do this, I’m trusting you to keep me safe.”

“Just -” The Doctor sighed, ragged, and squeezed his eyes shut. When they opened, they were filled with a familiar concern. “Promise me you’ll be careful. I can’t lose you too.”

The last part was nearly a whisper. The sound of his voice tugged at your heart. 

“You won’t,” you said, pulling away from his embrace. Disappointment flickered in the Doctor’s eyes as you stepped backwards towards the doors. “Ever.”

“Okay,” the Doctor said. He looked you over, his expression turning serious. “Ready?”

You nodded. “On your signal, captain.”

A grin slowly spread across the Doctor’s face, childlike. “Captain. I like the sound of that.”

Amy ran up to you, pulling you into another quick hug. She looked just as concerned as the Doctor when she pulled away, holding your face protectively. “Seriously, be safe, alright? I don’t want to be stuck with him without you.”

“Noted,” you replied, and Amy brightened.

“My company isn’t that bad, is it?” the Doctor asked. 

“It’s unbearable,” you joked, and the Doctor pouted. Amy laughed, you laughed, and eventually the Doctor joined in too, chuckling quietly under his breath.

The TARDIS doors swung open slowly, and a gust of cold air burst through them. You walked backwards, waving your fingers at the two in a two-fingered salute, and creeped quietly through the doors.

The first thing that startled you was the smell. The familiar smell of wet grass. A light drizzle fell on your skin, and you looked up. The sky was dark and full of stars - in the distance, you could see the faint lights of flickering street lamps and lit up windows. You could hear the faint sounds of people chattering and cars passing through the night. All of these things were things you knew -

“Doctor, we’re not in the right place,” you said, tapping your earpiece. 

A feedback whine, then the Doctor’s voice, loud and clear as if he was beside you. “What? No, the coordinates were right, I checked -”

“Check again.” Something felt off. You took a hesitant step backward, your back resting against the TARDIS doors. “This is Earth.”

“No, it can’t be,” the Doctor said, incredulous.

“I can see houses in the distance,” you said, “human houses. Unless this is a really convincing simulation, I’m really sure we’ve just landed back on my home planet.”

“Why’d you send us here, old girl?” he asked quietly, probably to the TARDIS. You could faintly hear the TARDIS hum and beep in reply. Then, sharply: “What?” 

"Doctor?” you asked. You tried to keep the fear from creeping into your voice.

“Come back inside, quickly,” the Doctor snapped. 

The urgency in his voice scared the hell out of you, and you straightened, whirling around to face the doors. The handles rattled, but the doors didn’t budge. “I can’t,” you gasped. 

“They’re not locked.” The Doctor’s voice sounded strange through the earpiece. It was getting fuzzier, the ends of his sentences tapering off into silence. “I’ve unlocked them, you should be able to get inside -”

You moved to try again… and your hand passed right through the door handle. You stumbled forward, shocked, and stared at your hand like it was the one that had turned transparent. Then the air started shimmering, and you heard the beautiful wheezing and singing of the TARDIS’s engines -

It was leaving you behind.

“No, no -” Your voice was like molasses in your mouth. You pressed yourself against the doors. They were still solid, still there. The door handles were impossible to grab now, just a faint image in the air, and a sob crawled up your throat. “Doctor, don’t leave!”

A yell ripped through the earpiece, and you winced - the Doctor only ever raised his voice when he was furious. You curled your fists and pressed them against the doors. 

“This can’t be happening, this -” Another strangled noise. It sounded like a sob, and your eyes blurred with tears. “Stay put,” the Doctor said, his voice trembling with emotion. 

If you imagined hard enough you could feel him on the other side of the door. “Okay,” you replied shakily, and sniffed. 

“I’ll come find you.” The Doctor sounded like a broken man. Your name falling from his lips sounded like a promise. “I -”

His voice cut off, and the TARDIS was gone.

You pitched forward and didn’t even bother to put up a fight - your knees buckled underneath you, and you fell onto your knees in the wet grass. Sharp rocks dug into your skin. You could barely feel their jagged edges. You looked up at the night sky as the drizzle slowly eased into a rainstorm, and suddenly your home planet had never felt so alien before. 

“Doctor?” you whimpered, your voice impossibly small. It was foolish, thinking the Doctor could hear you, but you didn’t care - “Doctor, can you hear me?”

Nothing. You were soaked now, raindrops running down your face and blurring with your tears. Biting back another sob, you tried again. “Please - come back, okay?”

The silence was deafening. 

You didn’t know how long you had spent in the rain. Long enough for the lights in the windows to shut off, one by one; long enough for chattering and the sounds of passing cars to quiet down; long enough for the rain to fall even harder than before. Long enough for you to stop shivering from the cold, and long enough -

Long enough for something to block the onslaught of the rain. Blearily, you looked up at the face of a young woman in a police uniform, holding an umbrella over the both of you.

“Ma’am, are you alright?” she asked softly. The tone of her voice was enough to make you start bawling again, as if you hadn't spent the last hour just crying your eyes out. “You shouldn’t be out here in the rain.”

“I know, I just -” How could you explain this to her? “I’m lost,” was what you settled on. 

The woman’s face brightened in a reassuring smile. “Not to worry, I'm here to help."

You nodded, bringing yourself to your feet. The policewoman held out her hand for support, and you wrapped your hands around her arm. You didn’t trust your legs to keep you upright right now. “Sorry, weird question, but - where am I?”

She probably thought you were drunk. That was a better alternative than the truth. “Sheffield,” the policewoman replied.

You hoped she was ready for an even weirder question - “What year is it?”

 A year passed. Settling in was easy enough - thankfully, you had your wallet and phone on you when you arrived back on Earth. All it took was a quick call back home, some trips back and forth to move your things, some paperwork, and you were officially a Sheffield citizen. 

You kept the earpiece. Found a way to wear it around your neck like some kind of ornament. It looked pretty enough, but it was hard to move on when you had a reminder of him resting like a weight on your heart everyday. 

You had tried talking into it on some days, on rainy days that reminded you of the day you were left behind. Sometimes, if you listened hard enough, you could hear faint conversation, sometimes laughter.

Maybe he’d forgotten. Maybe he’d found another companion. Maybe he had gone off to find that Clara girl. It was none of your business now, and yet -

You could’ve gone back to your actual home. But it was so hard to leave - it was hard to leave when the Doctor’s last words had been stay put. Your rational brain tried to convince you that he could find you wherever you were, but there was just something that was keeping you from leaving. 

Yasmin Khan was the policewoman’s name, and she was your very first friend in Sheffield. She’d been the one to help you adjust, and had been the one to help you find a job - as a receptionist in a hospital. 

It was a little funny, working with doctors when none of them were him.

A bolt of lightning lit up the sky. You turned to look out your window - there was no rain, and yet the rumbling sound of thunder echoed across the land. Absentmindedly, you brushed your fingers against the earpiece. It was worn now, from all the constant sentimental holding. 

Your phone chimed. A weather forecast - scattered thunderstorms, it read. And your lock screen - a still image of you and the Doctor that Amy had taken, once upon a time. You were on your tippy toes, adjusting the Doctor’s bow tie with an exaggerated focused look on your face, while the Doctor just stood there, flustered.

They say take a picture, it lasts longer. You still had pictures of all your travels. They felt like tourist pictures, posing in front of alien architecture and making silly faces at otherworldly flora and fauna. They lay buried under pictures of paperwork and cute kids that came into the office, but they were still there.

A year. It would be seconds to him, but an eternity for you - and you couldn’t live an eternity hanging on to just memories of him. Your finger hovered above the delete button.

Sorry, Doctor, you thought. The mere idea of just deleting pictures made you feel sad, then you sniffed indignantly. You had to move on some time, and if it could be now, then -

Knock knock knock!

“Who is it?” you called. There was shuffling behind the door, and a hushed argument. “Hello?”

“Hello!” That voice sounded familiar - it was Grace, Grace Sinclaire, who used to be a nurse and someone that you worked with and who was notoriously really nice - “It’s me! Could you open up, love?”

“Coming!” you called back. You ran a hand through your hair and rubbed your face, wondering why she would be at your door at this hour when she should have been heading home with Graham -

You swung the door open and very nearly dropped your phone.

It was Grace, alright - Grace and her grandson Ryan, who was carrying an unconscious woman in his arms.

“Grace, what the -” you floundered. “What’s going on?”

“We need your help,” she said, and gestured to the woman in Ryan’s arms. “Can we come in?”

You were gaping now, craning your neck to try and get a good look at this woman’s face. “You need to take her to A and E, not to my house! I can drive you there, if that’s what you need -”

“I said that too,” Grace said slowly, like she was bracing to drop a bomb on you. “But right before she fell, she said -”

“Said she didn’t trust anywhere that was just initials,” Ryan finished, glancing down at the woman and then back to Grace, who gave you a sympathetic look. “She said your name.”

You swallowed. How -

“No.” An incredulous smile spread across your face, and you shook your head. “No, you’re kidding.”

“It’s true,” Ryan said. 

“...I don’t know this woman,” you said nervously.

“She knows you,” Grace said, almost pleading. “Please, love.”

There was no reason for them to be lying - the shell shocked expression on Ryan’s face was enough to tell you that he was absolutely telling the truth, whether you liked it or not.

And something that the Doctor had taught you - never refuse a call for help - echoed in your brain.

“Put her on the sofa,” you said quickly. “I’ll go get blankets.”

A few minutes later, you had a stranger lying limply on your sofa. 

She didn’t even make a noise when she was laid down. You laid a floral blanket over her middle, and it settled over her clothes - clothes that were obviously too big for her. The sight rang a bell in the back of your mind, of a night where a man climbed out of his broken ship in a past life’s clothes, clumsy and new -

There was a pull to her that you couldn’t resist. You sat down near her, gently taking her head in your hands and guiding it onto your lap like it was second nature to you. Her skin was warm, almost flushed, blonde hair falling over a surprisingly beautiful face.

Grace crouched down near the woman. “Do you know her?”

You stared at the woman’s face. Your answer would have been no, but now you weren’t so sure. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from her even if you tried - and you were trying. Very hard.

Your hands found their way into her hair, and soon you were running your fingers through it like it was the most natural thing to do. “I don’t know.”

“You look like you do,” Grace’s voice was soft. “You look at her like you’ve known her all your life.”

Your head shot up, and Grace just shrugged. She had a small smile on her lips as she reached for the woman’s arm.

“How do you know that?” 

“I can tell,” Grace said simply. “That’s how Graham looks at me, sometimes.”

There was a beat of silence as she took the woman’s pulse, then she gasped - “Ryan - look.”

The woman’s skin was glowing gold. 

“Whoah,” Ryan said. The woman’s eyebrows were pinched together, a small crease forming between the two of them. Gold patterns swirled under her skin, pulsing like starlight, and you jerked your hands away from her like she would burn you. 

Grace looked up at you, her eyes wide. “She’s got two separate pulses.”

The woman’s arm fell limply at her side as she exhaled - golden dust fell from her lips, floating around like a miniature star in the room. You followed it with your eyes, your mouth hanging open for what must have been the third time that hour.

“Oh my God, what is that?” Ryan asked, moving out of the way.

Grace stared. “I have no idea.”

But you had an idea. You knew. Only one person did that. Only one alien did that. If this was who you thought she was, then -

Suddenly, the woman shot up, sitting bolt upright, breaking you out of your racing thoughts - she clutched her collarbone, gasping, eyes wild and searching. “Who woke me up? I’m not ready - still healing, still -”

Still healing. Your mind was still reeling, still trying to pick up the pieces - her voice was so painfully familiar, and now you knew why. You reached out, placing your hands on your shoulders to soothe her. She startled under your touch.

“You’re alright, you’re fine,” you soothed. A part of you was saying that to yourself. “You’re safe, yeah? Look at me.”

The woman whirled to face you, and you shrunk back. Her eyes were striking, green flecked with yellow and brown. It looked like a galaxy.

“Safe - you…” The woman breathed, staring into your eyes. She stared for what seemed like forever, her gaze locked onto yours, searching your face for something. Then something shifted - her eyebrows quirked up, then pulled down, her face morphing from shocked to confused to mournful. 

“Oh,” the woman said. “Oh no, I’m too late, am I?”

Too late for what? you wanted to ask, but the woman had shot up again, crouching like a bird on the sofa.

"Can you smell that?” she asked, then stopped, one hand coming to press against her collarbone. “No, not smell. Not hear. Feel. Can you feel…” She trailed off, her expression serious. “Stay still, Ryan.”

“What is it? What’s the matter?” he asked quickly. The woman leapt forward to pull down Ryan’s shirt slightly. She exhaled, a worried noise, and spun to face the others.

“Show me your collarbones,” she said, a touch of authority in her voice. Everyone else in the room pulled down their shirts slightly, and you gasped. Small glowing dots, pulsing with a magenta light. You’d only ever heard of those kinds of devices, whispered in the dark alleyways of alien cities, hidden under layers of conspiracy.

“Oh, you’ve all got them,” the woman breathed out, eyes wide.

“So have you,” Ryan pointed out, and the woman looked down. Another blinking light on her collarbone. She made a face.

“Yeah, I have. Okay.” The woman inhaled sharply, straightening her posture, preparing to give bad news. You knew that posture. “Really sorry. Not good news. DNA bombs.”

You rose slowly from your chair. “What?”

The woman cocked her head towards you as she walked in a circle around everyone else, her hands behind her back. “Microimplants which code to your DNA. On detonation, they disrupt the foundation of your genetic code, melting your DNA.”

“But -” you spoke, and everyone’s eyes were on you. “But those are illegal in almost every galaxy, right?”

An unspoken how did you know that hung in the air, but the woman just nodded, her lips pressed together grimly. She reached out to press against Ryan’s glowing dot. “Right.”

Ryan’s eyes widened. “How did we get them?” 

“Nevermind that, are they gonna go off?” Graham asked. 

The woman grimaced. “Quiet. I’m trying to think, it’s difficult -” Her expression changed, her eyes big and searching and so very new. “Brain and body still rebooting, reformatting… oh, reformatting! Can I borrow that?”

“Yeah, I guess so, but what for?”

The woman had reached over and grabbed Ryan’s phone. She was tinkering with it, her brows knit as she focused. “That creature. On the train. When you two came onboard, it zapped us all with these. Simple plan to take out witnesses. Very clever.”

“Merciless,” you piped up.

“But clever,” the woman continued. The phone beeped a few times, and the woman gasped, then held it up proudly. “I reformatted your phone!”

“No! All my stuff’s on there,” Ryan groaned, but the woman just grinned. 

“Not anymore!” She said cheerfully. 

She held the phone to her collarbone - there was a loud zap, then she was knocked back against the wall like she had been thrown. She looked up at everyone, gasping. 

“That nap did me the world of good. Very comfy sofa,” she said, breathless. She glanced down at the phone, gasped again, and then scrambled to her feet. She yanked her coat from one of your chairs, and headed for the door - “Come on, keep up!” 

Everyone stopped to stare at each other, then quickly turned to follow. You took a few steps forward, the woman still drawing you towards her - “Wait, let me come with you -”

The woman turned to face you, already halfway out of your door. She shook her head. “No.”

You frowned. “No?”

She stared for another moment, and you saw it - the familiar gleam of concern, of protectiveness that you had seen at least a billion times in another face. The way her mouth dragged downward and her eyebrows knitted together, an expression somewhere between angry and worried. Your breath caught in your throat, your outstretched hand frozen in place. 

“I’m not putting you in danger again,” the woman said, determined. “I don’t know why. Think I’ll find out later. But you -” Her gaze burned you, with eyes that seemed so old and so new at the same time. “You have to be safe,” she continued. “Please. Stay put.”

It sounded like a promise. The woman glanced down at your hand while you lowered it, drawing it close to your chest.

“Okay,” you said. “Go. I won’t keep you.”

The woman nodded. “Thank you.”

And then she was gone, driving off into the night with everyone else. 

You didn’t rest easy that night. Lightning flashed and crackled across the sky without any rain. You jumped every time the sky lit up - too on edge to be calm at all, too confused to try and get some rest - your hand thumbing the silver earpiece that still hung around your neck, strangely warm to the touch.

“This can’t be happening, this - stay put -”

“Please. Stay put.”

“Doctor,” you whispered. 

 Grace’s funeral was a few days after that.

At first glance, it didn’t seem like a funeral. The place was covered in balloons. There wasn’t a hint of melancholy in the air - the sun was shining bright through the windows of the church, not a single cloud in sight. No sign of the lightning from the days before. It was almost like the world had moved on.

You decided not to sit in the front. Tried not to think about the Grace that had brought the Doctor to your doorstep. Tried not to think about you had never thanked her for bringing her back to you. Instead you thought about happy, knowing Grace, and hoped that she could hear you, wherever she was now.

You found Ryan standing near the doors of the church. He was waiting - your heart clenched at the sight. Steeling yourself, you moved to comfort him -

And you stopped in your tracks. The Doctor walked up to him slowly, her hands in her pockets. Ryan glanced at her in acknowledgement. 

“What time did your dad say he’d get here?” the Doctor asked softly. 

Ryan kept on looking out, searching. “Two hours ago.”

“If he said he’ll come -” That was the Doctor, always trying to comfort -

“He says a lot of things,” Ryan said, gruffly. “He’s never been the best at being reliable. I mean how can he not be here? She’s his mum. She would have wanted him here.”

The Doctor nodded, pursing her lips. She kept that empathetic look in her eyes as she gazed up at him, not knowing what to say. That was another familiar thing that hurt. She still was so kind, still out to help others in need.

“I want him here,” Ryan finished. 

That was you, once upon a time. But things had changed, and you weren’t the one that left.

The Doctor’s gaze flickered to where you were, standing just a few feet away. Your eyes met for a second, and something passed over the Doctor’s face. Recognition. Her mouth opened like she wanted to call out for you, her mouth forming over the syllables of your name - 

You turned on your heel and walked away before she could see the tears forming in your eyes.

The door shuddered in its frame as you slammed it behind you. Stupid, getting emotional over her when you were supposed to be moving on like she had - your hands clamped onto the earpiece, gripping onto the small device like it was a lifeline. You hadn’t noticed that you were shaking, or that you had fallen on your knees onto the floor. You took in quick, shallow breaths, blinking the tears away like your life depended on it.

The earpiece was cold in your palms. You tried to let the feeling ground you, but even just remembering what it was made you nearly tip over the edge -

Knock knock knock.

“Yes?” Your voice was rough, and you coughed. “So - sorry, who is it?”

There were some hushed voices. 

“Isn’t it so weird how they know each other?”

“Not the strangest thing anymore, after what’s happened.”

“Hush, both of you.”

Then - a soft call of your name, warm and everything you’d ever needed. 

“It’s me," the Doctor said. “Could you open the door?”

You stilled, not trusting your ears. This wasn’t the triumphant reunion that you had wanted for the past year. That fantasy had faded over time. And yet there was a spark of hope in your chest, threatening to set everything alight.

The Doctor spoke again, her voice impossibly gentle and impossibly the same. “Listen -” Her voice cracked, and you bit back a sob - “I know it’s been some time, but I am so so sorry -”

That was it. You rose to your feet, red eyes and runny nose be damned, and flung the door open.

“No,” you said, your voice thick with emotion. “No, don’t start.”

The Doctor’s beautiful new eyes widened a fraction. 

“Hello to you too,” she said quietly. She wasn’t as tall as she used to be - in fact, she was much shorter, so you didn’t have to crane your neck as much to take a good look at her face. She was dressed differently too, finally out of her raggedy clothes and into a new outfit that you’d say was cute, but never to her face. 

You blinked up at her, sniffed, and crossed your arms over your chest. “Don’t apologize.”

The Doctor frowned slightly. “I have to, I left you behind for - oh!”

You grabbed the Doctor by her new suspenders and pulled her against you so she was flush against your chest. You buried your face in the crook of her shoulder, throwing your arms around her neck. Someone - you weren’t sure who - maybe it was Ryan - whistled, but you didn’t hear him.

It took a moment for the Doctor to let her hands rest against your back. Maybe this face wasn’t much of a hugger. But she didn’t let go, and leaned in closer so her chin rested on your shoulder.

“Let me say sorry,” she whispered. “I promised I would keep you safe, promised I’d come back for you. You trusted me, and I let you down.”

“I didn’t think you were gonna come back,” you mumbled. You shifted, letting your cheek rest against her skin. “I thought you’d left me forever and I thought - I thought -”

“Hey,” the Doctor soothed, pulling away. She brought one hand up to rest on your cheek, her thumb delicately brushing tears away, and you sniffed again. You probably looked ridiculous. “I’m here. I’m sorry I took so long.”

You nodded. “Is it still you?”

The Doctor grinned, and the way it lit up the world around her made your heart do flips. “‘Course it’s still me.” She looked down at the earpiece resting against your chest and raised her eyebrows in surprise. “You kept the communicator.”

“I - I couldn’t throw it away,” you stammered, shrugging, “sentimental value. Or I just missed you. Maybe both.”

“Oh, you,” the Doctor said, her eyes glimmering. “You won’t need it anymore.”

Your hands shot up to grab it. You raised an eyebrow at the Doctor, whose grin was just growing wider and wider. You couldn’t help it - you let a smile slip onto your face. “Why is that?”

“Because I want you to come with me. Again.” The Doctor leaned backwards on the balls of her feet, and tucked her hands firmly back into her pockets. 

You felt like you’d just been kicked in the chest - all the air was suddenly gone from your lungs. Every last bit of eloquence that you’d had disappeared in an instant, and all you could manage was, “Uh.”

The Doctor smiled, a kind of nervous, polite smile. “What do you say?”

You could - take her hand and fly away with her again, like nothing had ever happened. Your gaze moved to behind her, where Graham, Ryan, and Yaz stood. They had seen this face before you did, and maybe - just maybe - 

“I can’t. Besides,” you gestured to the three of them, “you don’t need me anymore.”

The Doctor turned to face the three of them, and when she turned back to face you there was an intensity in her eyes that you weren’t a stranger to. The Doctor’s brows furrowed, and you curled in on yourself - that was something the Doctor never liked, when people put themselves down - but you thought it was the truth. 

The Doctor shook her head.

“Yes, I do,” she said simply. She leaned forward to press her lips against your forehead. It still felt magical. “I always have. Always will.”

She peered down at you, looking you right in the eyes, and you tried to find any sign that she was lying. Any sign that this was some kind of trick, some kind of fluke. 

But there she was, her voice gentle and earnest, one hand outstretched to take you back.

You took her hand and her lips quirked up just slightly. That same spark of hope instantly blossomed into a fire, comforting like a hearth on a cold winter evening. 

She led you outside, let you cross the hidden gap between a normal life and a life with her, again. Ryan, Graham and Yaz smiled as you stepped through, your hands intertwined with the Doctor’s.

“No ship, but at least I’ve got you,” the Doctor said cheerfully. Your head shot up to meet her sheepish expression, and you breathed out a laugh.

“The TARDIS? Really? Again?”

“Yep,” she replied, popping the “p” sound. You sighed deeply, but you couldn’t wipe the smile from your face. 

“Oh, you definitely know each other,” Yaz said, her eyes wide with amazement.

“Well? Just like old times,” the Doctor said. “Ready?”

“Aye-aye, captain,” you chirped, and the Doctor laughed.

And when all of you got spat out in the middle of space, in the split second between life and death, you met the Doctor’s gaze and grinned. Perhaps nothing had really changed at all. Perhaps this was just a new chapter.

Geronimo. 

[moonlit-imagines]

Headcanons for being Thor’s twin

Thor Odinson x twin!reader

warnings:

a/n: HSHSHHSHSHHSHSGS

prompt: @locke-writes: “Wait Lacey I have a headcanon idea if you’re willing to write it. Headcanons for being Thor’s twin??? Idk man I feel like that could be unbridled chaos”

okay, i believe that odin and frigga refused to tell the two of you who was born first

“either one of you could earn the throne, but you need to prove that you can handle the responsibility” -odin

jokes on him, neither of you cared for the opportunity to rule

you two were much better suited as warriors

you were both able to weild mjölnir, which created...disagreements

“i should have mjölnir! i lifted it first!” -you

“only because you pushed me out of the way!” -thor

“will you two just rip each other apart already?” -loki

speaking of loki, his pranks always exhausted you

especially when you appeared to have woken up in your twin brother’s body

“wh-what is this? LOKI!!!”

he always got a kick out of it

and the celebrations of victory? they never disappointed

“brother! another victory on the battlefield, but was there any other doubt?” -you

“of course not, y/n! at this rate, i don’t think we’ll ever fall!” -thor

“don’t put your hammer where your mouth is” -you

you and thor were definitely unstoppable fighting together, both blessed to be literal gods

“eyes front, thor! the fight’s not over yet!”

when you walked beside each other, sometimes you’d summon mjölnir to your hand

it always annoyed the hell out of him

“give that back”

“i don’t think i will”

“y/n, i’m serious”

“come and get it”

“that’s it!”

*swatting and wrestling in the middle of the hallway*

sometimes frigga would even catch the two of you arguing

“oh, my children. would you quit your bickering for just one moment?” -frigga

“but mother, y/n took my hammer!” -thor

“you’ll just have to learn how to share” -frigga

as the years flew by, there was always something crazy to occupy you

especially the day that thor had been banished, which hadn’t exactly gone as planned for loki

you were supposed to be banished, as well

“i suppose the future of the throne is your responsibility now, my child” -odin

“i...i don’t know what to say” -you

“but y/n doesn’t desire the throne one bit, i would have no problem stepping up, father” -loki

“we’ll deal with this later, brother” -you

you had to plan something with sif and the warrior’s three

yes, it was treason, but your brother would always be worth it. no matter how much you two argued, he was your other half

now you found yourself on earth, it was such an odd-looking place

and then you were chased by a destroyer

“thor, you must get to safety! i will not lose you again!” -you

“hi there, i’m jane...” -jane, obviously

“hello, lady jane! i’m y/n, thor’s twin!” *blocks debris* “i must go now!”

life didnt get much more simple after that, especially since loki had died (or so you thought) and the bifrost was completely destroyed, it would take a long time to fix any of the damages that asgard suffered

mourning over loki felt right and wrong at the same time, he betrayed you and your family, but you’d never stop loving him

he would always be your brother

as time went on, you had to visit earth once again because of...loki

“i should have known” -you

“yes, you should have” -thor

“you didn’t know, either!” -you

“and they call us petty?” -any SHIELD agent or avenger

loki mocked you when he was captured

“you were nothing but loved growing up, brother. what happened?” -you

“there was a shadow cast over me, thor’s shadow. don’t tell me you haven’t noticed it, either. odin only ever truly notices him and all of his feats” -loki

“you tell nothing but lies, loki. i won’t fall for them and i will not help you. you should stop while you’re ahead”

“so you agree that i’m ahead?”

threatening loki with mjölnir

ppl actually called mjölnir “thor’s hammer”

“i think you mean our hammer” -you

the battle of new york was admittedly terrifying, you knew loki had it in him, but seeing it in the moment just hurt you

it was possible you had a guilty conscience

but the avengers saved the day (mostly) and you brought loki and the tesseract home

and loki was sentenced to an eternity in prison

“hey, thor, think i’d have a shot at lady sif?” -you teasing the hell out of him

“shut up. you won’t make me jealous no matter what you say. my heart belongs to—” -thor

“the midgardian, i know”

you did sort of make him jealous tho ngl

aaanyways you pushed him to go see jane again, it had been too long to leave a midgardian waiting. their lives were short.

and you got to see her again! unfortunately you lost your mother that same day

and you were p i s s e d

murder? murder. (murder)

you may or may not have broke into the vault to get a weapon you could truly call your own

and then went against your better judgement and took loki to off-world with you

“y/n—” -loki

“shut up” -you

but you wish you had listened to what he had to say since you had the bear the loss of loki once again

now you had two family members to avenge

speaking of avenging, you steered clear of the avengers because......they were nuts

“y/n! you know, we could use another god like yourself on our team” -tony

“thor won’t help power your building, will he?” -you

“you got me” -tony

“so, you and thor are twins? who’s older?” -steve

“we actually don’t know!” -you

“oh...neat” -steve

“you know, thor was crying the first time he tried to lift that hammer of his” -clint

“i have no doubt about that” -you

“thor always talks about fighting in wars, but he never gives us any details. has he really fought wars?” -natasha

“oh, plenty of them! my brother and i have fought side by side in countless battles, you’ve even witnessed one! in new york!” -you

“how could i forget?” -nat

okay getting past all that, you focused on getting a headstart on some more *prophetic* instances that thor caught up to you on

and once you got back to asgard, you knew there was something wrong

“are you kidding me? loki? again?” -you

“hello, sibling. it’s nice to see you again” -loki

“why are you the way that you are?” -you

“that’s enough, y/n” -thor

✨going to midgard for odin who instead gave you a homicidal sister✨

hela was not nice at all. at ALL.

your heart broke when she shattered mjölnir

and loki made a bad call to open the bifrost for the whole odinspawn family

and next thing you knew, you were on sakaar

“thor? what the hell?” -you

“y/n! oh, it’s so good to see you! help me out here, please!” -thor

“i’m sorry, brother, but me and loki have been playing the loving brother/sibling act to keep it civil. this place...it’s unlike any place we’ve ever seen. we need to be smart. and we need to get back to asgard.” -you

“yes, we do. there is no doubt in my mind that hela is destroying asgard as we speak” -thor

“right, well...i don’t think loki will be joining us because, he and, uh, the grandmaster as they call him...they sort of formed a relationship” -you

trying to break thor out of prison and oh....hulk is here? that was unexpected

“y/n! y/n, that mean girl who kidnapped me? a valkyrie. a real life valkyrie!” -thor

“what?! father told us they had all died!” -you

“i think it would be safest to disregard everything father has ever told us” -thor

“i very much like that idea” -you

kicking absolute ass on your way out

you and valkyrie teamed up, so you had to say your goodbyes to loki early on, he made it clear he wanted to stay

“you will always be my brother, loki. i wish you well on your journey to find your place in this life. and i do love you, remember that” -you, giving him a hug

“...thank you, y/n. i...me, too” -loki

yet he came back for you in the end

after thor had lost his eye, he’d unlocked his true power........not to be a sore winner, but you’d unlocked yours first while he was on earth

but you two together? that should have been unstoppable

yet you weren’t

“what the hel? she should be dead!” -you

“we need to go” -valkyrie

“wait, i have one more idea” -thor

and that idea was the idea that ended asgard

but you’d create a new asgard

but then half of asgard was murdered by thanos! and you and thor were stranded in space! and loki actually died! and you were saved by space pirates! and were flirted with by half of their crew!

“thor, you need to see dmitri, you need a new weapon if we’re going to finish off thanos” -you

okay, well you and the “guardians of the galaxy” went after infinity stones instead, you knew that one day you’d have to

running into tony stark in space?????

“y/n? what are you doing here?” -tony

“i’m here to kill thanos, what are you doing here, stark? who are these two?” -you

“hi, i’m peter! that’s mister—doctor strange” -peter

everyone turned to dust after thanos escaped and you, tony, and nebula went to star-lord’s ship

and were saved by captain marvel

and reunited with thor

“y/n, by odin’s beard, i thought i had lost you” -thor

“it’s alright, i’m here now” -you

starting up new asgard and watching your brother fall into a depression that caused you to do most of the heavy lifting in this new kingdom

“are you still playing fortnite, brother? it’s five in the morning” -you

“can you pass...” *belch* “just pass me another beer” -thor

and after 5 years, you got to go back to asgard? but asgard from 10 years prior

“mother...” -you

“y/n, we have a mission” -rocket

“i know, i know...where’s thor?” -you

running into your mother while getting thor

“hello, mother. i...yes, hello” -you

“hello, my child. i hope that the future is treating you well” -frigga

“it isn’t, but thank you, mother. i love you” -you

and then you were back on earth and had to comfort thor, who was self-loathing again

but the work had been restored by a simple snap!

and you and thor were able to fight a real fight once more, summoning mjölnir again was invigorating

and there was some kind of bittersweet win here, one i’ve covered plenty of times

“it was fitting for such a great battle to be our final one for now” -thor

“you’re leaving?” -you

“i am, but i trust you’ll take care of our people like you always do. i will see you again, dear sibling. one day” -thor

taglist: @alwaysananglophile // @rorybutnotgilmore // @locke-writes // @sweetheartliz07 // @queen-destenie // @natasha-danvers // @lokihiddles // @frostedficrecs // @emygirl // @lotsoffandomrecs // @johnmurphyisbisexual // @teenwaywardasgardian // @pappydaddy // @captainshazamerica // @freya-xo // @ravenmoore14 // @thisetaernallove // @ofthedewthesunlight // @canarypoint // @zoeyserpentluck //

[bluejayblueskies]

TMA Fanwork Appreciation Challenge: Event Week Fanworks

For @themagnuswriters fanwork apprecation challenge round two--a list of event week fics that I've really enjoyed!! I have a lot of favorites, so I've tried to whittle it down to one fic per event. There are still quite a few fics, so you can find the list below the cut!

As To Be Understood | jonmartin, rated G | Ao3: SupposedToBeWriting | tumblr: @organchordsandlightning | event: Archival Pride

Fleeing from unimaginable terror in a cargo van, Jon and Martin take a moment to collect themselves. Martin examines himself and his connection to the Lonely, as well as what Jon means to him.

I would be remiss if I didn't recommend at least one fic from Archival Pride! Every single fic created for it has been wonderful, but I really liked this one in particular because of the way it deals with both Martin's experience with the Lonely and his own feelings with his grayromanticism 💚🤍🖤

A Survival Received | jonmartin, rated G | Ao3: cuttooth | tumblr: @cuttoothed | event: Jonmartin Week 2021

Martin takes Jon’s hand—the burned one—in his, and presses it to the pale, silvery scar on the right side of his belly.

“When you see this scar, does it remind you of the fact that my appendix burst when I was twelve and I almost died?”

*

Jon and Martin talk about their scars.

I have a lot of feelings about fics that discuss Jon's feelings about his scars, and this one dealt with it beautifully! The idea that scars equate survival had me tearing up a little, and this fic is definitely part of my ideal post-200 scenario.

The Notes Inbetween | jontim, rated T | Ao3: voiceless_terror | tumblr: @voiceless-terror | event: JonTim Week

At first, he thinks it’s the radio. It’s not uncommon for these stores to play classical music, trying to add an air of sophistication in what’s otherwise a dark room of dusty knicknacks. But when he walks towards the noise, he instead finds Jon sitting at the bench of an old wooden upright, his posture straighter than Tim’s ever seen it, hands moving slowly but deftly across the keys as he leans into each note.

Jon plays the piano and Tim appreciates.

I love JonTim and I love musician Jon and I love Jon reminiscing about his childhood and this has all three of those things 💛 A really sweet fic with equal amounts of seriousness and shenanigans.

Even for an Hour | jonmartin, rated T | Ao3: silvercolour | tumblr: @silver-colour | event: TMA Fantasy Week

When you can only see the one you love during twilight, and must be separated from them during both the day and the night, the hours seem to go so very slow.

In which Martin is a spirit of the sun, and Jon of the night sky, and every twilight they meet again, and part ways again.

I love the concept of this fic! It's so bittersweet and tender, and the imagery of Jon and Martin as moon and sun spirits respectively is fantastic. I could read a hundred more fics in this AU 💛

Ink | jongerrymartin, rated T | Ao3: voiceless_terror | tumblr: @voiceless-terror | event: Gerry Week

“Mhm.” Gerry nods slightly, pen tapping against his sketchpad. He turns around, seeing the naked fondness in Martin’s eyes and has a particularly wicked thought. “Y’know, this is how he looks when he’s watching you.”

Martin sputters, turns a lovely shade of red. “W-What? Really?”

“No,” Gerry smirks. “It’s the way he looks at the Admiral.”

A few snippets in Gerard Keay's surprisingly domestic life.

I love jonmartin and I love jongerry and I love jongerrymartin, and this fic is tooth-achingly sweet! The doodles-and-notes-as-love-languages fits so well with jongerrymartin, and the bit about the post-it notes had me ;___; 💕

Particular | jongeorgie, jon/others, rated G | Ao3: Aza (sazandorable) | tumblr: @sazandorable | event: TMA Bi/Pan/Poly/Omni/Mspec Week

Jon does not like boys. He does not like girls, either.

Just, sometimes, he likes this one.

I like this fic partly because it resonates so well with my own experience with romance and partly because I love the exploration of Jon's experience with romance. The jongeorgie scene is lovely and the mention of the s1 archival crew at the end (and the implied jonmartin) was nice 💛

Letting Luck In The Door | jonmartin, rated G | Ao3: cuttooth | tumblr: @cuttoothed | event: Jon Sims and Cats 2021

The man standing at the front counter is looking around anxiously, a bundled up jumper clutched against his chest.

“Sorry, we’re—” Martin begins, and that’s as far as he gets before the man unleashes a frantic tirade.

“Please!” the man says, “I need your help, I-I’m not sure they’re breathing.”

*

Martin forgets to lock up, and gets some unexpected visitors.

I was looking for a fic from the jon-and-cats event that I'd read and I got distracted by this one and immediately fell a little bit in love! I adore the kitten-related jmart meet-cute, and Tim and Sasha looking at Martin like 👀 when he comes to visit the kittens is very amusing.

a tale as old | jonmartin, rated G | Ao3: bibliocratic | tumblr: @bibliocratic | event: Aspec Archives Week

"But the trees outside the forest had shed their clothes to bareness, and the welcoming touch of speckling frost had begun to settle upon the ground, and Martin’s mother grew weaker, developing a cough that rattled in her rickety lungs. And so, Martin of the Black Woods packed a small knapsack and ventured upon the winding pathways of the forest to seek out the beast who lived there."

Or: Martin gets his happily ever after.

I loved this fic a lot! Featuring monster!jon, fairy tale elements (and style of prose!), and ace Martin. The worldbuilding is wonderful and the imagery is stunning <3

thank god for wikis | jongerry, rated T | Ao3: PitViperOfDoom | tumblr: @pitviperofdoom | event: Aspec Archives Week

Gerry makes an important discovery about himself. Jon helps.

I said I was only going to do one fic per event week but I couldn't decide between these two, so here they both are! I particularly enjoy the depiction of demisexual Gerry figuring himself out within his relationship with Jon and Jon helping him find the label that works for him! I love fics that have Jon being confident in his own asexuality and supporting someone else who's also aspec, and this one is very sweet <3

And, because I'm not immune to self-promotion, a few of my own:

to grieve and to mourn | jontim, rated T | event: JonTim Week

Jon had mentioned to him once, more than a few drinks into a night out at the pubs, that he’s the type to mourn in private. So Tim isn’t surprised when he walks into Jon’s bedroom to see Jon sat atop his bed, hair tied up into an approximation of a bun and an array of papers spread out before him in a kaleidoscope of white and black. Nor is he surprised to see the cigarette held between Jon’s fingers, burning faintly orange in the low light.

.

In which Tim offers comfort, Jon makes arrangements, and bourbon is shared.

agony quiets to pain | jongerry, rated T | event: Gerry Week

Gerry steps out of the hospital doors, his body a mess of aches and pains and stark white bandages, to see a man who is not his mother sat atop the short wall outside the hospital doors.

“Jon?”

that which glitters divinely gold | jonmartin, rated G | event: TMA Fantasy Week

“I like it here," Martin says. "And I… I feel like it likes me too.”

The stranger hums; it’s a lovely sound, like the clanging of morning bells. “It does,” they say, confidently and lightly, like there’s no room for argument in the matter. After a moment, they continue, more hesitantly, “I… I do.”

[sylenth-l]

I absolutely adore how you draw all the destiny characters, but i was just wondering, why do you draw the red marks on andal's cloak? Considering we saw andal in the comics without the marks and also with the lore of what it means when a hunter takes another hunter's cloak and the meaning of the vermillion stripe they were likely added by cayde after andal was killed?

Thank you! 💙 Well, the most obvious reason I draw Andal's armor (including the cloak) looking the way it is, is this concept art, of course:

I'd prefer this Andal to the comics' one any day, so yeah. Even though I did try to kind of mix the two, borrowing comics' Andal's pale eyes for example and a hairstyle occasionally. This, of course, is undoubtedly the concept art behind Cayde's armor as the one we saw him in the game. It has some small differences here and there (which is natural, it's only a concept), but I like to think these are changes Cayde did himself. This is 100% my headcanon, I fully realise that in canon Cayde most likely didn't get ALL Andal's armor set, but I just like it that way a bit better and I'm totally cool with all other variations, since it has room for plenty. But for the cloak I prefer to think it stayed unchanged exactly the way it was back in the days when Andal wore it, meaning this pattern wasn't Cayde's doing. For two reasons, let's call it artistical reason and deep meaning reason.

Artistical reason is simple - those stripes are the thing that makes this cloak recognizable in the first place. Wipe them out and you'll get a blank piece of black cloth. Which is not bad by itself, but it kinda loses all its point for me if you can't look at Cayde and immediately recognize he's wearing Andal's cloak. Additionaly, I like how it looks with the stripes a lot better and Andal seems to like the red color - remember his super fashionable red belt from the Warmind comic? That's quite a stretch, of course, but I like how red works on him, also it fits perfectly with Cayde's and Shiro's lead colors - red, blue and yellow are the primary colors, the classic triad, etc, etc. It just makes sense for me.

Deep meaning reason - I know vermilion stripe is a Hunters' mark of mourning, but it could be Andal's own. He was around since the early City days, he also seems like a quite communicative and affectionate person. So he no doubt had and lost people close to him, probably even before Cayde was around. This is another huge stretch, but that stripe might even be the one for Tallulah. She and Andal were close friends, this exact Vanguard Dare cloak has a lore entry about them + Tallulah liked Andal's cloak to the point of wanting to steal it. It would be bittersweet and even poetic, considering how he ended up being a Vanguard, just like her, and dying, leaving this post to his bff, also similar to her.

So yeah, that is all I have to say on this topic, I hope I didn't tire you too much 😅 TL;DR answer is: I'm just going the easy way and stick to the concept art I like insead of the comics.

[rosalineandrosemary]

one final goodbye

hi! i wrote this for @maribat-angst-fluff-april with prompt 14, goodbye. you can check out my partner, @yoltastic09 ‘s fluff submission here. anyway, warnings for major character death and descriptions of blood and the fic is below the cut!

the video is blurry, filmed with shaking hands. when it focuses, they see a girl coated in red spotted spandex. she’s leaning against a wall, eyes closed and smiling softly, but their eyes are locked on the stab wound through her abdomen.

“thanks… thanks alya.” her voice is soft and raspy, and behind the camera, someone chokes on a sob.

“lb, please. just hold on a bit longer. chat... carapace. Someone will bring your lucky charm and it’ll be okay.” the voice, alya, trembles, and the spotted girl’s eyes fly open.

“i didn’t tell you, did i? alya, there’s no saving me. that’s why we’re recording this. I have his miraculous but my lucky charm can’t fix me. it’ll fix paris and i’ll still be here.” the camera falls to the ground with a clatter, and beyond the black screen they can hear alya’s sobs. 

“alya please, I need you to do this. I need to be able to tell them myself. I need to be able to tell you myself.”

“tell me what?” alya’s voice is thick and broken, and the camera is lifted off the ground. they see a girl, fox ears coming from her head and in another spandex suit, before the camera focuses on the bleeding girl again.

“hello viewers, hi alya. my name is marinette dupain-cheng, also known as ladybug. and this is my final goodbye.” 

the dark room where they sit is filled by the sound of things shattering, a mug falling to a ground, a wine glass being crushed in someone’s tight grip. 

“alya, i love you. it’s been an honor fighting alongside you as ladybug, and despite our ups and downs, and even how things were before you got your head on straight, it’s been amazing being your friend. i’m so sorry that this is how things turned out.” alya sniffles, and her soft words are easily picked up by the mic.

“mari, please. you can’t leave us, please.” marinette smiles and looks away, faltering. she takes a deep heaving breath and looks back at the camera. 

“maman, papa, i’m so sorry i couldn’t tell you about this. i’m so sorry that i can’t say goodbye properly. i’m sorry that i lied and i’m sorry that i kept this from you. i just didn’t want you getting hurt. you two are the best parents a girl could have and i’m so grateful to call you two mine. please don’t blame yourselves. i chose to keep this a secret to protect you, and you raised a pretty clever little girl. there isn’t anything you could have done to stop this.” marinette is crying at this point, tears streaking across the red of her mask and down her cheeks. “make sure they see this alya. please make sure they see this.” 

“of course, i promise girl. i’ll do anything.” alya’s voice is broken but marinette nods solemnly before continuing. 

when they see this, marinette’s parents wail and sob, the sounds echoing throughout the arrondissement. their neighbors tense, waiting for the destruction their akuma could cause, but hawkmoth is gone, and tom and sabine dupain-cheng are free to mourn their only daughter. 

“bruce, or, well, dad. i thought you might want to hear me call you that at least once, considering i’m not going to be able to meet you again for you to hear me say that legitimately. i’m sorry i didn’t tell you about this. i’m sorry that when i said goodbye, that when i said i’d see you again soon, that it turned out like this. it was nice being your daughter, at least for a little while.” the viewers turn to look at him with the mention of his name, and bruce opens his palm, glass shards falling to the floor. he stands up, staggering to the side, and walks out of the room.

when bruce had first met marinette, he thought she’d fit in with the rest of them. he wasn’t oblivious to the jokes his kids made about the black hair, blue eyes, and the way she held herself made him think she’d fit in in other ways too.

she was always cautious, always nervous, like she was expecting something to attack her out of nowhere. she was good at hiding it, beaming sunshine smiles and a charming yet genuine demeanor, and he could see the resemblance from miles away. he had seen her baking with alfred, laughing with dick and jason, drinking coffee with tim. she had found a slot in their family and fit herself there perfectly, and in the short time he knew her, he had grow to care for the daughter he was unaware he had.

the last time he saw her, she hugged him and smiled, a soft tentative thing, as she whispered goodbye. she turned to leave, but her back was too straight, her shoulders too tense. he swore to himself that he’d find out what was troubling her back in paris and that he would see if there was anything he could do about it. 

bruce never got the chance. 

“dick. you’re a great older brother. i’m sorry that i couldn’t be your younger sister for very long. it could have been fun. we might have done acrobatics together, or you could have showed me trapeze if you wanted. you try so hard to take care of people, please remember to take care of yourself.”

marinette, dick thought, was tiny. she was so much shorter than he was, and she looked up at him when she introduced herself. bruce’s other unknown child. she has the hair, and the eyes, clouded with the same world-weariness he had seen in all of them. he hadn’t been the first to meet her, as that honor had gone to bruce and alfred, and tim had been walking by when she walked in the door, but he had been the first to declare her his younger sister. he asked her questions and she responded, she asked him questions and he responded. 

he learned of her love of fashion and cooed as she bashfully showed off her outfit that she had sewed and designed herself. he told her of his gymnastics and trapeze skills, and she was wide eyed and nearly glowing when she asked if he could teach her. he had swallowed heavily, looked away and back at her, and told her that “maybe we can next time, marinette. i think b-man has an itinerary for you and everything.”

she had looked disappointed for a second before composing herself. “okay, maybe next time. but speaking of mr. wayne, i should probably go find him again, talk to you later dick!” he had heaved a sigh of relief, scared of bringing her so close to something that had already taken his family once. 

when he hugged her goodbye before she left for the airport, small hands clasped around his back, dick resolved that he would try to teach marinette the trapeze next time she came over. There would be nets and she wouldn’t get hurt and then there would be more memories of the trapeze that didn’t come with the bittersweet tinge of all his memories at haly’s circus. 

dick didn’t get that chance. 

“hi jay. i was making you something, did you know that?” marinette laughs softly, then inhales sharply as she aggravates her wound. and yet, she continues. “no, of course you didn’t. i didn’t tell you. it was almost done, just had a few finishing touches. you could still wear it though. it's a leather jacket. i saw that the one you had seemed to be getting worn out, thought you might want a new one. a new leather jacket for my big brother.” her tears quicken and she attempts to curl in on herself, even as her body lay against the wall. she looks so small. “even if your advice wasn’t the best you were still there and i was happy to be ‘pixie pop.’ i wish you were here. you’re safe, you know that? you feel safe, like if anything tried to hurt me you’d fix it. And i’m scared but at least other people are safe now. Thank you for making me feel safe.”

jason todd did not think he was a good man. there was too much blood on his hands for that. and even if the bastards had deserved it, it still didn’t make him a good person. so when he had seen the tiny slip of a girl who ran into him as she attempted to find bruce, his first instinct had been to stay away. she was so tiny, so pure, and no amount of washing would ever be able to clean his hands. 

but then she had flinched and started spewing out apologies, hands flying everywhere as she drove herself further down this spiral, and he saw in her what he had seen in so many of the other street kids. fear of retaliation, a desperation to appease him because she was afraid of what he might do.

and jason was furious. not with her, but with whoever had taught this girl (bruce’s daughter. he had warned them all about her, telling them to hide the objects that showed their “nightly pursuits.” he hadn’t told them she’d be so small.) that she had to apologize like this. whoever had traumatized her in this way. 

“hey, no need to apologize, pixie pop. no harm, no foul, right?” she had looked up at him, confused, and he grinned at her and clenched his fists, trying to dispel some of the anger festering in his chest. 

“who’s pixie pop?” she had said, eyebrows furrowed adorably.

“you are, of course. because you’re so tiny, like a little fairy. and all my siblings need nicknames, like dickie-bird, or replacement, or demon spawn. and since you’re my little sister now, you get a nickname too.” she had smiled and nodded, responding with a soft “okay,” and he swung an arm around her shoulder.

“so let me help you find bruce. but on our way there, is there anyone you’ve got any problems with? Any bullies you’d like big bro jason to deal with?” she had tensed, pursed her lips, and shook her head.

“there’s nothing you can deal with. it’ll be fine.” he hadn’t believed her, but he wasn’t going to pry.

when he hugged her goodbye, she had shook, clutching the sleeves of his jacket within her hands, but when he went to ask her what had happened, she said she’d tell him next time. he said he’d help her through anything.

jason never got the chance. 

“cass.” with this, she attempts to lift her hands from where they lay on the floor. she’s shaking with the effort, but manages to hold them up to her chest. slowly, she signs out every word with her hands. “i think that you could tell something was up. i don’t know how, and i’m not sure even you knew it would end up like this, but i think you could. thank you for trusting me, even if it ended up like this. thank you for being my friend, and i’m sorry i couldn’t improve my sign language fast enough to have a full conversation with you. i hope this is good enough.”

cass could tell that marinette was like them from the way she held herself. she had muscles curled under her clothing, and whenever she tripped she shifted her center of gravity if she didn’t catch herself first. 

cass hadn’t really spoken with her, standing as bruce introduced her to marinette. she could tell when marinette had processed bruce saying she preferred sign language, and when marinette’s shoulders sunk, she could tell it was with concern instead of malice. 

marinette turns to her with a small frown, apologizing for not knowing any sign language. marinette smiles afterwards though, and reaches out a hand. “i’d love to learn asl though! and i’d also love to be friends if you’d want to be. of course we don’t have to be, i don’t want to…” she trails off as cass takes her hand and nods. marinette’s smile grows wider and a small warmth grows in her chest. 

friends sounds nice. and marinette promises that she’ll try to learn asl and they’ll have a conversation in a way that cass is comfortable with, talking with that same smile. 

the last time cass sees marinette, she signs goodbye. marinette’s right hand goes up, thumb out, and she closes the rest of her fingers to her palm. she continues with the sign for cass’ name, and cass responds in turn, goodbye and marinette, and marinette leaves, excited at getting it right. 

marinette inhales, a wheezing breath, and the video is interrupted by the sound of heavy footfalls and a man’s calling voice. “ladybug? rena?” 

alya lets out another sob and the man approaches. they can tell when he sees marinette, as he stalls before sprinting towards them. 

he’s clad in blue and snake print, teal tips at the bottom of his black hair, and he goes directly for marinette, trying to press a red and black spotted objects into her hands. 

“ladybug please, please take it you can fix all of this with the lucky charm. just do miraculous ladybug and the magic will fix it.” he begs her, voice jumping. marinette clutches the object in her hand but makes no motion to do anything with it, and he speaks again. “ladybug…” he hesitates for a second before continuing. “marinette, my melody, please don’t die on me.” her eyes widen slightly before she looks away.

“i should have known you already knew, mon coeur. but you also have to know this is the end.” she smiles at him, lifts the object in her shuddering hands and attempts to yell miraculous ladybug. she’s cut off halfway through by her own coughing, shaking her whole body and sending blood spilling from her lips.

it works regardless though, and the remaining waynes watch in awe as glowing ladybugs reverse the property damage. they fix the walls and the pavement before crowding around marinette’s body, but when they leave the wound is still there. the blood is still there. 

marinette’s eyes are drooping, and when she tries to talk, it comes out a whisper. “damn it. i thought i had more time.” she coughs again, more blood dripping out of her mouth. “tim, i was so happy to be your work buddy. steph, you are so fun and so important and it was so so lovely being your sister and your friend. damian, i wish i could have been your sister without scaring you, but that won’t be a problem anymore.” her breathing is shallow but she continues going, trying to say all the words she’s scared she wouldn’t be able to. “alfred, being your granddaughter, baking with you, all of that was such a pleasure. babs, spending time with you was so much fun and i wish we could do that again, that we could be friends for longer. duke, i know we didn’t interact much but i wish we could have.” she exhales, leans her head back against the reformed wall. her eyes flutter closed. 

“goodbye.” she says, one last word before her chest stills and marinette dupain-cheng dies.