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ohtobeleah · 10 months ago

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Was It Over? // Jake Seresin

-> Chapter Ten: [The Potato Head Society & The Other Guy, Jarred?]

Summary: Jake helps you shave your head in hopes of keeping your power and control. Facing your own mortality makes you question your faith in a higher authority and Jensen and Jake met for the first, and what you hope, will be the last time.

Warnings: Sick!reader. Breast cancer diagnosis. Jake Seresin x F!reader. Angst, hospital & medical inaccuracies. SLOW BURN ROMANCE/ Inaccurate medical information. Relationship turmoil. Mentions of religion

Word Count: 4.2K

Author Note: It's no secret I've been having a little bit of a rough go on this hell-site as of late. But I'm still here, working on this series. Seeing your weblogs, comments and concepts truly mean the world to me. so please, don't be hesitant to share.

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“My only real advice for this kind of thing is this.” Jensen sighed as he stood on the steps of his townhouse with you. Coffee in one hand, end of life brochure in the other. Things had taken a rather drastic turn for him in the last few days. After your birthday, his health started to drastically diminish–so much so that his doctors weren’t too sure how much time there was left to combat the cancerous cells spreading through his body. “Go right through it.” Jensen smiled, never once did you ever see his positivity falter. “Like right through it, feel it all, be in it, don't avoid it because the moment you start avoiding it is when it's truly won.”

Little Sammy held your hand as you stood next to Jensen–he was too young to understand that the man talking to you was dying, hell, you weren't even sure if you understood the significance of the pamphlet Jensen had picked up after your first CCA meeting. He’d told you it was for a friend, little did you know that friend was standing right in front of you.

The Cancer Counseling Association held biweekly meetings at the hospital. You hadn’t planned on attending when your oncologist, Doctor Morrison, had first mentioned it. But when Jensen said he’d been going almost religiously for three years? You thought, what's the harm?

The harm was it was depressing as fuck.

“You go completely in the tough times, feel everything and get out the other end of it all.” You’d asked Jensen something along the lines of how he’d managed to keep fighting all this time and still be so positive about life and all its underwhelming rewards. He was for the most part, a happy guy despite it all. But even the strongest of soldiers have an achilles heel.

Jensens just so happened to be the fact you were forbidden fruit, he wasn't about to tread on another man's toes. Especially when he was tiptoeing towards the sweet release of death's gentle hands. None of that stopped his heart from racing whenever you smiled though.

“Many of these things you don't have a choice in.” Jensen continued as his eyes lingered down to little two year old Sammy who stood holding your hand in his. If anything you needed the encouragement to fight this battle for your children. “You know, fuck, whats that expression?” Jensen mulled it over as you chuckled, still standing on the path right outside his street facing townhouse. “Uhh–oh yeah! It's not how well you walked through the fire, but how you walked through it regardless.”

“I think I'm just barely crawling through the flames right now–” You answered honestly. There wasn't a nice way to say he’d looked better than he did right now, with sunken eyes and skin that looked as if all the life had been drained from his soul.

So you never mentioned it.

***~***~***~***~***~***~**

“So—“ The library wasn’t Jake Seresins favourite place to go, but there was someone who made the isles of hard covered literature easier to understand that always seemed to draw him in. Like a moth to a flame. “Did you have a good Christmas?” The silence that followed as you stared across the desk where you were processing returned textbooks had Jake's heart racing, he couldn’t read you and that fact made him all the more nervous. “Or not? If you’re Jewish maybe? Don’t celebrate Christmas that’s cool too I just thought—“ You had to giggle at the college football star standing across from the reception desk with his elbows leaning on the ledge. Your smile was pure happiness, it wasn’t hard to make Jake's heart melt inside his chest—a chest he once thought was hollow.

“I had a wonderful Christmas, I went home to visit my mum, she always says that if the Christians can steal Christmas from the pagans then us non-religious folk can celebrate too.” You shrugged your shoulders politely as you kept checking off the returned textbooks from students who’d taken them home over the summer.

“What do you mean when you say the Christians stole Christmas?” Jake Seresin grew up in an incredibly conservative, extremely religious household that attended church every Sunday rain hail or shine. Jake swore his mother nearly spontaneously combusted when he had to stay in hospital overnight after having his appendix removed. It was a Saturday afternoon when they’d presented to the emergency room—poor old Janeen nearly dropped dead at the mere thought of her ten year old missing church the next morning.

“Lord have mercy upon us, for we have sinned.” Jake could still remember his mother crying vividly when he woke after surgery. Even at ten he knew his mother was somewhat of an overly sensitive soul.

“Well technically, in order to convert the Germanic pagans who, like, celebrated the winter solstice and stuff—the Christians were like, fuck it, let’s just say that Jesus was born on this day and you can hang tinsel and stuff.” Again, you shrugged your shoulders like it was common knowledge, but as Jake stared down at you with confusion swirling in his emerald eyes, you thought for a split second that maybe this was actually news to the college athlete who’d been following you around for the better half of nine months. Respectfully.

“You can’t just change someone’s birthday like that? Can you?” Jake, in all his years of attending Sunday services, Sunday Schools, being forced to read the bible and knowing far too much about parting seas and burning bushes, he’d never once been told that Christmas was just a day.

“It’s kinda like how King James was rewriting the bible on one side of the castle and had witches trying to turn his pee into gold on the other.” Jake was speechless as you looked up at him from your chair, your eyes seemingly swirling with knowledge beyond your years. It made sense that you worked in the library on campus.

“How the hell do you know all this?” Jake asked through a sheepish smile he couldn’t hide, your intelligence intimated him in the best of ways. You made him want to do better, be better, strive for more in life. It wasn’t that Jake wasn’t smart, he was. But next to you? It was an unparalleled excellence.

“I uh—I tend to read a lot.” Jake caught the way you faded into yourself, never one to want to outshine others. “Just get lost in here sometimes, books are sometimes easier to understand than people.” Jake could sympathise with that sentiment, he knew what it was like to feel like everyone was watching, judging a book by its cover so to speak. Everyone knew him as the meathead footballer who’s weekends were spent racking up the body count.

But with you? Jake just felt like Jake. Because that’s who he was to you. Simply and forever Jake.

“Do you like, not believe in God or something Miss Y/l/n?” Jake asked cautiously. He didn’t want to offend you or come across as rude or anything—he was simply asking a question he thought he may need to know if he was ever going to introduce you to his mother.

“I find it hard to believe in a world full of stories about Gods and Goddesses from a plethora of different perspectives that there can only be one, if one exists they all have to right? Harmoniously and complacent with the way the universe has fallen to shit without their divine intervention.” Jake had to take a moment to take what you had just said in. He was almost rendered speechless, but not quite. Not Jake Seresin.

“Damn Honeybee, you’re fucking fearless aren’t you?“ Jake couldn’t help but to smirk as he tried to keep his voice down. “You’re just raw doggin’ life with no religious affiliations.” It was then your turn to laugh.

“Guess I am. What about you? Do you believe in a God? An all mighty man, or woman, that sits in the clouds and judges your every action?” You asked with a teasing smirk as Jake bit his bottom lip, mulling over your question:

Did he believe in God?

“My mother would probably prefer if I said yes, but, the more I look at life without the rose coloured glasses I tend to think perhaps the big guy in the sky is all just some story.”

***~***~***~***~***~***~**

“Did you know hair holds memories.” The sound of buzzing clippers echoed off the walls of the bathroom as you sat before the mirror. Jake stood behind you with those big emerald eyes you loved so dearly, looking at you with a sympathetic look of understanding and support. “In some cultures people don't even cut their hair because it would upset the gods.” Jake could see the tears in your eyes as you looked at him through the mirror, understandably rambling to somewhat buy yourself some more time. “Medusa's hair was alive, there's certain styles linked to different cultures and full hair cutting ceremonies in–” If Jake didn't interrupt now you would have gone on forever. You had a habit of information dropping in situations where nervousness got the better of you. Not that Jake ever minded, he just knew if he didn't get ahead of it, you wouldn't stop. That would ultimately lead to you sitting in silence when the information swirling around inside her head had all been said. Panic would begin to rise inside your chest, the air would soon get thin, the room would suddenly get a little hotter and before you could even realise you'd be in the midst of a full blown panic attack.

The last time Jake witnessed such a thing was when Sam had colic.

“Honey–” Jake cooed as he turned off the clippers he held in his hand, only to place them down on the countertop to rest his hands on your shoulders. “Noone is forcing you to do this, if you don’t wanna cut your hair we don't have to.”

“No–” You sighed. “No, I want to do this, it's just a lot.” You tried to explain. “It's probably one of the only things I still have control over.” Jake understood, it would be hard not to. After all, he wasn't heartless. If he could Jake would have taken this all away, he would have given anything, including his own life to take your pain away. “I just hope I don't have a weird shaped head.”

“I'm sure you have a really nice scalp dear.” Jake chuckled as he massaged your shoulder tenderly. “And look, if you want my professional opinion, I think you’ll make an awesome live action Mrs. Potato Head.”

“Jacob!” You tried to hide your smile as you felt your cheek heating with a hume so pure it made your heart skip a beat. “You’re cruel!”

“But I made you laugh.” Jake countered through a shit eating grin, that signature Seresin smile you loved so much. The very one all three of your children had inherited from their father. “That's all that matters, now–let me work my magic alright, I've got you.”

“You’re probably a worse hairdresser than you were a husband–” It was a low ball, but Jake took it like a champ as he reached out for the clippers. The buzzing was almost immediate as he used the pad of his thumbs to complete the electrical circuit. With the tool now in full gear, Jake chuckled as he looked at you with fake shock and horror casted across his face.

“Oh now who's being cruel huh?” Jake watched as your eyes followed his hand that held the clippers. “Technically we’re still married Honey, you still have my last name.” He mumbled under his breath but still loud enough for you to hear, seemingly trying to keep your attention on what he was saying rather than the clippers approaching your head.

But–you moved:

“Should we cut my hair with scissors first?”

“Y/n–” Jake sighed as he once again turned off the clippers and placed them back down on the side of the sink.

“No no no I'm not trying to stall, I just don't want you to accidentally scalp me when my hair gets caught up in the shaver.” Jake saw your point, for the hair you did have left it was pretty thick and full of life still. He held the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes and let out a sigh. Not in frustration towards you, but in defiance of his new quest.

“I'll go ask the nurses station for some scissors.”

“Thankyou–” Was all you managed to say back before Jake stepped out of the bathroom attached to your hospital room. The Christmas lights still flickered in the dimly lit room, seemingly consuming the entire room in bright blues, greens, reds and yellows. Even in sickness you couldn't help but to lean into the christmas cheers.

It hit Jake in that moment as he rounded out of your hospital room that he should get you something small to open when you wake up from surgery. The hospital has a gift shop right? Perhaps some flowers and a small gift you could keep with you during chemo. Maybe a book or a– *Thud*

Caught up in his own train of thought as he made his way to the nurses station, Jake ran straight into someone coming out of the elevator. There were two very distinct things Jake noticed as he came back into the reality around him. Those distinct things being that the man he’d run into was carrying not only flowers, but a small gift. Huh, uncanny.

“Sorry man, my bad.” The man apologised almost immediately after the mild impact.

“No worries, I wasn't watching where I was going, my bad, really.” Jake responded with a polite smile his mother taught him about, the kind of smile you give to a stranger after mild inconveniences. “Jake–” Jake reached out to shake the guy's hand, in retrospect he should have kept walking. Jake really should have just let the interaction fizzle out, but he couldn't. He was too polite for his own good when it came to small interactions.

The most paranoid fantasy Jake could think of would never have prepared him for the name that the man spoke next as he took Jake's hand in his.

“Jensen–”

***~***~***~***~***~***~**

“Okay, I'm ready.” Neither Jake nor Jensen knew if you had mentioned either one in conversation, so, respectfully, both men chose to play the fool. Neither one really wanted to ask. Neither Jake nor Jensen wanted to be the one to open that can of worms.

When Jake returned with the borrowed scissors in his grasp–he acted as if he hadn’t just met the man he assumed was the very Jensen in your contacts.

“Last chance Honeybee–” Jake cooed as he leaned in to kiss your cheek. “Are you positive?” He asked with a smile so pure it made your heart skip a beat. “I’m all in with you, just say the word and we do whatever you wanna do.”

There was a momentary pause in the conversation. Jake's questions lingered in the air around you, it was hard not to get caught in the moment, get lost in the emerald eyes looking at you through the mirror. Jake stared you down as you shifted in your chair to look at him. He saw no hesitation in your eyes as Jake followed your gaze, searching for any sign or signal that could indicate that the next few moments were about to be a mistake.

“Honey—“ Jake tried to heed the warning lights flashing before his very eyes as you closed the gap between the two of you. Jake stood leaning over your right shoulder, looking longingly at your lips. “Don’t do anything stupid now.”

“Loving you is stupidity—“ Was all you said before you let your lips softly connect with your husband’s. Jake kissed you back with enough love in his heart to knock the wind right out of your lungs. The fleeting moment was broken, however, when Jake pulled away. The idea of another man kissing you on his mind, what was this guy's deal? Jackson? Jason?

“Come on Mrs Potato Head, hand me those scissors—“ Jake chuckled, hiding his own insecurities about the man he’d unintentionally met in the hall. You took a second to keep up, but as you licked your lips to savour the taste of Jake's signature vanilla chapstick, you nodded and handed him the scissors.

“I’m ready.” You sighed, once again looking back at your own reflection. “Let’s get this over with.” Change is an inevitable part of life, but that fact didn't make the current circumstances any easy to process. “Do you think that there's gonna be a place for me despite my inability to believe in a higher being?” Jake understood what you were saying, but he didn't have the answers. “I'm starting to wonder more about if there could ever be a life after death.”

Clumps of hair in small sections fell to the tiled floor around you as Jake worked his hands through your hair. Cutting strands from your head like the local mower man cut grass. It felt like such a mundane task to complete, like this was an everyday run of the mill, average experience. But for you? This was a hard and confronting pill to have to swallow.

“I’ve spent my whole life not believing in religion, so who am I supposed to pray to to keep me alive Jake?” Jake saw the tears in your eyes as he cut your hair with caution and steady hands, he heard the small but audible sobs that escaped your lips as he switched from the scissors to the clippers. The buzzing all but silenced your cries but Jake knew this was hard on you. The tears that stained your cheeks clearly reflected your sadness, anger and the inner turmoil that had been engulfing your entire existence since your diagnosis.

“You don’t pray to anyone Honey, you’re stronger than this cancer could ever be.” Again, no one ever sits you down and prepares you for this. No one gives you the heads up about the possibility of one day having to shave your wife's hair off in the name of dignity and control. But as Jake ran the shavers across your scalp, leaving nothing but a small layer of fuzz in their wake, he saw just how much sorrow and pain was swirling in your eyes.

Jake thought to himself in that very moment: ‘I've been needing a haircut for a while now anyway.’

With one quick motion and in the blink of an eye, Jake was running the shavers right down the middle of his head. You really had to take a second to process what he’d just done, what your husband had just done right behind you.

“Jake!” The shrill that escaped your mouth was something unmatched to any emotion you had ever expressed before. “What are you doing?” The image of Jake shaving his head in solidarity would forever be burnt into your mind.

“You said it yourself–hair holds memories and we can make new ones together.” Jake cooed as he shaved off those golden boy locks you loved to run your fingers through. He suited the buzz cut a little more than you did if you were being perfectly honest.

With teary eyes and puffy cheeks you stood on weak legs. The simple gesture of a haircut meant the world to you, Jake knew that. He didn't want you going through this alone. If shaving his head with you brought you a sense of solace? He was more than happy to.

“Looks good–” You smiled as tears ran down your cheeks. Jake reached out to cup your face in his hands, wiping away your tears with the pads on his thumbs. “Mr. Potato head.”

“Consider us the founders of the Potato Head Society.” Jake chuckled as he leaned in to kiss your forehead. In order to cherish you the way you deserved, Jake had to be the bigger man here. He knew that a cloud of uncertainty loomed in the halls, one by the name of Jackson or fucking Jeremy for all Jake cared. But as he stood in the bathroom with you, surrounded in the locks of hair that had once been on your head, he knew damn well at the end of the day it was still his last name you chose to take. “Good thing you don't have an odd shaped head after all, it kinda suits you.”

“Would you still love me if I did?” You asked quietly, giving Jake an excuse to confess his love. Jake's lips were soon pressed softly and ever so tenderly against your once again in the blink of an eye as gentle hands still worked to soothe your stained cheeks.

It wasn’t a hard question to answer, nor an easy question to ask—but as Jake pulled away to rest his forehead on yours as he ran the pad of his thumb across your bottom lip, you knew it was an easy concept to understand:

“I’ve never, and I will never, stop loving you Honey.”

***~***~***~***~***~***~**

For as much as Jensen hated all things hospital related, over his past few years of treatment, he’d come to know these halls better than he knew the back of his own hand.

From countless radiation treatments, to endless chemotherapy sessions. Hours upon hours of remedial therapies and acupuncture sessions to stimulate nerve endings, Jensen was a man who was just about ready to pull the plug and live out the remaining few months he had, or less, from the comfort of his back deck.

He’d been poked and prodded, sliced and diced, far too many times to count on both his hands and for what? A few extra months tacked on top of a few years spent battling pancreatic cancer. No thankyou. Jensen had always had an optimistic outlook on life, until his life started to become the same bland halls and the same bland rooms, with the same bland doctors and nurses who all shared the same look of medical sympathy.

Jesen, for all intents and purposes, was ready to give up his signature status of being the resistant ‘pin cushion’. The student nurses could learn how to change cannula sights on the lady, Paola, who sat in the same chair for every chemotherapy session.

The last few days hadnt been too hot for the six foot one, brown eyed, brown haired (allegedly) man. His prognosis had been diminishing ever since he got the news his treatment was no longer as effective as it once had been.

The day Jensen was told he only had a few short months to live before his organs would begin to fail, even with treatment, was the same day he saw you crying outside the local doctors office. The Hermitage centre as they called it.

The last thing Jensen ever wanted was for his life to be meaningless, before he knew what he was doing? His feet were padding against the concrete as the psalm of his hands began to sweat inside his jean pockets.

“You look like you’ve just been told you’re dying?” As the elevator counted up the floors of which Jensen had to take from the ground floor of the Rhode Island Hospital to the oncology unit, he could vividly remember asking you that question. He recognised the look on your face because not ten minutes prior he;d been told the very same thing.

“I'd start to get your affairs in order, Mr. Hughs “ It hadn't been just a regular check up with his local general practitioner. But it had been the almost final nail in a long awaited coffin.

As the elevator dinged, Jensen took a few steps out into the bustling hallways of the oncology ward. Within seconds, he was met with a force so muscular it damn near knocked him back a few paces. But the cancer ridden ex fireman squared his shoulders and kept easy on his feet.

“Sorry man, my bad.” Jensen almost immediately apologies after the mild impact. He assumed that it was him that had caused the slight collision. His special awareness was pretty shot these days. The flowers he carried were almost crushed on impact, however he managed to save the bouquet of sweet peas, peonies and pansies.

“No worries, I wasn't watching where I was going, my bad, really.” The man responded with a polite smile Jensen could only assume his mother taught him about, the kind of smile you give to a stranger after mild inconveniences. “Jake–” like a slow motion car wreck, Jake reached out to shake Jensens hand. In retrospect he should have kept walking. Jensen really should have just let the interaction fizzle out, but he couldn't. He was too polite for his own good when it came to small interactions.

The most paranoid fantasy Jensen could think of would never have prepared him for the look of utter betrayal that smeared itself across the blonde headed aviators face as Jensen shook your husbands hand:

“Jensen–”

***~***~***~***~***~***~

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user2772636 · 6 months ago

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Douzième Fille

12th girl

××��☆》××

××《☆》××

Looking back at the day you first met, you realise how far you've gone. You appreciate the little things in life and some little people, too.

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Joseph Descamps x Reader

Warnings: This is literally just plain fluff, LAST CHAPTER OF DOUZIÈME FILLE!!!

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Chapter ten: I love you

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You had six best days of your life.

Paris, France. 1973.

The wedding was one of the best days of your life. You had a beautiful gown, a beautiful cathedral, a beautiful ceremony, and a beautiful husband.

Everything was perdect from the venue, to the food, to the gifts, and to the guests.

You saw old friends. Callum, of course, came and was pronounced man of honour by Joseph. Simone and Jean Pierre had gotten locked in about two years ago, right after they finished college. Michèle and Laubrac came back after profuse apologies of leaving. They haven't married each other yet, but you have a feeling it's soon. Also because Joseph told you that Laubrac told him that he'll propose soon.

Europe Trip, 1973

The second best day of your life was your honeymoon. You and your now husband went around Europe. Going to places you've already been and places you haven't gone to.

A side note, you left that celebrity profile ages ago. It was too toxic anyway, with all the drama you didn't want to get into. Callum did the opposite of this. You're happy for him. And his fiancé, or as he likes to call him, his husband.

Bordeux, 1974

Moving was hard, but it was the third best day of your life. And carrying Briseis was a part of it.

Briseis, your first born. She was named after a character from the Iliad, the same Iliad you had presented in that project with Joseph back in high school.

She was as bright as her father, always laughing and wanting to have fun. Joseph loves her so much to the point that he will always be the one to put her back to sleep when she wakes in the early morning. He does that because he loves you, too.

Bordeux, 1976

The fourth best day of your life was when you gave birth to George.

George was named after your late cat you had in high school. He was taken care of both you and Joseph, which held a special place in your heart. Truly, George, your cat was your first child. But, let's not forget Briseis.

Briseis was two now, gaining the ability to speak, walk, run, whatever drained her unsifting energy. You were most proud, as well as your loving husband.

One of these nights, you'd catch him talking to both of them, talking about whatever they wanted to talk about, telling them stories, showing them fun. They fall sound asleep after, and you, for one, are grateful for him.

Also, you adopted two cats. One Achilles, one Patroclus. What? You couldn't help it.

Bordeux, 1980

Only a few months ago, your beautiful Callum was born. He was obviously named after your best friend. Callum cried when he found out. That was the fifth best day of your life.

He flew all the way to where you lived, seeing as now he lived with his lover in Sicily. He gave him countless amounts of gifts, even the ones month old babies couldn't use.

The house was fully packed. Your three children, two pets, and a mother and a father. Their very beautiful father.

You were in your 30s now, and you're so glad you're in this age with him by your side.

You sit in your husbands office, reading a book in the corner of the room. He was finishing up some papers, cigarettes between his lips, and sometime later blowing out the smoke.

You were halfway through a stanza when you heard a record break. Music started playing, the volume going up slowly. You look up from your hardcover to Joseph standing there, hands in his pockets and an eye on you. You raise your eyebrows. He does so, too.

"Dance with me, honey." He says, walking towards you slowly after he butted his cigarette out. You roll your eyes, putting your book down.

"You'll wake the kids up with that music." Even after saying that, you get up anyways, grabbing the hands he offered you a while ago.

He shrugs simply, sliding a hand on your hip and raising his other. "We'll take them back to sleep then. Dance with me." He presses his forehead to yours, kissing the tip of your nose.

You can't help but close your eyes, relaxation hitting your body like a truck. It's been a while since you felt like this. You both had been so busy with work or with the kids. You needed this. He did, too.

He starts to hum along the song. "I can see it in your eyes that you despise the same old lies you heard the night before."

Your mind flashes back to your high school days. The weeks of ignoring each other was wasting time that could've been used for loving instead.

"And though it's just a line to you, for me, it's true and never seemed so right before."

You look back at the first day of school. You thought you hated him. You thought he hated you. But in trutg it was the opposite, he confessed. He loved you the second he laid eyes on you, and you had been too blind to see, trying to distract yourself from the fact you did actually love him, too.

"I practice every day to find some clever lines to say to make the meaning come true. But then I think I'll wait until the evening gets late and I'm alone with you."

Seven years you were away from each other. He told you how much he missed you that night after the gala. He told you he prepared, he practised, because he didn't want to mess anything up. You told him nothing could because even after convincing yourself in high school that you didn't love him, you still did.

"The time is right. Your perfume fills my head. The stars get red, and, oh, the night's so blue." He turns you to spin, and you get back to your place in front of him, swaying with a hand on his chest.

"And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like, "I love you. "" He looks deep into your eyes, now staying still. He takes your lifted hand to his lips, pressing his pretty pink lips on it.

"I love you." He says, the instruments in the background adding to the moment. You smile, and he mirrors you. You place a kiss on those lips, tilting your head a bit. You part away.

"I love you." You say, caressing his cheeks. You're so glad you ended up here. With him. This was your sixth favourite day of your life.

"Mommy? Daddy?" A tiny voice asks. You both turn your head to Briseis, eyes droopy and hair a mess. She walks closer to the two of you, and Joseph does the task of lifting her up to your level.

"Yes, sweetheart? Why aren't you asleep?" Joseph said gently, and you can't help but show a smile.

"I can't. I wanna hear a story." You two nod at each other before carrying on to turn the record player off and heading to Briseis' room.

Once you tuck her in well, leaving the bedside lamp on, you question. "Alright, which story do you want for tonight." Joseph sits on the other side, brushing your daughter's hair with his fingers.

"How did you two meet?" She asks, fluffing her blanket up. You and Joseph look at each other, smiling knowingly, before you continue.

"Well, this is where it started. It was 1963. They mixed boys and girls in the same school. I was the twelfth girl."

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End - Chapter ten: I love you/Douzième Fille Series

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The series has officially ended. I'm so sad and so happy at the same time. I can't believe it. It's been so long with this series, and it's over. Our babies have grown up and have their own babies.

To all the people who read this, thank you so much for keeping up with it. This was my first ever series, and its amazing how many people have come and followed the journey.

This is a memory that'll be embedded in me for the rest of my fuckign life, no matter how cringe that sounds, but it's true. I made a lot of memories with an online fanfic series. it's crazy

I love you all so much and want to thank you guys for the support. I will continue writing for joseph it just depends on my mood. I will now start to write for other ppl, like u guys saw me post abt hamzah.

ANWWW, it's been a journey. Thank you again, and I hope you all enjoyed it.

#joseph descamps #joseph descamps x reader #mixte1963 #fanfic #reader insert #alain laubrac #enemies to lovers #jean pierre magnan #michèle magnan #simone palladino #enemies to friends to lovers #slow burn #happy ending #family #growing up #end of series #ending #i miss them already

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popcornforone · 5 months ago

Text

Teacher Teaser

A Mr Ben Fan Fic

I always say to myself stop writing Mr Ben, but then i get an idea & bang there is no stopping me. So here we are again, with some naughty Mr Ben. Insipired by the gif I was sent below

Synopsis:- It the hottest day of the year & its to hot to do a thing… except Mr Ben has other ideas.

Word Count:-2200

Warnings:- DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18! Oral sex (both) 69, teasing, swearing, alluding to other sex in the past & still to come. Established relationship. Use of Sir & slight dom vibes at points but Ben isn’t your teacher.

Thanks as always for the read peoples, all feed back is welcome, I hope you enjoy.

Yea that’s the gif that inspired it that I was sent.

It’s too hot to go outside today. You had to run to the shop to get some bits earlier, but by the time you got back to your apartment after a 30 minute trip you were sweeting buckets. So after you’ve but everything in the fridge you go & change into your white floral sundress. Your boobs are sweating too so you decide to remove your bra as well. The aircon hits you as you walk into the lounge. A nice breeze which makes you glad you have this. When your partner joked about buying an apartment that had this, you did think it wasn’t worth it. But now here in the blistering heat, you’re glad he insisted on it. He’s got the aircon on in the second bedroom which you’ve turned into an office as he marks some exams for the end of term. You slowly saunter through to the kitchen & get a long cold iced tea with plenty of ice & an apple to munch on & you make your way back to the lounge. Any chair is at your disposal, but the idea of lying across the sofa seems to be gripping your mind.

You grab your book from the side that you have to pack for when you both go on vacation in a few weeks. It’s too hot to do anything else, a few chapters of this while you wait for Ben to finish his work will be fine. You lie across 3 of the 4 seats on the sofa, your ice tea on the coffee table along with the apple & you see how long the first couple of chapters are.

“Yea I can do this” you say softly to yourself & start to read. You don’t put any music on you can hear some soft pop coming from Bens office which you like, it’s your playlist he’s actually got on, so you sit & read for a little while.

You’re really engrossed in the book that you don’t hear the door to the office open & Ben just stop & stare at you for a few minutes. He’s looking at your silky smooth legs, your knees rubbing as you read. He softly smiles & sighs looking at you being so carefree & relaxed. Your freshly painted blue toes shining on the grey sofa. He’s always loved to rub your feet. He always takes his time talking off your heels after a night out, kissing all the way up every time from your tip toes to your sex. Mumbling how soft your skin is as he goes. It makes you feel so good. He’s looking at the bottom of your feet unable to control himself. He slowly walks to the side of the sofa, kneels on the floor & slowly starts to rub & massage the balls of your feet. You gasp as the sensation & then your eyes widen as you look past your book.

“Ooooh ben”

“Total relaxation baby” he says as he works out the knots in your feet that you didn’t know were there. You bite your bottom lip looking at your man down the other end of the sofa. He’s smiling smugly. Those big brown eyes looking soft & seductive at the same time. “What you reading baby girl” he asks softly, your ankles now receiving a nice caress. When you tore your Achilles a few years ago Ben took extra care of your ankles at that point, that’s how this slow seduction from top to bottom started.

“Sharp Objects” you say, your voice already being effected by him as it turns breathy.

“Weren’t you saving that for our holiday?”

“Yea I was but it’s too hot to do anything at all today, so I thought I’d read a couple of chapters”

“& when you finish it on our trip?” He asks, his large hands now trailing up your shins.

“I’ll read one of the books you’ve got to read for term next year that you always take away with you to read but never get round to”

“I do read them”

“Well you start” you interrupt & pick up your iced tea. A few drops of condensation fall from the glass & hiss on your chest, evaporating in the heat even with the air con. He licks his own lips looking at how hot you are physically & how hot you are to him as you gulp your drink away. “But you never get it finished”

“How can I when you’re lying on a sun lounger next to me in a tiny bikini?” He says as he moves up the sofa. His hands now trail up your thighs. You shiver at such a sensual touch.

“Ben you need to stop”

“Make me” he’s blunt as his hand finds the Lace material of your thong. His eyes full of mischief as he pushes his thumb into the material & then your clit. You moan & almost drop the book, dampening your underwear instantly.

“Fuck ben”

“We will get there beautiful” & he slips a few finger inside your underwear. His precision with his small circles & motions have your thighs shaking, he only does it for about 30seconds but it’s all it takes for your hips to start moving & your legs to start going all unnecessary.

“Ohoooooohhhh”

“You like that beautiful?” You nod in reply then his hands go into your waist band & he peels the thong from your sex. The lace tracing down your thighs & legs. Your body wanting him. It’s not hard to want Ben, he is yours but right now the idea of sensual love making to occupy your afternoon on this hot summers day has you dampening even more. He doesn’t sniff your thong, he gently places on the coffee table next to the apple.

“An apple for your favourite teacher? “ he questions as he takes off his crisp white tshirt. His firm hairy chest makes your legs part instantly. You both know what’s coming. He tuts as he sees your entrance glistening. “Well I may not be your teacher, but I can always…” he hovers over your after he’s crawled onto the sofa.”… give you a lesson…” he then softly plants a kiss on your lips”…in oral” you suddenly feel two fingers slip inside your entrance.

“Fuck Ben”

“I’m sorry?”

“Sir”

“That’s more like it” he starts to pulse them, the friction against you has your thighs pushing together. He smirks before he gives you a much deeper kiss. One that is reserved for intimate moments, his lips taste of coffee & yours are so cold from the iced tea it has him hissing.

“Oooh beautiful” he slides back down towards your entrance & drops his head down. His prize all ready for him. “So ready” his nose rubs against your clit & the book that was in your hand is now dropped to the floor, no bookmark, you’ll have to start from the beginning again a when you get on holiday, not that you care at all right now.

“Mmmmmm” you moan & then pant as his talented tongue licks its first strip. His hands gripping your hips, your own hands want to push him down further but you know if you make it too intense now you’ll be cumming in seconds, & you’ve not worked out if this is just for your pleasure or if this is going to be an entire afternoon on sensual exploits.”yes Ben ooh yes” he then sucks a little too hard & you flinch. “Sorry oooh yes sir”

“Love it when you call me that” he says before he full on burrows his head in your thighs, greedily flicking his tongue in & out of you. His hand grip more & your own lift up your dress so that your hand can get underneath it grasping at your own tender sensitive breasts, desperate for this moment to never stop.

“Fuck, more Ben” you whine, your perfectly manicured nails teasing your nipples make you rhyth more as he gets to work. Ben then looks up & looks at the state of you.

“Fucking beautiful” he moans before going back to his tasting. One hand makes its way to your clit & that’s all it takes for you to move your own hands into his own crazy mop of hair. Pushing him down more. Making him moan with each suck of your succulents. The more he does that the more you move, squeezing his head between your thighs. It’s a never ending circle of pleasure between you both & it’s unlikely to stop.

“Fuck Ben I’m gonna cum” you just about manage to speak between the noises you’ve been making. Your blinking up at the ceiling before you groan his name, your world shattering as you explode in desire. He keeps licking, getting every drop on his mouth, your his sweetest honey.

“Fuck baby” he moans as he lifts his head up & wipes his chin. “That’s always a pleasure to drink from”

“Hmmm” you hum. “Do I get to taste you”

“Depends” he replies, a smug look on his face as he unzips his shorts. “Do you want to the ultimate taste sensation or do you just want some pleasure?” You know what this means. He wants to know if your up for an afternoon of love making which will start off with a very intimate & sensual 69 or if you are to hot & therefore he will just quickly fuck you to get his own release. He can see your eyes contemplating all the scenarios.

“Well Ben… I’ve got nowhere else to be today… or tomorrow” you lick your lips & wink. He smirks & the shorts & boxers come down in one motion as your sit up & slip your dress off. He crawls onto the sofa & shimmys so his head is looking up between your legs, looking up at the mess his mouth just made. He sighs before giving you a slight spank.

“Then let’s make the most of our time, sexy” you respond to his reply & you shimmy down him already moaning as he spreads your cheeks & starts to feast once again on your pussy. Pre cum around his angry head, dripping already as you spit in his length ready to endulge in his own delights.

“Take your time Ben this is going to be a long hot summers afternoon” you lick the tip & swallow what’s already been collected your hands working the shaft. A few more licks before you engulf all of his girth. He always says you have a big mouth with it comes to talking but for oral it has him whingeing at how he just about fits inside.

“Fuck sweetie” he groans before going back to his own tasty delights.

There your two bodies are. Linked together in passion. Every time you come up for air you groan. Your cunt fluttering away as he lick every inch of it inside & out. Your head bobs down to his balls, covering his penis in your saliva. He every now & then when he’s not squeezing or parting your arse cheeks sticks a finger or two inside either hole he desires & it has you spluttering all over him. Your body tensing up grinding your pussy down onto his face. You’re moving at a rhythm you would do for standard sex & you both pant.

“Fuck” Ben growls as he is unexpectedly covered from your climax. You just couldn’t hold on or give him a warning, he was also so lost in the haze of you hunkering down on him. Your licks become rapid. “I’m gonna cum baby I’m gonna fucking cum, shittt” he screamers. He gave you a few seconds of heads up & you were almost at the tip when hot ropes of his sees spill into your mouth. You choke & gag on it & his penis, as his hips judder beneath you. “Fuck baby oooh fuck” he whines as he calms down & you make sure you swallow every last drop of him.

After a few minutes when you both more relaxed you carefully get off the sofa & then get back on him as he is still laying down. You sit just above his lap, on his tummy, looking flustered but in a glow as you look down at Ben. He’s got a smile of mischief on his face.You reach your hand back behind you & start to stroke his length.

“Jesus, baby, I’m not a machine, especially not in this hot weather”

“It’s okay Ben, I just like to feel it all”

“Ooh I know you do” he sits up & pouts. You lean towards him to give him a tender kiss, your hand letting go of his length.

“It is maybe a bit too hot to have a drawn out session”

“Not it we do it properly” Ben replies & you raise an eyebrow. “I think we need to cool off” he says & then nods in the direction of the shower & starts to rub your inner thighs. “Do you want to join me sweetie”

“Hmmm, yea I guess I could do with a nice long shower with no interruptions”

“Baby the only thing that will stop us will be if we run out of water”

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curtins · 4 days ago

Note

hey mamas 🙇‍♀️ for the “get to know your fic writer” — 3 , 4 , 6 , 11 (cause i need YOU to put me on YOUR fics 🤭) , 13 , 16 (cause im nosy….) , 21 , 23 & 24 (help a hg out), 25 (so i can glaze you), 32 , 39 , 59 , 60 , 64 , 65 (!!!)

okay i’ll get out of here now…

HEYY 🤩 ...i got this notif earlier and saw the no. of questions and decided to eat dinner first bc i needed to be SEATED and with my laptop out ❤️ you came to the right place bc im president and mayor of yap city

— 3. describe the creative process of writing a chapter/fic

i have like a little template in my drafts with my basic layout (like title, prologue, warnings, pairing etc and so on) and i just keep it to copy and paste for a new fic. and underneath the header and info section, i just outline messy dot points. and each dot point gets turned into a few paragraphs or a scene. and i always have some typa thesaurus open 😭

— 4. where do you find inspiration for ideas

oouh!! mostly song titles i think, i always use them as a jumping point. or actually i really love pinterest, and web-weaving type of posts when it comes to themes i wanna explore (mostly in sfw fics, as opposed to like short smut) ��

— 6. do you have your work beta'd / how is this important to your process?

nope 😭 my drafts are always super messy and all over the place and im always a little self conscious esp since i jump between ideas and dialogue. BUT i am always yapping in peoples dms and talking abt ideas anyway or getting dialogue checked for clarity...

— 11. link your three favourite fics rn

omg! rent-a-dilf by @screampied i found it sooo charming and effortlessly engaging and also super fun even tho i've never played the sims.

i forgot to like this and add it to my queue so i took an hour to find this particular one, but what you know by @starmapz sukuna and reader are so well characterised and incredibly written! i also loved little yuuji and choso's cameos :(

and they were roommates by @sugoroo i loved it so bad, so EXCELLENT and the tension and smut had me on the edge of my seat. choso's made me laugh 😭

— 13. whats a common writing tip you always follow?

honestly it feels like a cop-out answer but i always try to remember 'unlearn shame' in my head. like when im writing, like for no reason, i get a bit embarrassed or self aware or im overthinking a sentence?? i just have to remember that it is just never that deep....😭

however, a better answer i think would be that for 99% of my fics (so excluding very short fluff, or straight up jackhammering smut) i always always do worldbuilding first. my favourite authors are j.r.r tolkien and george rr martin so middle earth/westerosi levels of high fantasy are massive inspirations when it comes to the grand scheme of creating a world for my characters to interact in.

also i rlly love mythology, folktales and medieval history so they always play a role in how i write or treat common themes. i think its super interesting and poignant at how some stories survive thousands of years and resonate across different cultures, and they remain classics for a reason <333 if that makes sense

like okay say! even in fics that aren't a part of some royal/fantasy/myth au right, like idk say im writing about gojo dying (rip king 😰) its obviously set within the jjk world in 2018, but i would try to see how the following works express the same theme of grief, battle, leaving a loved one behind:

the death of sigurd in the volsunga saga in norse myths

patroclus and achilles in the illiad

a medieval french epic called the song of roland, where roland's death is felt so strongly by his fiancee that she dies

tristan and isolde (tristan being mortally wounded n knowing that he will leave isolde behind, and she succumbs to grief)

the japanese folklore tale of the warrior tomoe gozen, and how she mourns her lord and lover

— 16. how many fic ideas are u nurturing? share one of them!

29! at the moment 😭 and watch me genuinely write like...2... but one of them that i havent even drafted much out yet, towards the end of the list is like geto x reader long fic (prob will have smut bc 😇) but its gonna be an alternative universe where reader is considered a saint/icon/mouthpiece of the gods and he's been marked for death (a warrior? or smth idk)

— 21. would you ever collaborate with another writer for a story?

i've never done it before but ofc! is this the start of user curtins and user creamflix collab.....

— 23. best writing advice for other writers?

sometimes u have to make sure you're sitting on your own and reading that dialogue out loud, or mouthing it. i'm writing shit and then speaking it afterwards. and i cant even stand to hear it bc no way would anyone ever say that.

— 24. worst writing advice anyone ever gave you?

you can't start a sentence with 'and' like wtf okay....who said that. english is made up, all words are made up no one gaf if its not proper english, im allowed to do desi repatriations like this ig

— 25. what fic do you wish you got more of a response one?

hmm honestly, i did have an answer for this at first like 'oh yeah this one xyz i wish it got more notes' but that being said i feel like there's none that i feel truly flopped on par with how im improving writing and getting more comfortable. but! if i had to choose: goo goo muck #1 with the minotaur au because i rlly put some thought into how i could incorporate sukuna, yuji, and yuji's execution with the myth of the beast trapped in the maze.

and ditto! i think its my longest fic so far 😭 and it took me so long to plan out a timeline from childhood to gojo's death

— 32. name three of your favourite fanfic writers?

it would be poor form and incredibly remiss of me to not say user @creamflix 🤭 i really love how ur dialogue flows, and the way you describe scenes make me feel like i'm really there (a+ for me)

also @tonycries simply because every time i try my hand at smut, it takes me 4 days to think of something new, and i'm always wondering on how to reword shit so i'm not writing the same thing over and over, but they keep it soooo fresh and new with every fic and soooo well written!!

@kurooh i always find their smut fics sooo creative and fun, and their recent double fantasy fic was SAUUUUUR good!

— 39. share a snippet from a wip!

nay! mind you, this isn't even proofread so its still incredibly basic and thesaurus.com has not come out....but i tried a mildly different inspo approach and header. its very backstory and angst based for sukuna regarding his childhood, but sweet at the end i promise :(( IM CRYING. im seeing mistakes in this already, but i needed to give uraume my they/them baddie a cameo later in it

— 59. does anyone in your personal life know that you write fic? if not, would you tell anyone?

im cryinggggg. def not, unfortunately i can't let this get in the way of the public brand #coolgirl but it would go something like this

— 60. have you had a writer that you admire comment on your fic?

🫡 @madamechrissy who's writing my fave bridgerton fic, with duke!gojo commented on my vacation fic and i really did a giggle and kick in the air 😭

— 64. something you love to see in smut?

hmmmm my favourite thing is like when it isn't just pure smut if that makes sense, like setting, atmosphere, or cute banter is incorporated or clever wordplay. like you can feel the vibe of like where its set idk 😭

— 65. tell us what you're most looking forward to writing – in your current project, or a future project?

i really want to improve and become more confident in different genres, like better smut that flows more without me having to stop and stare at a wall for ten minutes each time, or super cute fluff <333333

#answered #this is soooo long but i love that u asked these...made me actually think properly #im gonna need to make mutual tags for everyone omggg

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johaerys-writes · 3 months ago

Note

I gotta ask about 4. Victorian Patrochilles

Basically this one is a reincarnation AU I started AGES ago... it is set in Victorian London, Achilles is the prince and in line for the throne, and Patroclus is a minor noble, and the meet at a ball and instantly feel this ConnectionTM... like it's one of the first patrochilles things I ever wrote lol, and the first chapter is actually up on AO3 in this collection over here. At first it was only going to be a oneshot but then I started thinking about it more, and I sort of came up with an outline for a full story and started writing it (I opened the file again recently and was surprised at how much I'd actually written) but I abandoned it after a while because I wasn't happy with some plot points and tbh I still haven't figure them out. But there's a lot of it that I still like, here is a small snippet:

I met him later that week. We walked the busy streets of London side by side, and the Prince didn’t seem to mind the mud that clung to his boots or the drizzle that darkened his golden hair to copper. He talked to me cheerfully- he seemed quite fond of talking, but not in the way one blabbers incessantly for the pleasure of hearing one’s own voice. He had much to share with me, and he spoke fast and with confidence, as if he could cram the information of a lifetime in just a few short hours.

He was different when he was with me. Less aloof, less regal. He had a casual air about it him which he seemed to drop when no one was around; it made him look young, almost boyish—behind his princely facade he hid a cheerful disposition and a razor sharp intellect, as well as a knack for clever puns.

It wasn’t long before our conversation drifted back to ancient myths and legends, as it normally did when it was just the two of us.

“The Ancient Greeks were masters when it came to tragic stories,” he said, pushing the glass door of a tea shop open, a small and dainty one hidden in one of the side streets off Baker Street. “The most tragic of all, of course,” he sat by one of the tables, gesturing for me to sit near him, “is none other than that of Achilles and Patroclus. I recall you were quite fond of their love story.”

I self-consciously glanced over my shoulder to make sure no one near us had overheard, even though the Prince didn’t seem to have noticed anything odd about his speech.

“We have settled, then, that they were lovers?” I asked him with a smile.

“Of course,” he said, without a hint of hesitation. “There can be no question about it. The truth is there, plain for everyone to see, regardless of what historians and scholars say. Left to their own devices, they would argue for centuries whether a tea kettle is black or simply very dark grey.”

That was another thing about him that I’d noticed; he often spoke blunt truths without any intention to tease or gauge for a reaction. He spoke them because, frankly, that was what they were: the truth, and he had little patience for anything but. It was something I admired about him.

Well, one of the many things I admired about him, in any case.

“Indulge me, Your Grace,” I said, lifting the steaming cup to my lips after he had poured the tea. “What is it that you and I know, and all the scholars of the world do not?”

#patrochilles #victorian au #reincarnation au

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trancylovecraft · 9 months ago

Text

(KNY) YANDERE PLATONIC! KOKUSHIBO x SISTER READER: You, Shibou. I, Kokoro (CHAPTER FIFTEEN)

Previous Chapter ☆♡☆ Masterlist ☆♡☆ Next Chapter

AO3 link

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: "..Soldier on, Achilles."

Amnesia is the loss of memory. It can inhibits the formation of new memories and/or the recollection of old ones. Several regions of the brain are involved in the process of memory including the amygdala, hippocampus, cerebellum, and prefrontal cortex. Damage to one or more of these areas can often result in post-traumatic amnesia.

Shizuko sat still, Legs closed and basketed at the end of the table.

The dark spots of his eyes remained enthralled upon the udon bowl before him, Unwavering as he watched the liquid residue of the noodle inside reflect the lights of the small dining room he sat in.

It was like watching fish make ripples in a pond. A quirk on his lips and a scrunch of his face, Tongue bit. He didn't even dare to pick up the lone pair of chopsticks sat beside the bowl, Seemingly went unnoticed by the boy.

Neither did the dim interior of the room, Where the sunlight of the brisk morning just didn't reach the small room. Only spits of radiance shining through the perfect square grid shoji-walls, No thin paper to let the sun from the surrounded garden shine in.

Despite the lack of light, Shizuko scrutinized the Tupperware, Scowling at the meal inside.

"Seriously, What the hell is that thinking face? You're lookin' at your udon like it offended you personally, Aren't you gonna eat it?"

Shizuko jerked his head up at the brash jest coming from across the table. Wide, Owlish eyes glaring back at Genya who spoke them.

Suddenly snapping back into reality, Registering the small dining room that they were located in.

"Mind your business. I'll eat it on my own time, You just focus on yours." Shizuko retorted, Quickly and despondent as he vaguely gestured towards Genya's own majority-eaten portion of Udon.

Shizuko swiftly retracted his hand afterwards, Defiantly tossing his head to the side to stare off somewhere else within the room. Anywhere but at him, Shizuko had better things to think about right now.

Genya's eyes narrowed, The pair of chopsticks entwined between his rough fingers lowered, Dropping into the bowl.

"..You're thinking about what happened back at the old Kakushi Base, Aren't you?" He asked, Knowing the answer not with words but by the way Shizuko snapped his eyes back over to his.

They widened like saucers, Accusatory in stance as he tried to keep his cool.

"Wow, Detective. How'd you figure that one out?" Shizuko retorted, Finally plucking the chopsticks from beside his bowl and scooping up the udon noodle inside. The woollen gloves hugging his hand being the only thing stopping from puking up at the touch.

Genya and Shizuko, The two renowned Tsuguko of Gyomei Himejima. Constantly in competition and combat with each other, Sparring or spat used interchangeably. Ever since they were both younger and in the care of their master, It had been that way.

So with all the time they had been together there was no question that Genya would be able to tell when Shizuko's off, Especially if it had been happening for a few months. Ever since that day in the billowing mountainside, Shizuko had just been.. Strange.

The ticking of his eye tocked a little more often, His sensitive fingertips were just a little more potent. He woke up just a little later, Sloppier when it came to training.

Genya could tell that it irked him.

"Whatever, I'm just saying that it's been months since it happened. I mean, I'm still pissed about it too but I mean.. Come on, Man." He scoffed, Rolling his eyes as he finally tossed down his chopsticks into the finished bowl, Only pungent residue remaining within the ceramic.

The other boy however paused the movements of his own chopsticks, Just before the udon noodle touched his lips.

"It's not like you could understand, You weren't there! You were stuck helping out on evacuations!" Shizuko scowled as he lowered his hand, Troubled face even more gnarly with that expression on his face.

Genya lowered a brow.

"Oh, You're going on about your fight with Upper Six." He said, Starting to sort his used Tupperware into a neat pile. "..You know, Neither you or Himejima-sensei has spoke about it. What did go down there..?"

Genya's follow on was much quieter than his starting statement, Dark eyes honing on Shizuko with a sharp glint. Since the Shrine Invasion neither Shizuko or Gyomei had talked about their brawl with the Uppermoon.

Not a lick or lisp of the event, A seemingly wordless agreement between the two to keep it under wraps. Genya couldn't deny he was curious. Especially since it was the catalyst for his allies discomfort.

Shizuko's lips pursed together, Thinning along with his eyes starting to wander off in what seemed to be thought.

The grip on his chopsticks tightened, Almost snapping them in half.

"..Upper Six, He was.. He was my friend.. Ne, Someone I was raised with and someone I use to consider my brother.." Shizuko whispered, His voice almost a brush in the air or a prayer amongst thousands.

His eyes focused on nothing, Nothing except the blizzard and the electric blue that chased it. Almost possessed, His gloved hand twitched and moved on its own, Covered fingertips raising to near graze his forehead under the mess of his curls.

They were shaking, His fingers. Even more once they brushed against his skin.

"He's.. He's the reason I had my accident, The reason I.. The reason I can't remember anything." His fingers entangled within the wilderness of his hair, Swiftly wrangling back his curls to reveal his forehead.

Large, Swollen and horribly malformed were only the first few words that came to mind. A massive scar where a gash had for no doubt once lain, Shaped like a star and mis-coloured from the rest of his skin, It was hideous and most seemingly painful.

Genya's eyes went ajar. The scar he was aware of through missed strikes of a training sword or a stray gust of wind, All accidents that were quickly covered up.

But now..?

Gloved fingers grasped at the scar on his forehead, Ever so slightly tighter and so absent-mindedly that the disgust of the sensation was forgotten in the moment, Along with the memories of how the scar appeared.

The only thing he recalled from that night was the emotion he felt. Betrayal, Terror and agonising pain. His head bashing against the far wall, Ichor bursting from the wound and the blood loss flowing out along with his memory lost.

That, And his face.

His childhood, Everything before he had came to the old monastery was gone like a drop in the sea. Forgotten in the waves of time, The only thing he remembered..

That touch, That warm touch..

It was divine.

"..I'm sorry." Genya finally spoke up, Much more serious in tone as he looked at him in shock. "I shouldn't of brought it up. Just forget I said anything.."

Shizuko sighed, Hand finally relenting from his forehead as the nauseating feeling of touch returned to him.

"No, You're right. Ngh.. I shouldn't be caught up in it, It's not like Kaigaku means anything to me anymore. He's dead in my eyes, Left us and became a demon.." Shizuko mumbled as he finally returned the udon to his lips, Starting to chew.

Genya shuffled on his knees, Now uncomfortable as the silence returned. The sounds of the early day and the chirp of the crickets in the square garden outside was no longer a comfort, Nor the birds warble in the trees, Just unsettled now.

Shizuko frowned, Sipping up the noodle into his mouth.

"Ne.. Either way, I have another demon to replace him." Shizuko chewed, Now directly gesturing to Genya with his chopsticks. Sly and sarcastic grin spreading his face, Watching as Genya's jaw dropped.

"Eh..?! Oh come on, I thought we were having a good moment there!" Genya exclaimed, A weathered fist slamming down onto the table which made the Tupperware atop shake and clatter together.

Shizuko however, Wasn't as startled as the dishes.

"Why, What's wrong? I'm just stating the obvious here, It's not my fault you're a demon muncher." Shizuko replied with an ever-smug grin on his face to which Genya scoffed at.

"It's not my fault you've got a girls name!" Genya retorted, Scrunch in his nose.

"Hey! It's not mine either, You think I wanted this name? What shitty caregiver I had must've hated me.." Shizuko muttered now with a slight tick to the smugness in his grin, Afterwards tossing the chopsticks onto the table and cupping the bowl to bring it to his lips.

Genya huffed.

"Must have, Though to be fair who wouldn't take one look at you and feel unbearable disgust." He jested, Trying to lighten the mood yet it seemed too heavy to be lifted as Shizuko didn't jab back.

A bad sign, Written in the boldest of inks.

Genya's smile lowered as he lowered his head along with Shizuko's, Awkward tension filling the air now. Shizuko tilted his head upwards towards the wood-panel ceiling, Bowl raising as he felt the savoury liquids enter his mouth.

He took a moment, Leftover toppings of broken seaweed and tofu chunks to chase it. It flooded onto his tongue until there was nothing but running droplets in the ceramic, Shizuko slammed it down with an audible clank!

Shizuko wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his clover-coloured kimono.

"Ngh.. Done." He breathed, Throwing a hand onto the tatami floor (Making sure it was just the start of his palm, Not his fingertips) to push himself up. "..I think I need to go take a walk in the garden for a bit.. I need to clear my head."

Genya blinked.

"Hey.. I didn't actually upset you, Right? You know I didn't mean that, Just said it to piss you off is all.." He admitted as he watched Shizuko get to his feet, Shake his hair until it was in an acceptable position and turn away.

"Ne, I know. I'm just not feeling well, Training from earlier really got to me is all.." Shizuko replied, Not turning back to Genya who still sat though a little more disgruntled than he was before.

He could only watch as his ally dragged his feet over to the sliding door. With practice, Using his elbow to push it open. Shizuko didn't look back at Genya and Genya knew that it wasn't what he said that irked him so.

It was still the Shrine Incident.

Genya wanted to know what really was up with him, But he wasn't exactly the right person to deal with it. He wasn't there, He didn't know his past with the new Upper Six, Nor was he there when he had his accident.

It was best that he stayed out of it, For now at least. Genya picked up the finished dishes, Cupping the Tupperware in his hands and not even getting annoyed at the ones Shizuko had left for him, He had other things to think about.

Genya just hoped Shizuko would search out the man who could cater to his worries. He sighed as he opened the adjacent door the the one Shizuko left from, Carefully balancing the ceramic in his hands, He started to march towards the kitchen.

☆♡☆

"There.. It seems to be all healed now.."

The ever-dim darkness of the false shrine was finally broken by the faint light of a rusty lantern, The amber light flickered against the decaying walls like the ember inside. It sat on her bedside, Right next to the eaten bowl of udon licked clean.

As ever, The infinity castle was cold. But even more so against the bareness of [F/N]'s skin, Her mid-section once kept warm and bound by bandages was now naked, The garments laying in a scarf-like heap on the old floors.

She felt down her stomach where the stitches once were, That life-threatening gash that near took her like and most certainly put her in a weeks long coma. It was a miracle that she was still alive, That she had came out of it without any chronic debility.

So much so that there wasn't even a scar..

"I see.." [F/N] whispered as she laid her cold palm on her equally cold stomach, Shivering in the brisk air, Hair on her nape standing up. A strange sensation as her time was mostly spent within the cold peaks of her Shrine.

Her eyes were focused entirely on her gut, An uneasy-wonder as she looked at the scratch-less skin.

Kokushibo stood only a few metres away from her, The reason the chill had affected her so much in the first place. Her muscles still tense from his presence, That and the fact that she had barely anything on apart from a Koshimaki and a thinnish layer of bandages she had used a chest cover.

His eyes, Six glowing eyes that were even brighter than the faint spark of the lantern-light beside him. They examined her, Her injury or lack-there-of especially. He just stood there silently, Not moving a muscle facial or otherwise.

She knew very well that he wouldn't try anything, No, Whatever obsession he had with her was never like that. But it still made her feel vulnerable and easy to attack. An instinct from her childhood days.

Never leave yourself defenceless..

"..Do you mind if you just.. Leave the room while I change?" [F/N] exasperated, Headache brewing in her mind both from the current situation and what happened yesterday. "No offense, Kokushibo-sama.. But it's just disturbing when you stand there like that.."

Kokushibo's lip twitched, Only a tick.

"..We will be heading off to do your daily training straight after, There would be no point in me leaving.. Either way, It isn't anything I haven't seen before.." Kokushibo replied, Stone-faced and stoic as his voice rumbled in the room.

[F/N] swallowed, Disgust running on her tongue and sweat dripping down her neck yet it hadn't even gotten to the sparring part yet.

"..Right" [F/N] gulped, Swallowing down the nauseating distain pooling and festering in her mouth. "Then if you could just turn around that would be fine, I'd.. I'd just prefer if you weren't watching.."

As soon as the words left her lips, Drifted into the frozen air of the room she had waited for him to turn.

But he didn't.

Kokushibo continued to stand there, Stiller than she was as she waited for him to look away. But instead all six of his eyes continued to linger on her, Wandering away from her injury to her side, Sickly golden slits narrowing.

Had she done something wrong? Was there something she had somehow let out on her persons? What was he looking at..?!

Kokushibo hummed, A single step towards her that sounded like exploding rocks made her repress the urge to back away. His hand reached out, Slow like a knife preparing to cut. Talons and all as they grazed her side.

A burning pain shot through her side, [F/N]'s muscles tensed up.

"I wonder.. How did you get an injury like this?" Kokushibo drawled as he examined the bruised skin, Slightly tugging her around so he could get a better look at where Akaza had jabbed into her.

Her saving shot, Or whatever it would be called, The one where he broke his vow to hurt a woman but aided her all the while.

[F/N] would've rolled her eyes if it wasn't for the ice currently running through her blood.

"It's.." [F/N] directed her eyes away from Kokushibo, Tounging at the side of her mouth to try and come up with some explanation she could tell him.

Tell him that she tried to commit suicide? Her captor of all people? [F/N] still felt a deep regret burning in her for telling Akaza, Her state of mind warped back then, She wished she had just kept her mouth shut.

So there was no way that she would ever tell Kokushibo. Not like he "sympathised" with her or whatever, Not like he still had some inkling of humanity in him unlike Akaza.

No, He was just a monster.

"You still haven't told me how you injured your wrist.. Is there something you aren't telling me?" Kokushibo mumbled as his eyes snapped over to her bandaged hand, The injury she had caused when she had punched a wall into the shrine's structure.

His gaze sharpened.

"..I do hope that my Tsuguko hasn't garnered any.. Distasteful feelings for your prescence here again. Tell me, How did you gain these injuries..?" Kokushibo lowered himself so that his eyes met with hers, Stabbing, Piercing into her.

Her lips thinned.

"..I tripped down the stairs, Hit my side and my fist at the same time. You know, Kokushibo-sama, You should see to getting some kind of banister lining them.. This isn't the first time I near fell down them.." [F/N] responded, Snake's tongue speaking quick and somewhat formal yet she still refused to look at him.

Though for some reason, The lies she use to taste didn't come so sour anymore.

"..Ah, So my comment about your footwork wasn't taken to heart then.." Kokushibo remarked, Referencing his constant jabs at her apparently flawed "footwork". He retracted his hands, And [F/N] tried not to scrunch her nose up.

Was he trying to make some kind of joke?

[F/N] just silently stared at the floor, Almost waiting for his next move as he stepped back away from her. The air much more thick, The consistency of tar. She didn't laugh, Neither did Kokushibo as he continued to stare dead at her.

[F/N] kept her eyes on the floorboards, Not looking up at him. Kokushibo breathed out.

"..Go get ready. It is time for you to test your strength once more.." He spoke, Stepping back just a little further, Feeling the depression of the floorboards move away to the other side of the room.

[F/N] sighed, Shivering once more within the nipping atmosphere of the Shrine. Shaking off the still aching bruise on her side, She scoffed once she realised Kokushibo had turned his back to her, Giving her some semblance of privacy.

Sparring, Even though he knew she was injured. [F/N] stumbled over to the closet not even a metre away. Kokushibo didn't even bat a single eye, And he had many. [F/N] asked herself why he even wanted to clash swords with her.

He knew she was strong, She fought against him a few months ago as a formidable opponent. [F/N] fished out her old samue set, The one she used often to train in. Now she had been turned into nothing but a caged animal to be poked with by sticks.

He didn't need to test her strength, She was cursed with it. [F/N] was the one who killed a thousand of his kind, The one who gave him a run for his own money, The one who fought Upper Three barehand on this very roof for fuck-sakes!

Maybe he liked torturing her, That was it.

[F/N] pulled the trouser half of the samue up from her ankles to her waist, Slipped her arms through the loose-fabric sleeves. She folded it over her, Set it in place. Making sure everything was fine, She dusted it off.

It wasn't like she didn't deserve the beat-downs, It's not like she didn't want him to go too far one day. She deserved it after all, The blood of hundreds still ran down her. It's why she couldn't bare to look in the mirror, To catch a glimpse of that red.

She strained her eyes away even now, Much preferring to turn back to Kokushibo and tell him that she was done. Kokushibo cocked his head to the side, Examining her up and down before he wordlessly stepped out of the door.

[F/N] didn't need words to understand he wanted her to follow, She did soundlessly, Just wanting to get this over with.

☆♡☆

The light filtered through the diamond-like holes in the walls, A designed pattern meant to illuminate the estate during the day.

The air was cool, Not the kind on a summers day but instead the faint chill of a golden hour autumn. A strong wind to blow through the hair and fabric of anyone caught in it. It was strange since it was the middle of spring, But the mix of both leaving summer heat and oncoming winter cold made it feel like it was much later in the year than it actually was.

Shizuko stumbled through the hallways, Wooden floorboards depressing under his minimum weight. He had traversed the rather linear hallways thousands of times, Yet he felt lost in his gait, A direction unknown.

He gazed towards the gardens, Barely lifting his head to catch glimpses of the carefully trimmed bushes and miniature lakes within. It was surrounded by the rest of Himejima's estate, A sort of plaza kept safe in the squared layout of the house.

He watched the water of the tiny stream trickle along the garden, Watched as the carefully made buddha statues held the aqua in their palms and guided it on their course. The reeds and the rye-grass all a vibrant green.

Shizuko sighed, Scrunching up his face. Genya bringing up his incident with Upper Six seemed to make him much more irked than he had previously thought. Now some weight was placed upon his chest, Now some throb came through the abrasion on his head.

The faraway aria of the birds wasn't anything that could calm him, Not right now. Nor the crickets chirp or the trickle of stream, Everything was just so.. Numbing now. It made him grimace as he paced the halls.

His memory was perfect. If you picked out a date, Any year, Any month, Any day. He could tell you exactly what he did as if it was written out plain as day. What he ate for breakfast, A word for word recite of the conversation he had with his master, Or even how many birds flew past him that day.

But he couldn't remember that.

Ever since his head was cut and mauled, He couldn't recall a single day before then. He might as well have just appeared one day. Everything before then was just a blur, Just one hot mess.

Except.. For that one feeling. The one that he felt on his hands as if it was yesterday, The only touch he could ever tolerate, Or even yearn for. It felt otherworldly, Comforting. That person of muddled face was like a god themselves, Elusive and unobtainable.

Shizuko wanted to know who they were, Who that person really was. But Shizuko didn't know who, Or where to even start looking. His master hadn't known either, Just recalling he had been left at their doorstep one day.

His master.

Shizuko stopped in his walk, A stumbled halt as he finally pulled his head over to the door beside him.

It was his master's private room he had built to pray in, The one always shadowed by the dark and candle-light was shown like stars in the night. Shizuko paused as he looked at the door, Faintly hearing the chants of sutras inside.

He was there, His master was inside.

Shizuko made an effort to be quiet, Careful not to step on any of the floorboards he knew would creak. He steadied himself on the doorframe, Leaning over so he could peer through the crack in the door.

And there he was, In all of his glory.

Shizuko could only see the back of his saturated-lime haori, The one emboldened with kanji. He saw his prayer beads and heard the faint clacking of them hitting each other, The sutra's also getting much louder.

Shizuko debated whether he should knock or not, Whether he should disturb him as he prayed at the candle-lit altar. Gyomei probably didn't want to talk about it, Hell, Shizuko didn't want to either-

"..You can come in."

Shizuko's eyes widened, Just now realising the sound of the beads clacking and his sutra's had went silent.

Gyomei turned his head to the side, And even though he was blind, Shizuko could swear that he was staring right into him with those white-out eyes. Gyomei waited, Shizuko barely snapped out of it before he answered.

"..R-Right, Sir." Shizuko stammered as he pushed open the door, Bowing down low in a sign of respect before stepping in. Gyomei turned around on his knees, Facing him now with his hands still together in prayer.

Shizuko closed the door only slightly behind him, The darkness becoming all the more present as he stood there awkwardly in front of his master.

He sighed.

"..I'm sorry for bothering you during your prayer, Himejima-sensei." Shizuko started, Formal in tone as he bowed once more to the man. "I just wanted to talk to you is all. I.. I have a lot of stuff on my mind right now."

The beads surrounding Gyomei's hands chattered together, Gyomei seeming to take in his words.

"I see.. Then please, Let me ask what bothers you so.. It would not be wise to keep it to yourself.." Gyomei advised in his ever-solemn tone, Bowing down slightly before gesturing him to sit down.

Shizuko nodded and took his offer, Hurrying over to the empty spot in front of the man and sitting himself down neatly atop it.

After settling down and the curls of hair were parted from his eyes, He took a moment for himself. Still hearing the crackle of the candle fire in the back, He listened to it for only a second as if trying to find the words to say.

"Begin whenever you like.." Gyomei assured, Nodding once in encouragement to his Tsuguko.

Shizuko sighed.

"Thank you.. It's just I've been thinking a lot lately, You know.. About the night at the Kakushi Base?" He explained, Slightly hesitant as he eyed the older man for his reaction.

Gyomei's frown deepened, Sharpening as the soft clacking of the beads started to pick up. Shizuko deflated, Knowing he had stricken a cord somewhere.

"..Ah, Yes.. I suppose I should have known that we would have this conversation one day, In fact.. I believe I even might have been expecting it ever since that accursed day in the snow.." Gyomei admitted, Slowly nodding to his words.

Shizuko bit his lip, Vision seemingly elsewhere as he tried to hold back the spill of words.

"I-I mean.. Kaigaku.. How could he do something like this? How could he become the thing that killed our family, My siblings..! Did we just not matter to him?" Shizuko scoffed. "Of course we dont.. How could I say that he gives a shit when he went and became a people-eater?"

Shizuko muttered, Suddenly forgetting his manners as he spoke. Knuckles near popping as he gripped the hems of his green haori, Near ripping the fabric in two at the memory. Gyomei hummed, Brows furrowing.

"Kaigaku has always been troubled.. He stole, He thieved and he robbed.. But he always did it for the sake of us, Shizuko. Kaigaku has become undesirable and an enemy to the corps. But I admit.. I do have blame to take for the way he has turned out." Gyomei spoke, Growing much softer.

Shizuko finally looked up at the man, Staring him dead in the face. Disbelieving as he shook his head, Barely hiding a scoff.

"Ne, Kaigaku was always a rat.. You had no part to play in it, Sensei. He deceived us, He lied to us, He used us for money! He.." Shizuko croaked, Teeth starting to bare as he resisted the urge to grasp his head. "H-He let that demon maul my face.."

Gyomei's lips thinned as he listened on to his Tsuguko's words, Hearing as his talk start to become a rant.

"..I understand, That night was the worst one of your entire life.. And it was mine too. When I laid my fists upon the demon that killed my kids, When I found out of what Kaigaku had done.. I felt rage, I felt anger at everything that denounced my Buddhist vows, I felt rage towards Kaigaku and his ignorant actions.." Tears now started to flood faster down his cheeks, Hot as they dripped onto his hands of prayer.

His frown sharpened.

"But looking back, I know I should have discouraged that boy.. I had chose to forget of his thieving actions because we needed the money. I knew he was troubled and chose to ignore it.. It is my fault that he turned out as such." Gyomei finished, The sorrow in his voice much more potent.

Shizuko couldn't supress a sneer anymore.

"..Every time I bring him up, You always take blame for his actions! You keep saying that he was just troubled- Why can't you just accept that he's a monster? Both now and then?!" Shizuko spat, Pushing himself up to the floor now with a single hand.

Gyomei turned his head up towards where he had stood, Proceeding to follow him up to the floor as he got onto his feet, Easily overshadowing the boy before him. Shizuko

He knew he had to diffuse this quickly.

"Shizuko, It's a complicated an-"

"I DON'T WANT ANOTHER EXCUSE!" Shizuko finally whipped his head to look up at him with angry eyes, He was pissed, Knuckles near popping as he tried to get up in the face of the admittedly taller man. Shizuko seethed.

"I don't want some stupid explanation as for why Kaigaku was just troubled! Or- Or- Deserving of sympathy! E-Even back then you refused to kill him, Even though he's a demon!" Shizuko cried, Starting to stumble over his words as he bared his teeth at his master.

"I-Isn't that what you keep harping about? Our duty as a demon slayer being to kill every last one? Not to rest until you do?" Shizuko reiterated, Shaking his head as he approached him "Y-You could've just killed him back in the snow, But you didn't.."

"I couldn't kill one of my kids.. Shizuko. Not you nor Kaigaku, No matter how far he may have fallen.." Gyomei lamented, Shaking his head. "You know how much it pains me to kill.. To go against my vows as a monk."

"So what?! He's a demon now, Not a human being! You said it yourself, You insulted him too!" The younger jabbed, Incredulous, Looking at the man with ire and confused anger.

Shizuko stepped back, Looking at the man he admired with such unfound before disgust. What respect was usually given was held back now, Only giving venomous looks that Gyomei could only feel burning into him.

Kaigaku, The person now demon that was the reason his family was dead, Why that monster mutilated his face. Why couldn't his master understand that? That he should be just as angry as he was.

Gyomei on the other hand, He had foresaw this coming, He had for months. He knew that this talk had to happen eventually and thus kept himself calm, Not a muscle tensed or ticked.

He tried to reach out a hand, To place on Shizuko's shoulder.

"-I said it so you could get behind him without him noticing." Gyomei corrected "..I feel rage at the boy, I promise you that I do.. But I should not let it get the better of me, Not like it did back on that horrid day.." Gyomei deplored. And if Shizuko looked close, He could see his hands-in-prayer start to shake.

The feeling of fists on flesh, Beating the bloody pulp of that demon into the ground until the sun hit his face. It was gorey, The feeling of hot blood spurting out onto his knuckles. He had never felt so fallen from grace before, Not before he truly found out how strong he was.

Even now he felt the blood trickle down his fingers just like it was yesterday, Like it was still there..

But now he felt Shizuko slap away the hand he offered him, Consumed by the moment and his enraged heart. Gyomei could only feel sorrow for the boy as he continued.

"Y-You keep saying stuff you don't mean, It wasn't even just at the shrine! You.. Why can't you just understand that he's the reason that our family is dead..! H-He's the reason that I lost my memories.. He's.." Shizuko's rage, The one that spilled out in rage started to turn out in tears.

They started to speckle his eyes, His mouth growing more humid by the moment as his lungs started to burn.

His face was still snarled, The candles embers still burning bright even as they flickered. The darkness of the room barely covered the anguish behind his voice.

"Y-You don't even know where the hell I came from..!" Shizuko mourned, Voice wheezing and choking from his throat. The tears in his eyes started to build, Boiling like a pot, Stinging him.

Gyomei sighed, Stepping towards him.

"Please just-!" Shizuko stammered, His voice dying down to a near whisper before the tears finally spilled over his eyes.

"..J-Just tell me who the hell I am."

Gyomei reached out once more, And this time Shizuko didn't argue once he felt the firm hand of his mentor grasp his shoulder.

He was shaking like a leaf, A rare moment when his resolve started to tremble like a tree in a storm. Shizuko's fists were balled yet he threw no punches, Only dropped his head down to stare at them as he tried not to weep harder than he already was.

Gyomei's hand squeezed his shoulder, A single thumb rubbing circles into it. His touch was unfortunately revolting, Making Shizuko tense up. But despite the disgust coursing through his veins, He didn't shake it off.

He didn't want to, Even though it made him want to sob even harder.

"..I'm sorry, I wish I could give you the answer that you desire but that is not for me to give." Gyomei assured, His voice was soft yet it sounded so loud within the darkness of the prayer room.

"..Who you are is for you to decide. My rage got the best of me once, And it almost became who I was. But I never let it consume me.. And I have tried so very hard to make sure it never happens again." Gyomei spoke "So please.. Trust me when I say that who you are is who you choose to become.. Neither your lost memories or your anger define you, Not unless you let them.."

Shizuko sniffled.

"B-But that's just it, Isn't it?" Shizuko croaked, Wiping his tears on the sleeve of his yukata. "I do remember just the tiniest bit.."

Gyomei's eyebrows knitted together, The thumb rubbing circles into his shoulder halted, Just for a moment.

"..Whatever do you mean?" Gyomei asked.

"T-There's someone out there that knows who I use to be. There's someone out there who held my goddamn hand.. And hell, It felt nice." Shizuko admitted as the dried tears quickly became replaced, Falling down quicker once that otherworldly warmth came back to him.

Gyomei however, Whatever reaction Shizuko had been expecting from him. Shock, Intrigued, Happy that he had at least some memories. And sure, There was some of that there but it was taken over by something else.

Something more.. It was something more hesitant.

Shizuko caught onto it immediatley, Observant eye able to pick up the oddities in his expression.

He sniffled, Scrunching up his face as he shook the newly born tears off.

"..You.. You don't know who that is, Right?" Shizuko asked, Stutter still in his voice yet more pronounced and steady now. Gyomei thinned his lips, The intensity in his muscles becoming much more visible.

"Shizuko.." Gyomei drawled which just made Shizuko move forward, Eyes on him like a hawk, Not letting them wander for a second. The way he was acting, Though difficult to see in the dark.. He knew something.

"..Master." Shizuko replied, Slowly and with intent as he carefully eyed the taller man who was currently in debate of his own. Stiff as the statues he prayed to at the altar behind him, Cold stone on his face as he played out the discourse in his head.

He recalls the conversation he had with Kanroji back at the Hashira Meeting, When they had discussed [F/N] and her relation to Shizuko as his older sister. It was a good while ago now, But he still felt confused by it all.

Everything. How he was simply tossed on the temples doorsteps as a child, How he spoke of an older sister. Knowing now that it was [F/N], A colleague he had allied with for years, It shone an entire new light on everything now..

Yet somehow, He was still in the dark.

"Shizuko.. " Gyomei muttered, His morals at war.

"Alright then.. But keeping lies is against my morals and good concious, If he does ask about anything pertaining to this then I will not lie to him.. And I do hope you tell him in due time, Kanroji-san"

It was against his morals and his good concious, It would be a sin to lie to him. But on the other hand.. How could he possibly begin to explain to him something Gyomei couldn't even explain himself?

"Master.. Please. Tell me, Do you know something..?" Shizuko whispered, As faint as the candles waning. His eyes scanned over every facial feature, Ones he had learned the ticks and tocks to. "Do you.. You do, You do know something..!"

There was no way around it. No avenue or alleyway he could divert down to direct the conversation to a different topic. He needed to be honest, Be truthful. That was what his principles spoke of, Right?

"Shizuko.. I've been meaning to tell yo-"

"CAW CAW!"

The call of that all too familiar beast called out, Followed by a sudden sound of what seemed to be rapid tapping at one of the room's window frames.

Gyomei instantly snapped his head over to where the sound was coming from, Where the window was hidden behind several rich tapestries depicting stories from his religion. Suddenly feeling awkward, Shizuko stared as his master moved towards the window, Peel back the tapestries and let light flood into the room.

It was blinding compared to the shadow the room was bathed in, Making Shizuko stammer back and raise a hand to cover his eyes. Gyomei, Unaffected, Slid the window-shutter open to reveal the crow behind them.

It's feathers shone under the afternoon light, Light near rolling off them. Once Shizuko got use to the light he finally recognised the crow as Kamakiri, The Insect Hashira's crow, One he had often seen flying around in Corps Area's he often loitered around in.

Her beak snapped once, The little butterfly charm around her neck shaking as she spoke.

"CAW CAW! STONE HASHIRA HIMEJIMA GYOMEI! YOU HAVE BEEN ASKED TO MEET AT THE BUTTERFLY MANSION ON THE REQUEST OF MY MASTER, INSECT HASHIRA KOCHO SHINOBU!"

Kamikiri's voice was loud, Echoing out throughout the entire room as she delivered her message. Gyomei hummed, Rattling the beads snaking around his hands.

"For what reason..? Did your master give you any cause?" Gyomei asked.

"NO REASON WAS GIVEN HOWEVER IT WAS STATED TO BE IMPORTANT! CAW CAW! DO YOU ACCEPT THE INVITATION?" Kamikiri squaked once more, Flapping her wings once in the radiant light and waiting for his response.

Gyomei lowered his brows, Seemingly taking in the words as the beads around his hands clacked together like heeled shoes on the floor. He wasn't summoned often, Especially not by another Hashira..

"..Yes. I will set off to The Butterfly Mansion as soon as I can.. Please tell Kocho-san I will be there by the next morning at the latest.." Gyomei spoke softly, Lowering down into a bow with his hands still pressed in prayer.

Kamikiri did the same, Mimicking the same bow a human would do but on her talons. Once she raised back up however, She squawked out a goodbye before she flapped her wings once more, Turned around and took off out the windowsill.

Gyomei raised from his bow too, Reaching back up to his full height. Shizuko watched as Kamikiri soared into the air, Wind was no obstacle to her as he watched her surge out onto the horizon. And once she was gone, He snapped his head back around to his master.

"..Shizuko, We will need to continue this conversation later.." Gyomei finalized as he resettled the heavy haori over his shoulders, Adjusted the shirt of his uniform and fixed his belt.

Shizuko knitted his brows, Stepping forward.

"Wait! Can't you just finish what you were about to say? About what you were going to tell me?" Shizuko gawked as Gyomei finished adjusting his clothing, Turning his head over to the younger boy. He sighed, Frown thickening.

"Later.. I promise you that I will answer you in due time, When I get my words in order.. But right now I must leave." Gyomei assured, Taking a few steps towards his apprentice and bowing down slightly towards him.

And when Shizuko looked in his uncoloured eyes, He knew he had fucked up.

Shizuko didn't react, Just looked up at him. The thundering of his heart started to slow, What storm inside starting to dwindle at the action his master took. Shizuko suddenly became aware of the past conversation, What disrespect he had shown.

He had let his emotions take over, His anger consuming him. He had yelled at his master, The one he had grew up with and the one he had trained under for who knows how long? Forget that forgotten memory, Just for a second, He needed to focus on the person he remembered.

Shizuko sniffled, The last of his tears drying.

"I.. I'm sorry, Himejima-sama." He spoke, Returning to his formal tone through his shaky voice. He lowered down into a bow, Just like his master did before. "I shouldn't of been so disrespectful to you, Please, Forgive me."

Gyomei sighed but eventually a small smile came to his face, Something now illuminated by the newly moved tapestries. He moved forward just a step towards him, The candlelight still burning bright in the back.

"You do not need to worry.. I understand." He spoke. "I will be heading out now.. But in the meantime, Please go and rest.. I know how hard you have been working lately, Do not overwork yourself.. It is poison to the body."

Shizuko looked up, Taking a moment to look upon his face before nodding.

"Yes, Himejima-sama.." He spoke, Almost as low as the wind drifting in from the window. Gyomei nodded towards him, Turning around before striding off towards the door, Hands still pressed together in prayer.

He said his goodbyes, Leaving Shizuko alone within the room. His only company was the cantata of the birds outside, The flicks of the flames on the votives and his own screaming head.

Shizuko turned to the open window, The tapestries still peeled back from the usually covered opening. He looked out into the gardens outside, The tree's swaying in the open wind.

Gyomei knew something, Something Shizuko had been longing for his entire life. But how could Shizuko have been so brash when asking about it? He had just let wrath come to him, Let it burn him.

It seemed like that had been happening more and more lately, Becoming bitter about the slightest thing and not the orderly soldier he was suppose to be. But he couldn't fret, Once Gyomei was back he could fix this.

Shizuko felt a throb in his chest, Gyomei actually knew something. The look on his face told him everything he needed to know. Well, Not everything, But he knew that Gyomei was hiding something from him.

And hopefully that answer would fix his irritability.

☆♡☆

"ACK-"

[F/N] tossed around in the air, Launched back by another one of his strikes. And just as all the training sessions before, Her body slammed against the wall of the far courtyard. As always she was defeated, Tumbling to the ground with her training sword flying out of her hand.

Hands gripped into the ground, Lifting her aching head only slighty just to sputter up more blood.

"As always.. Your footwork is lacking.." The voice of her captor called out from the otherside of the courtyard, [F/N] could almost feel the smugness showing through his stoic tone. It made her grit her teeth, Blood dripping down her busted lip.

She scoffed, Tasting the iron on her tongue.

"U-Understood, Kokushibo-sama.." [F/N] spat out, Ichor decorating the floor where she cursed him under her breath. Shaky hands pushed down, Levelling her up to her knees where she tried not to collapse once more.

Kokushibo stood under the great tree in the middle, His golden eyes piercing through the shadow to stare at her. He watched as she picked up her fallen sword, Dust off her dirty Samue and wipe the blood from her lips.

They narrowed in on her, Almost disappointed.

"Pick yourself up, Our session here today is done.." He simply stated, Sliding the flesh-forged blade of his sword into its sheathe. And without a word, [F/N] watched as he turned away.

And as soon as she blinked, He was gone.

[F/N] groaned, Hands going to grapple at her side. Akaza really didn't hold back there, Neither did Kokushibo as he mercilessly sliced at her. He didn't go easier on her despite her injuries.

[F/N] knew that she'd have a few more bruises to show for it, And she cursed Kokushibo out all the same.

She pushed herself to her feet, Stretching as she raised her arms into the air. [F/N] tried not to cringe once she felt that pain in her side, Almost like her ribcage was settling back into place.

It wasn't a pleasant feeling.

That bastard, [F/N] thought as she sauntered over to the tree. These sessions were completely pointless, Him telling her that it was "Training" which made absolutely no sense. She was a slayer, So called the strongest alive.

He knew this, He didn't care. [F/N]'s knees shook once she finally got under the tree's shadow, Too tired to even walk as she pressed her back against the stump. [F/N] slid down until she was nestled within the thick roots, Held high atop the little grassy hill.

[F/N] let out a sigh, She just wanted to sleep.

And she almost did, Eyelids fighting to stay vigilant. She had only woken up about an hour ago yet she still felt exhausted.

Haze started to set over her vision, Curtains closing as she felt her body grow limp.

"Hey."

[F/N] blinked.

"Oh.. It's you." [F/N] yawned, Rolling her shoulders as she propped herself up against the tree. A good few metres away from her stood Akaza in all his glory, Stature tall as his eyes narrowed in on her. Akaza rolled his eyes.

"Of course it's me, Who the hell did you expect it to be?" He scoffed as he took a few steps towards her, Something gripped tightly in-between his knuckles as he went.

[F/N] didn't respond, Only curling up into herself tigher. She seemed to bury herself into the roots of the tree, Not meeting his eyes. She didn't want to, Especially once she felt the heat of them burn into her figure.

Akaza's brows furrowed.

"Okay.. Fuck it- But are we gonna talk about what happened yesterday? I mean, Come on. Are we just gonna ignore your suicide attempt? Not talk about it at all?" Akaza took a few steps closer, Only making [F/N] curl up further.

[F/N] winced. Of course he was going to bring it up.

"I don't want to talk about it, I wasn't in the right mind back then. Just- Ignore everything we talked about. I was tired, I was bitter about being here.. I was just being stupid. Just forget it, Okay..?!" She hissed, A defensive snarl starting to appear on her lips.

Akaza just stepped closer towards her.

"But are you fine now?" He asked, Raising a brow at her. She stared at him, Only for a second. The shoulders [F/N] held up like a barricade started to lower, Leave it up to [F/N] to get defensive over a question, One that she knew was due to be asked.

She sighed.

"..Now, Yeah." [F/N] replied quietly, Still unable to meet his eyes. Akaza took a moment to look into her eyes, The ones that didn't look back at his. He almost didn't believe her, But unlike yesterday her fighting spirit wasn't roaring like it use to. No, It was completely dead now.

"..Right." Akaza said, Finally sauntering up the little hill and setting down the rectangular box he had been holding in his hands. Handle clattering into its normal position once he let go of it.

[F/N] blinked, Snapping her head over to look at the noise.

"Erm.. What's that?" She asked, Hesitantly eyeing it up and down like a ticking bomb.

"Food. If you want to get out of here and fool Upper One, You're doing it on a fighter's diet." Akaza replied as he kneeled down towards the wooden box, Starting to peel off the lid from the top.

[F/N] grimaced.

"I'm not hungry." She replied quickly as she watched Akaza open the box, Letting the aromatic smell of perfectly cooked fish and other delicacies inside flow out. [F/N] tried not to salivate at the scent of it, Not daring to look at it either. Slightly suprised that he had brought food for her.

Akaza shook his head.

"No, You're gonna eat it." He stated, Almost as if she had digested it already. "It's got everything you'll need to scale the Infinity Castle, This is the standard that your weight-class and gender should get."

[F/N] bit her lip.

"Yeah well.. I've just not been that hungry lately. Thank you but.. You can have it." She replied, Shaking her head as she smelt the scent of fish come from it. Seeing the enticing shimmer of the fish scales inside, She tried not to give in.

And fuck.. She was starving.

"I can't eat human food, Idiot. Besides, I can basically see you drooling there." Akaza scoffed as he watched her take peeks at the food "You look starving. Are you seriously gonna waste food?"

[F/N] quirked a lip, Already regretting telling him about her childhood. Dirty tricks, But there weren't much else he could play. Swallowing down the excess of her saliva, She finally turned her head to look at him.

"I hate you for this, You know that? Right?" [F/N] hissed as she reached a hand down towards the box, Bare hands starting to grab fistfuls of rice and fish-meat cutlets from within the neatly packed bowls.

"There's cutlery there.. Oh." Akaza trailed off once he saw her shove handfuls of rice and meat into her mouth, Bare-handed and she didn't care that she looked like a rabid beast choking down meat into their maw.

It matched the rest of her appearance. Her ragged hair, Her dirtied skin and clothes. Even her eyes had a wild look in them as she scarfed down her meal and wipe the excess off her samue's sides, Eyebags protruding them from her face.

Akaza almost gagged if not for remembering how he did the same thing, Only with human meat of course.

"So.. " Akaza started, Continuing to watch her scoop handfuls of mixed food and shove them into her mouth. "About that thing with Upper One.."

[F/N] choked down another chunk of rice, Wiping her mouth on her sleeve before looking up at him.

"What thing?" She asked.

"..You know? The idea that I suggested and the one you agreed to? To get closer to Upper One?" Akaza raised his brows, Watching as [F/N] narrowed her eyes before shoving another fistful into her mouth.

"Oh- Yeah, That thing.." [F/N] said through her chewing, Almost deflating once he reminded her. She had been hoping to avoid it but..

"So? How's that coming along?" Akaza asked, Folding his arms as he watched her scarf down her meal. [F/N] shook her head, Lowering her gaze away from him as she swallowed down her food.

Fuck.. She loathed how disgustingly delicious it tasted.

"..Come on, How exactly am I suppose to get along with him? He's an unfeeling prick.. I doubt he even has any emotions I could appeal to.." [F/N] groaned, Shaking her head at the mere prospect of him having feelings.

"You said he's fucking obsessed with you, So appeal to that?" Akaza exasperated, Shrugging his shoulders.

[F/N] rolled her eyes.

"Oh, Yeah, Right.. Let me just start acting nice and loving to him all of a sudden, I'll just start pretending that I actually like him. I'm sure he won't notice somethings up at all!" [F/N] sneered, A malicious smile spreading across her face which she proudly displayed to Akaza.

He sneered back, Shaking his head at her behaviour.

"Oh come on! How about you shut it and actually try make some leeway here, Eh? I'm not saying you should start liking it immediately, I'm saying that you try and work away at it." Akaza snapped, Stepping closer to her until he finally got to her side.

[F/N] stared up at him, His eyes made all the more prominant as they shone through the tree's shadows, Glaring back at her. [F/N] dropped her malicious smile in favour of a frown, Finally turning away from him.

"..Whatever, I'll figure it out." [F/N] finally spat, Wiping away the last of the foods residue from her mouth. Rice bits shook off her hands as she finally deflated back against the tree, [F/N] didn't have the patience to argue.

Akaza in turn, Lowered his snarl once he saw her start to shrink in on herself.

He felt a sort of pull in his chest, One that he instantly shrugged off in favour of kneeling down and sitting back down beside her with a grunt.

[F/N] watched as he pushed his half-naked back up against the trunk, Bare feet entwined with the overgrown grass. He didn't look at her, Just stared off somewhere far-off and pulled his knees near his chest.

She gazed at his features for a second. His gaunt skin to contrast with the deep navy stripes running across it, The way his pinkish hair drifted in the air. [F/N]'s nose twitched, He had no right to be demanding.

But whatever.

[F/N] turned back to stare in her own designated place, Nowhere in particular, But somewhere she could just relax back against the tree and take in the air. The air that was fresh, The air that brought her back to her senses.

The only warm place in this entire place, The heart of the shrine. Despite the coldness surrounding it, It flourished anyways. Despite the harsh environment it endured, It was still thriving. [F/N] breathed in the air.

It was nice.

"..You still haven't finished your food."

"Fuck you."

☆♡☆

The skies were orange, A pungent shade of burgundy into citron set over the small township.

The wind was crisp, Cool to anyone caught in it. Birds warbling an aubade could be heard in the trees, Crickets joining in for the chorus in the new morn. People were out in the streets, Walking by and happily conversing with one and other as they went.

Gyomei walked brisk, Short hair dancing with his haori waving within the wind. The Butterfly mansion was large, The biggest property in town so it gave him plenty room to just stride throughout the place unbothered.

But a walk wasn't what he was here for, No, Instead it was the Insect Hashira who seemed to be nowhere about. Despite asking around, Mostly from that Kanzaki woman and the three little girls that followed her, They had no idea where Shinobu was either.

So here he was, Wandering throughout the lavish gardens of the mansion. Striding past crops of fresh veg and tree's filled with fruit and fauna. The air was something Gyomei could appreciate, Something he almost stopped to enjoy within the daybreak.

He breathed out.

"..Himejima-san!"

A voice called out from somewhere above, Somewhere that Gyomei tilted his head up towards. On top of the tiled roof of The Butterfly Mansion, Sat Shinobu perched upon the edge.

She smiled down at him, Soft and delicate. Glossy eyes honing in on him.

"Kocho-san..!" Gyomei called out to her, Soft as a yell could be as he pressed his hands in prayer. "You summoned me here for something important.. Not explained by your crow.. Please, Do you mind telling me the reason I have came today..?"

Shinobu hummed. Luckily for her, The part of the roof she was perched on was rather low. Somewhere she could easily make her way down from, Which is exactly what she did as she nudged herself off.

Shinobu almost drifted, Butterfly haori glistening in the orange light as her feet hit the ground with a barely audible thud.

But Gyomei's hearing was impeccable, Now fully turned to the direction of where she had landed. Listening to the soft patter of her footsteps as she made her way over to him.

"Yes, Yes.. I must apologise for the lack of information as I sent my crow out rather hastily, I'm sorry for acting so rash.. It's not like me to do so~!" Shinobu sang as she came closer to him, Pausing in front of the man before bowing herself down lowly in respect.

Gyomei, Sensing the action. Reciprocated as he lowered himself in response.

Shinobu rose.

"The reason I asked you to come here today is because I got a rather interesting tip-off from my crow!" Shinobu announced, Hand raising before going under her haori.

"You see, I had sent out my crow a few days ago to a village in Fukushima. He was tasked with purchasing some specific herbs that I needed from that region, But unfortunately things didn't go exactly as expected.."

Gyomei lowered his brows, The beads around his hands starting to chatter.

"Yes..? And what exactly happened..?"

Shinobu's smile widened, Yet her eyes darkened all the same.

"My crow was intercepted by a man in the village when he had went to pick up the herbs- He had fastened a rather interesting letter around her neck, One that I think that would interest you.." She drawled out as she watched his expression change.

Gyomei, A man of not many expressions simply stiffened his figure. A man had targeted a Kasugai crow? Of course, Demons were known to try and attack crows during the night. But a man? A human man? And of all things had wrapped a letter around it's neck and sent it on it's way.

Shinobu's expression was bright, Just as scorching as the sun that silhouetted her. Smile stretched on her face, Yet her eyes contained such thanatoid dullness. Something dark brewing within.

Something that even Gyomei could feel, An unease going through him.

Shinobu fished out the letter from within her haori pockets, Hair dancing in the faint wind as she unscrolled the spotless fibre from it's shape. Though she didn't mean to read it aloud, No.

She just needed to check, Just that she was reading it right, Just for the thousandth time.

"..There is a possible sighting of Uppermoon two, Apparently associated with some sort of cult near the village." Shinobu announced as she scanned her eyes across those two dooming words, The ones that she smiled so scaldingly bright at.

Gyomei's eyes widened, The clanking of beads stopping.

"This is.. You mean to say that there was another Uppermoon sighting..? Of number two, Of all moons..!" First it was Upper Six, Defeated in The Red Light District. Next, It was the attack of Uppermoon Four and Five on the swordsmith village.

Just like that.. In over a century several had been slaughtered from their ranks. Now, It was Upper Two?

"Of course." Shinobu nodded as she gently patted the letter back within her haori pocket. Gyomei sensed there was something she was not telling him, Something that she was keeping away. It made him suspicious, Incredibly so.

Gyomei had a frown on his face, Deeper than it ever was.

"Kocho-san.. I'd advise you to go to Oyataka-sama before me.. I am not the messenger you want since you happen to have all the information.. We need to plan something out before we act..!" Gyomei urged, Cogs already starting to turn.

Shinobu hummed.

"..Of course, I will go to him but not right now. Not before I do some scouting of my own, You must understand!" She laughed airily until it trailed off into the wind, Blowing past her before it died down entirely.

Gyomei paused.

"I.. Then why me..? Why did you ask me specifically to come here if you don't want to tell anything to the corps..? Something I deeply advise against.." Gyomei warned once more.

But Shinobu didn't respond, Just acknowledged it with a single warble of her throat before clearing it.

"Oh, Don't worry about it~! I'll explain to you in a moment.."

She smiled, Even wider.

"There is still one left to arrive.."

☆♡☆

[F/N] laid, Still pressed up against the trunk of the tree, Listening to the sounds of air travelling through the shrine.

Akaza sat next to her, The box too now empty of the food it once held. Carefully packaged food, Bowls of rice, Canteens of soup and cutlets of many meats all ravaged and scarfed down.

[F/N] admitted that it was good. Disgusting, But good. Hard to swallow yet settled in her stomach fine.

She breathed in the air, Fresh and poignant as it filled her lungs with life. The aching of her bones from training earlier still had a lingering pain, Throbbing and bruised.

It almost spoiled her mood, Especially since she now felt something akin to normalcy once lazing on a mockery of hillside and it's lumber. She tried not to think about it.

Kokushibo and his little training sessions with her, What a monster he was. What reason did he have to do this all with her? With someone he already admitted was the best he had ever fought in centuries, You'd think she'd not need to partake.

He liked torturing her, That's what [F/N] came to. Some sadistic joy inside his dead little heart liked to watch her bleed, To bruise and blister. Always lingering around to watch her, Almost going over to get a better look.

[F/N] scoffed under her breath. He had even tried to gift her that hairpin, The one she still wore in her hair at this very moment, All to get her to stay compliant.

How could she? When every time they'd pass in the halls he'd keep his eyes on her, Expecting her to be what he thought she should. Keep her locked up here- All while beating her down daily.

There was no reason to it!

The warm air felt nice on her skin, Eyes almost drifting away into another dream. Akaza himself had long done so, His eyes closed and his breath steady.

[F/N]'s eyes widened.

A sudden hitch in her breath came, A neuron connecting within her brain.

Oh, That was the reason.

It was because he had no idea how else he could spend time with her.

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phoenixyfriend · 2 years ago

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Star Wars Omegaverse Recs

Here's a couple solid omegaverse fics. This list is shorter than most of the ones I write but Meh.

Stars are for my favorites.

⭐ The Rain Fell Already by @loosingmoreletters: variation on Jedi Indentured AU containing omegaverse. Xanatos is omega Qui-Gon's bio kid but nothing changes, depressing but poignant

House Call by @elthadriel: two idiots knot while on medication that requires no knotting because it can get stuck for literal hours. Kix has to help and he is very annoyed about it

Status Quo by @captainkirkk: (G-rated) Anakin responds to Obi-Wan in a "you are my dad" way and the clones are surprised pikachu about it

⭐ Temporary Like Achilles by @intermundia: standard-ish fuck-or-die scenario where both sides are like "I can't take advantage of you/I just took advantage of you" because of course they are. (This author has a lot of solid Obikin, but they have me blocked (no I don't know why) so I can't tag them.)

⭐ He Said Yes by @threebea: (G-rated) B!Quinlan and O!Obi-Wan get mated for Obi-Wan's safety, the nature of their relationship is unclear to basically everyone (romantic? qp? other? unclear)

venus flytrap by IntoThineHands: Sith!Obi, role reversal of trope standard (omega deliberately takes advantage of an alpha)

Bite of Caramel by @thewriterowl: A!Jango needs a date to the family reunion, asks O!Obi-Wan to accompany him

⭐ good things in threes by @galateagalvanized: Codywan accidental pregnancy after O!Obi-Wan's implant gets nullified by an overpowered EMP (along with Cody's brain chip)

all my roads lead back to you by @tennessoui: idiots to lovers comedy (modern au, Obi-Wan got pregnant in a one-night stand across the country with a bartender who kind of looked like Anakin, because he's in love with his roommate but can't come clean and so hooks up with guys who look like him, and Anakin is in love with Obi-Wan enough that he's decided to be the Dad Who Stepped Up to this kid because anything Obi-Wan makes is part of Obi-Wan and obviously deserving of adoration)

The Theory of Letting Go by @ifonlyweknewwhatiwasdoing: never a Jedi!Anakin, Padme dead of uterine rupture, Obi-Wan hormonally addled and insistent on taking care of the twins like they're his own

The Swan Serenade by @shatouto: heavily AU, Mando!Anakin and Jedi-but-more-like-real-world-monks!Obi. (Has the most adorable art in the end of chapter notes, btw)

For Safekeeping by @glimmerglanger: Sith O!Obi-Wan feels safe because of the army of clones, which is the first time he's felt safe enough to have a heat, ends up fucked by his army of betas

when the snow falls we will wrap ourselves in furs by @hornet394: the fic I reread that had me going "I want Rex with O!Anakin but being in character" because this is one of the few omegaverse Rexwalkers that hits that button for me (though it's technically Anakin/501st poly stuff)

⭐ Find a little stranger by @obimanletkenobi: Villain!Obidala, both alphas, find Anakin at an omega auction, decide to ask him to play surrogate for their child since they can't do it themselves (with the offer to drop him off on a random planet with a wiped memory and enough cash to start a new life as a free man if he doesn't want to get pregnant), followed by smut

Belonging by IronCannon: this is the OTHER solid omegaverse Rexwalker

⭐ Conceal Me by @himboskywalker: longfic that is VERY good imo and builds the tension incredibly. Anakin is an omega pretending to be an alpha (literally the only people alive that know he's omega are his mother and the midwife). Senator Obi-Wan is an alpha pretending to be a beta (for weird reasons relating to his parents being kind of insane). They get married for politics, suggested by Palpatine because he found out about Obi-Wan being an alpha but not about Anakin, and decided a forced alpha/alpha marriage was going to self-destruct and help destabilize the Republic further.

Both by @obimanletkenobi: Anakin is the omegaverse equivalent of intersex and this explores the ways he's fetishized and discriminated against by the culture around him.

Peachy the Series by @the-writing-mill: IDK what to say, if you want 15k of O!Obi-Wan getting absolutely railed by two alphas, this is the fic for you

⭐ Packed Together Like Test Tubes also by @the-writing-mill: Jangobi, forced on both sides. Neither of them wants to mate, but the Kaminoans are forcing the issue with synthetic pheromones. It takes several weeks to get to that point and they are both fighting it with every ounce of willpower they have.

⭐ [Only] Think of Me by @inferior-fairy: Empress Amidala and Emperor Kenobi need Anakin to not go off the rails again, but they need a reason for him to want to stay because they love him too much to force the issue (and make him hate them) with chains or the like. So they give him Babies.

⭐ unfortunately it seems I have written more by @gaily-daily: Look at me. LOOK at me. This is fucked up and ugly and horrible and awful and messy and triggering and so incredibly well written as a dawning horror situation. Dead Dove at its finest. It is incredibly good as a story, but it is also really bad, and you need to go in accepting that. Without details, it's messy/triggering in the GoT sense.

⭐ terribly inconvenient and incredibly terrific by @tennessoui: A classic "Anakin wants to do something he is in no way qualified for and then suffers the consequences for his idiocy" plot, very fun.

I can fill those places in your heart no else can by @pontah: modern au post-breakup revenge sex I guess???

Ba’jurir by @mockingjay34: Rex/Fives, explores the intersection of anti-clone bigotry and anti-omega sexism.

Out in the Corner of the Dark with You by kazmir: a 5+1 fic about Anakin giving Obi-Wan a bunch of soft things as courting gifts

instincts by amidnightlove: just some fun and funky 'cycles make people go a little feral' stuff

EDIT: I missed a bunch so there's a Part Two!

#star wars #phoenix recs #the clone wars #obikin #rexwalker #codywan #obianidala #IDK the fives/rex ship name #codex #quinobi #jangobi #obidala #anidala #omegaverse #shipping #dubcon mention #fuck or die

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strawberrypinky · 4 months ago

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fire and ice. [gortash x tav] - part one [of tyranny and chaos]

Enver had rarely been wrong about people throughout his rise to power, yet Elodie Liardon was the gift that kept on giving. She was his equal in every way & he would go through to great lengths to ensure she'd be at his side when the world became his.

Unfortunately for him, she wasn't as easily convinced.

A/N: I think it goes without saying that I don't support or endorse anything Gortash does in this story. He's a terrible person & evil. That said, he's hot & this is also my first time writing a villain as the main character - I am not yet sure where this story is going to head in certain aspects. The warnings are subject to change, so make sure to check them out as this story progresses. This story may feature non con down the line. Also, I'm not an expert in DnD lore – a lot of this is based on my own research & interpretations & I'm taking a few creative liberties with this story, e.g. the Council of Four. Canonically, the Council of Four consist of Ulder Ravengard (Wyll's father), Dillard Portyr, Belynne Stelmane and Thalamra Vanthampur. For the sake of this story, Vanthampur is replaced with Thamior Liardon aka our heroine's father. The age difference between Elodie and Enver is fairly large. She is about Wyll's age when the canon events start (24), whereas I headcanon Enver to be around 40 years old. This chapter takes place about five years before the canon events, making Elodie 19 and Enver 35. You can also read this story on Archive of Our Own This chapter serves as an introduction to both Elodie and Enver. Shoutout to @gufu-vire for giving me some serious dialogue inspiration & supporting this messy project from the start 💕 And of course shoutout to my platonic soulmate @legacygirlingreen. I couldn't do any of this without you girl 💕 Word Count: 7k

Ordinarily, Enver enjoyed the splendour of the Upper City and the extravaganza of what the night brought.

It wasn't that he particularly cared for exuberant soirees or merriment among the Patriars and Lords of Baldur's Gate, but because the ceaseless inebriation meant they all became cursory - revealing their Achilles Heel to Enver on a silver platter.

All that was left to do for him was shoot and observe as they crumpled beneath their fragmented invulnerability.

He had long learned not to underestimate the value of thinly veiled threats and carefully curated negotiations. Enver's upbringing in Avernus had ensured at least that much. It had been a miserable existence at best, though the unyielding fists of Nubaldin and the narcissistic ornery of Raphael were better described as castigatory crucifixion, and for the longest time, he had been sure he'd succumb to it. The bloodied and blazing wastelands of Avernus were scarcely the sight any sane being would wish to wake up to, but for a near decade, Enver had been greeted by rivulets of lava and barren hills whenever he had opened his eyes to the unending torment of the House of Hope and while the lavish grandeur of Raphael's home would forever outshine most of the Patriars estates, it could never hide the insanity that transpired within its walls. An existence surrounded by infernal creatures was a fickle thing, rarely monotonous as the days had bled into one. Sleep had been a scarce rarity to come by as screams of tortured souls and beggars and the everlasting sonorousness of the Blood War penetrated even into the dungeons of the paradoxical House of Hope. It was madness incarnate, and Enver would nearly count himself as fortunate not to have gone mad.

Yet, in his most forlorn and reticent moments, there was a mocking voice in his head, a reminder that the abject terrors of Avernus had rendered him just as mad and just as hateful. His mother would have likely argued he had always been a hateful little wretch, having loathed his entire existence from the second he had taken his first breath after the agonising three-day labour he had "put her through". Perhaps she had been right. He was so very full of it.

Enver came to think of his hatred as his strength, his source of being and the flame that drove him forward - A testament to his unwavering determination and resilience.

When he had escaped Avernus, coughing up sulfur and ash, it was hatred which drove his acts. For as much as his hatred had grown like a malignant tumour in Raphael's clutches, it had been useless until his eyes flickered over the poverty-stricken streets of the Lower City.

His hatred proved incredibly useful when he was penniless, toiling under the Zhentarim's thumb. It was a thankless venture, but it kept him off the streets.At the very least, it also provided a start to more extraordinary things.

And it was his hatred which fuelled his Lord, the one God who deigned to answer when all others had long forsaken him.

His mother once worshipped Gond and while his father never expressed favour for any of them, Enver had espied prayer to Waukeen more than once. Enver cared for neither. He hadn't cared for any of them – until Bane.

His God had sensed his hatred, strengthened it, and it served him exceptionally. For all their faults and arrogance, the Zhentarim had chosen their patron correctly. Bane was wholly malevolent — hatred incarnate. Enver had long understood that the weak were culled and ruled by the strong, and Bane only strengthened Enver's resolve to establish his rightful place as the mighty. He had pledged to never be weak again. To never feel fear as he had when his parents had sold him, but to make others fear his might alone. He had pledged to never be the snotty, heaving child again, fearfully wailing for his parents as Nubaldin's fist hit him over and over again. Gone was the child Enver Flymm.

Through Bane, Enver Gortash was born.

And through him, Enver Gortash would rise like a phoenix from the ashes until the world was his, and his subjects would tremble in fear of his God as they were destined to be.

With Bane, it had been almost frighteningly easy to oust the Zhentarim from the weapon market to take control over the entirety of the Chinonthar Valley black market, but his hatred demanded more with each passing second. No matter which ventures Enver took upon, he succeeded – his loathing endless and his greed all-consuming.

Perhaps in another life, Enver would have felt fulfilled, escaping from the Hells.

Perhaps in another life, he would have been content with leading the weapons trade.

In this life, he knew he'd never be. Sated, perhaps, when all bowed before his glorious might. But certainly never satisfied.

The gentility of Baldur's Gate understood him well enough, even if they buried it deep beneath false charity and fascicle philanthropy. Beneath the masks they had carefully curated, they were all as spiteful as him. They all craved control over one another to assert themselves as the leaders they had made themselves out to be. Extravagant soirees, glittering jewels and extortionate gossip defined their haughty measuring of dicks. It was an ecosystem in and of itself, one which was all too easy to mould once the first step had been taken. It had taken a few years of sweet-talking, of extorting and of fucking them, but Enver was nothing if not patient. He was one of them now, and hardly anything else mattered but the next step. It was why he attended these lavish parties in the first place, even when his mood had been sour for the better part of the day.

The bitch queen's waveservants had distracted his sailors, and while Enver knew they hadn't half of his wits, he had expected they could think with their smooth brains instead of their minuscule dicks. A mistake on his part, really. As a result of their inadequacy his cargo had been seized and half his posse incarcerated. Far from uncommon in his line of work, but it was troublesome just the same.

After an entire day of negotiating for their (undeserved) freedom, Enver had half a mind to drown himself in Arabellan Dry. Unfortunately for him, it was the night of The Breaking, and his attendance was crucial. The Rah of Baldur's Gate was rarely ever found in a gathering this grand, and it provided ample opportunity for Enver to further his ambitions.

The moment he stepped through the grand, gilded doors of High Hall, he was enveloped by a cacophony of drunken laughter and chattering. The glittering melody of an orchestra filled the halls, a sickeningly joyous melody commemorating the arrival of spring. The air was perfumed with a fragrant blend of expensive cologne and plum prosecco. Enver had wrinkled his nose in distaste. The awful concoction was a true scourge these days. He could only hope some Baldur's Grape was available, too. Otherwise, this would be an arduous night.

There was a faint and underlying mustiness to the halls, the gallery illuminated by twinkling chandeliers casting an ethereal glow over the old halls. The decor was befitting the occasion — elegant pieces of silver and sage adorn the room's tables, ceilings, and elaborate mouldings. The flower arrangements were fragrant and intricate, likely having cost a fortune. It was opulent, borderline garish – utterly characteristic of the Upper City and its residents.

It was within this opulence Enver first saw her.

He had spent the better part of the night speaking to associates and... investors in his business ventures – a dance or two with a lady of noble birth in between. Their coquettish smiles were charming, though their personalities were as bland as a slice of stale bread. Enver never understood how some could be that dull and daft when they had endless funds at their disposal. If he were a better person, he'd pity them. Alas, he drowned his exasperation instead. He was far from drunk, but at the very least, the endless yapping had become tolerable.

His eyes wandered over the crowds, most delightfully inebriated, as Sir Provoss chewed his ear off about some venture Enver was invested in. He hardly listened; the Provoss family was near destitute and of no value to him. Within the sea of people, he noticed a glimpse of something silvery and shimmering, a horde of young ladies not far as they looked in the same direction and gossiped animatedly. Their gazes were full of disdain and haughtiness. Enver knew that hatred well - he had been on the receiving end of it long enough himself. His insatiable curiosity propelled him forward as he observed the rare display of disdain from the young noblewomen. With a quick excuse, he approached to catch a glimpse of a young elven woman standing beside Duke Dillard Portyr. The older man appeared to be engaged in a lively conversation with her.

Enver's first thought was that she was magnificent. Beautiful. Alluring.

Silvery locks had been intricately swept up in an updo, with carefully coiled curls framing her delicate features as they gleamed in the light. Her face, petite and exquisitely angular, was adorned with elegantly high cheekbones that gracefully complemented her ivory skin. Shell-pink lips were curled into a pleasant smile, and her eyes were such a striking green that Enver was almost disarmed for a second as he glanced at them. She wasn't tall, but she held herself with a regality Enver had scarcely seen from the most noble houses of Baldur's Gate.

It was easy to see why she was regarded with such disdain. These noblewomen who regarded her with such disdain could only hope to mimic a fraction of her beauty and breathtaking allure.

A pearly gown draped elegantly against her small figure; the delicate and intricate stitching along the hem only further enhanced her beauty. A Debutante, Enver noted. Rich by the looks of it, too.

A sly grin placed itself on his face.

Young, naive and likely wealthy beyond measure – Exactly the kind of woman he could play for a fool before he played her family for funds. It was a game he had played often. For all their money and education, these noblewomen all succumbed to the lie of love far too quickly. Disgracing might have been cruel, but their families were all too keen to pay hush money, so at least they'd appear virginal.

"Duke Portyr," Enver spieled, his voice full of false enthusiasm.

The Duke and the young woman beside him turned their faces to him.

"Sir Gortash," Portyr greeted him equally enthusiastically. He was the one Duke on the Council Enver had always been able to wrap around his finger. The man was anything but a genius. Ravengard had always dismissed him and Stelmane... well, whenever she was coherent enough to conduct meaningful business, she seemed to tolerate Enver, though apparently her business interests were in conflict with his.

The last of them, Duke Liardon, Enver had met merely three times. The man was reclusive, though popular and reminded Enver of the worst times of his life.

Enver quickly shook the memory of their first meeting from his mind. He could not afford to falter now.

"Wonderful to see you tonight," Enver cleared his throat.

"Likewise, likewise, my boy. Enjoying yourself?"

Enver internally rolled his eyes. He was not a boy. He was a Lord, an inventor, a trader - an instrument of tyranny. Yet he said, "Of course", with a smile on his face.

"Why, have you met Lady Elodie yet?" the demented Duke suddenly said, turning to the side as he pointed towards the true object of Enver's attention. The young woman looked at him intently, her gaze sharp and calculating. She was focused. Vigilant. Beneath her pleasant smile, she was assessing him as much as he had assessed her.

A surprise, albeit a pleasant one.

"I have not," Enver answered, his eyes not leaving hers.

The young woman held out her hand, as polite company would, and Enver placed a chaste kiss upon it.

"A pleasure to meet you, Lady Elodie."

"The pleasure is all mine, Sir Gortash." Her voice was gentle and as delicate and airy as she appeared. A melodic lilt, carried like a breeze - warm and kind. And yet there was a measurement to her words, a precise calculation, each word enunciated as precise as they were rhythmic.

"You see, Elodie, Sir Gortash is an excellent man for business," Duke Portyr spoke. "Most excellent, in fact."

"I'm certain he is," Elodie spoke, her vigilant eyes not leaving Envers. "Weaponry, I'm guessing?"

Enver had to swallow his astonishment. Whoever she was, she was far more keen than he had expected.

"Among other things," Enver confirmed with a nod. He did not appreciate her control, but her intelligence? Perhaps that was even more intriguing than her beauty. He could respect it even, but control? He would always love that above all.

"May I have your next dance?" He asked. A young debutante should be easily swayed by flirtatious advances, no matter how intelligent.

"I would be delighted."

"Excellent."

As genteel as ever, Enver held out his arm for her to take, her nimble fingers settling in the crook of his arm as he led her to the grand dancefloor. A lively waltz was playing, the cadence of the song joyful as people danced the night away around the odd couple. Enver could see various men glancing his way, their eyes full of envy. It made him smile deviously. A blind eunuch would probably still get a boner with a woman like that – she was oh so ravishing. And he had gotten her first. Jealousy was, in Enver's humble opinion, second to only hatred. If they envied him and what he had, they would hate him too. And in hatred, they'd bow to him and his Lord.

"Are you new to Baldur's Gate, Lady Elodie?" Enver asked as the pair began to waltz among the rest. "Forgive me if I am being bold, but a woman with your beauty would have long caught my eye."

She laughed - an earnest but musical sound. A blush placed itself on her cheeks.

As expected, Enver thought. The noblewomen all fell to the same folly.

"I was born in the Gate, Sir Gortash. I was... fortunate enough to travel Toril for a while. I returned recently."

"Indeed?" A well-travelled woman - certainly explained why she seemed far more educated than the rest of the lot. "Have you been enjoying your return to the city then?"

"Just so," she smiled at him as they spun around. His hand was firmly placed on her waist as he led her, warmth seeping through to his fingers. So close to her, he could smell her, and it was as exquisite as the rest of her. Luxurious notes of bergamot, freesia and mandarin assaulted his senses, with something sweet simmering beneath. Jasmine, perhaps? Whatever soap she used, it must have been expensive. Whoever her family was, they must have been at the top of the food chain.

"Though I hardly believe you asked me to dance to ask me about the Gate."

"You're quite perceptive, aren't you?"

"Just so," she grinned again, mischief flickering behind her eyes. "Or perhaps I have met your sort before."

Enver could not help the indignant snort that escaped him. No matter what she may have seen on her travels, he would bet his entire estate that she had never come across a soul like his.

"And what sort would that be, hm?" Enver teased. "I am but a partiar with a penchant for weaponry."

"Are you trying to insult your own intelligence or mine?" she quipped with a teasing lilt to her voice. "Your garments alone tell me you crave to be accepted as their own, and the shadows under your eyes are deep enough to let me know you hardly sleep. I don't suppose you call yourself an inventor too?"

Enver blinked in surprise, his mind failing him for a second as they continued to dance. This was a first. Never once before had he met a woman so stunningly beautiful and equally intelligent. A lethal combination if there ever was one. It was disarming.

"My garments?" he slowly spoke after a while. He wore something of equal luxury as she did - a bespoke suit, tailored to perfection of obsidian colour and embroidered with fine golden thread.

"You are compensating," she stated with a matter-of-fact voice. "It's a fine quality ensemble, but the embroidery is borderline garish. A man who grew up with abundant wealth would hardly wear this. You worked yourself to the wealth you have. I can only assume this means you are exceptionally smart as well."

If he hadn't been so impressed, Enver would have been livid. How dare you? He wanted to shout. He wasn't compensating. He had earned his right to wear finery, and he would be damned if he did not make full use of it. Instead, he only gave her a strained, near-mocking laugh. After all, she had correctly assumed he was smart.

"My my. You are full of surprises, aren't you?"

"I'd like to think so."

"Right then. Let me return the favour," Enver offered.

"By all means."

He resumed his assessment of her. The gears in his mind turned endlessly, solving endless puzzles as they presented themselves to him. She had surprised him tonight, a mistake he would not make again. Enver knew people - understood them and their wants before they understood themselves. An ability which had served him well. Her gaze, beneath the smile, remained calculating, a mask to conceal something deeper. She was a problem waiting to be solved, and Enver guessed no one ever had. His mind could fixate on problems like that — anything, really — and not let go. Controlling one element of the world meant a step closer to whole tyranny. It meant his certain keep from ruin. A bad habit, perhaps, that blinded him to other things that could harm him. A tendency towards obsession was hardwired into his brain and would have likely been his undoing if he hadn't learned to outsmart it.

"You crave to be known," Enver ventured to guess. Her breath hitched almost imperceivably, and Enver smirked. His gut had never failed him.

"You know you are beautiful. That men desire you. But you want to be known for who you are rather than your body. You crave for someone to uncover the deepest parts of your soul," his voice had reduced to a mere whisper now, blowing in her ear. "You want more, Elodie. Whether that someone is a challenge or an equal."

She blinked at him, her cheeks flushing now. Enver was sure that if he had placed a hand on her chest, he could have felt her heart beating erratically. She might have him figured out, but two could play that game. They had created a strange tableau that night in the ballroom: nefarious man, enigmatic woman, lavishly grandiose ballroom. It suggested a tale that could only end in tragedy or ruin, but Enver had always defied destiny. They could be good for each other.

"I can see why you are such a success," she chuckled, almost nervously.

"I simply exercise control in all things, Lady Elodie."

"Hm, one might think that's borderline tyrannical," she mused.

To a normal person, that might have been an insult, but to a man like Enver, who worshipped at the feet of Bane, it possibly was the best compliment he'd ever get.

"Perhaps," Enver chuckled. "But it serves me well."

"Careful, Sir Gortash," Elodie quipped. "You almost sound like a Banite."

Perceptive little thing, Enver wanted to laugh. He almost wished to inflict penance upon himself for having underestimated her so severely. She was beautiful, sure. But what worth held beauty in a woman if there were no brains to match? At best, she'd be a nice fuck, but never an equal or better yet - a wife. Enver would never dare to sully his line with offspring from a daft hussy - not that Bane would allow him to, either. His God demanded perfection; Elodie might just have been that. She was, quite frankly, up to his standards. Perhaps the woman in his arms wasn't vicious or hateful like him, but she was machiavellian and astute, qualities Enver knew Bane valued.

He tried to imagine her clad in obsidian silk or the deepest emerald wool money could buy, warped in Bane's embrace, and Enver decided he liked it. She suited his God, was possibly even worthy of his blessing if she could understand the tranquillity his tyranny would bring and follow in his name. Enver wagered she could, especially if someone could convince her of its worth and who better to convince her than him? Enver silently wondered how big of a challenge she would be, for her innate craving to be known was something he could give her better than any other man ever could, yet she did not appear as a woman who liked to be tamed. The longer Enver held her, the more he recognised that beneath the elegance and allure, there was something wild and untamable - something feral.

She could be his equal in tyranny - an invaluable asset.

"Bane is a God like any other, Lady Elodie. He rewards those willing to make sacrifices in the name of power. Sacrifices which not everyone will make." Enver mused. Her immediate face of contempt amused him. "You're not a fan, I take it?"

"Hardly," she pursed her lips. "I fail to see both the value and the right in tyranny."

"A strong word for what some might consider the natural order. The weak have always been ruled by the strong few."

"And yet nothing constitutes that right," Elodie countered, devotion in her eyes. "None have the right to decide another's fate or to enact punishment, no matter if by the hand of a God or the sheer circumstance of fortune. Nothing does."

Altruism - how much Enver detested it. He supposed it was a marker of her young age, for no matter how well-travelled she was, her brain would lack in experience and instead make up for it in idealism and heroism. He supposed he had thought like that himself once before Nubaldin and Raphael had beat it out of him until nothing but hate and the certainty that absolutism would always rule those too feeble for it. There would always be a power above them, ruling with an iron fist. Enver had long understood it was better to be that power, to wield it, instead of succumbing to it.

He was confident Elodie would learn that lesson, too.

"And how would you propose to rule chaos then, hm?"

"Chaos?" Her voice did not hide her incredulity.

"Chaos," Enver confirmed. "No control, no law, no gods, no government at all. Where do you go from there? What sort of agreement is necessary if everyone is to live in peace? What social contract is needed so that everyone is taken care of?"

She mulled over it for a while, the gears in her head turning as the pair spun around the ballroom. She seemed to genuinely consider his question, though Enver did not know where her mind strayed. Would it come to the same conclusion he had long accepted? That in chaos, each mortal, with their own individual agenda, could only cause friction, conflict and war? Humanity was a flaw, and in the chaos of Avernus was the first time he saw it undressed. In turmoil, civilisation disappeared; every august manner and act was stripped away in the blink of an eye. Chaos would always reveal everything a person was - that humanity's greatest flaw was humanity itself. A peaceful existence could only exist if they bowed to a collective agenda - his agenda, preferably - and when finally they'd bow to him in fear, perhaps they might find a semblance of peace.

"You are a curious man, Sir Gortash," Elodie hummed after a while. "I don't think I have ever met an enigma such as you."

"I will take that as a compliment," Enver chuckled as he spun her around once again.

The melody of the song came to its grand finale, every couple spinning as they prepared for it to end. Glittering twirls and heaving breaths accompanied the soaring crescendo before, after long, the orchestra had quieted, and each couple bowed and curtsied in respect before either gathering themselves for another dance or leaving the floor altogether. Enver gently led Elodie away, hoping to perhaps continue their conversation over some wine. It was rare a person caught his interest beyond business - the last was a Bhaalspawn and he still wasn't entirely sure how much he could trust them. After all, their masters were not only at odds, but they had been created for nothing but slaughter, and Enver wasn't asinine enough to pretend he was the exception.

"It's getting rather late," Eloide mused.

"You've yet to answer my question," Enver mentioned with faux casualty, though internally, he was burning with curiosity.

"Delayed gratification is not denial, Sir Gortash," a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "I shall bid you good night."

Gracefully, she spun around, shimmering in the glowing light before she disappeared into the crowds, leaving Enver Gortash speechless for perhaps the first time in his life.

The second time Enver saw Elodie, it had been in the same corridors of High Hall, though the decor had long been removed, and the orchestra was no longer enchanting Patriars. Parliament was supposed to be in session later that day, and Enver had been summoned by Duke Portyr to discuss further commerce strategies as the Tymanther-Unther War continued to disrupt the trade between the nations. It was a tiresome issue, and if someone would have asked him his opinion, Enver would have bombed the Tymanthan armies a long time ago. The old empire of Unther was far from his favourite places in Faerûn, but their gold and iron were unfortunately far too valuable to lose in the long run.

Alas, Duke Ravengard had outright rejected to provide any militia, which had upped the price of metals exponentially - much to Enver's ire.

Porytr was a dimwitted oaf he had always been able to control, but unfortunately, the Duke was simply that. A Duke. The commander of the Flaming Fist on his side would have been much preferable for Enver, but it was merely a matter of time before Ravengard perished, whether that be in battle or due to an uprising among the Gate's citizens. Gorion's Ward, the hero who had saved the realm from Bhaal once, had not been spared - a mere commander of the Flaming Fist was replaced within a breath. Enver had considered assassination more than once; the Bhaalspawn turned his personal assassin would have been more than up for it, possibly even knelt at his feet for allowing such carnage and chaos to be sown. However, Bhaal and Bane's truce was fragile enough - further straining their relationship by using Bhaal's greatest design would have been an insult to the deity Enver was not keen to make. He had made a great deal of enemies; he did not need to add the God of Murder to the list.

As Enver sashayed around the Ducal Palace piano tunes accompanied his steps. Curious, he thought. There was nary a day the pianos were used, unless the halls were used for lavish parties and as far as Enver knew, there were none held anytime soon. As his luck would have it the sound carried itself from somewhere near the ducal offices, thus Enver indulged his curiosity and followed the melody as it carried itself through the musty halls.

He was both bewildered and pleased when he saw Elodie again.

The young woman had hardly left his mind in the aftermath of the Breaking, and yet not a single person had spotted her since. Enver had half a mind to ask Porytr for the young maiden's full name, for the oaf seemed to at least know who she was, which could not be said the rest of the Partriars. She was a complete mystery, and mysteries had, regrettably, a way of driving people utterly mad. No matter how well Enver tried to outsmart his own humanity, he, too, fell folly to the same desire of uncovering the truth.

He observed her for a while; watched as her nimble fingers glided over the piano keys. He had recognised the tune then - a Cormanthyran hymn from times long ago, first come into creation as the Seven Citadels' War had ended and Elves had rejoiced of peace returning to their lands. Enver did not know the name, for the Elvish tongue was foreign to him, but he knew of it as an Ode to Freedom, heroism and eventual triumph as people came together to be good. Enver silently wondered if she had known he would be there or if she had chosen the piece by chance (even if he did not believe that himself).

"You are full of surprises, Lady Elodie," Enver revealed his presence as the final note echoed within the halls.

If she had been beautiful in the dim and glimmering light of the Breaking, Enver supposed she was ethereal as the sun illuminated her skin and her hair, cascading down in gentle waves to the middle of her back shimmered in the golden light.

"Oloth elgg ssussun," the elvish sounded like a prayer spilt from her lips. "Have you any idea what that means, Sir Gortash?"

"I'm afraid I speak no elvish," he divulged, curiously awaiting where this conversation would lead.

"Darkness drowns out light," she smiled as she turned to face him. "You asked how I would govern chaos."

So she had not forgotten - Enver was almost giddy as he awaited her answer with feigned lassitude. He had damn near longed to hear her answer after she had disappeared from his clutches.

"I have indeed," he chuckled.

"My mother saw the piano as a means to control the chaos in me," the young woman began to muse. "She had hoped that dexterous fingers would curb the less dexterous approach I had to... other things."

The gears in Enver's mind began turning rapidly again as he assessed the vexing smile on her lips. She was toying with him, possibly even enjoying laying out the puzzle pieces to her innermost self. He could venture to guess what she was; the feral nature that had always simmered just beneath was the answer all along.

"You're a Sorcerer, aren't you?"

She nodded in confirmation, her smile widening a fraction on her face.

"My parents were rather frightened when I set fire to my maid's skirts at the mere age of eight," a small chuckle escaped her. "I was uncontrolled. Chaos incarnate, one might say. And you know what only amplified the chaos?"

"I suppose you are about to enlighten me." He was intrigued now, clinging onto her words as if each and every one was vitally important.

"Control. The more my parents tried to control it - the further they tried to suppress what I was - the worse the chaos became. People are a lot like that, you know?" she hummed appreciatively, head somewhere between there and the clouds. She was staring into nowhere, a faraway look in her eyes as if remembering times long past. Enver supposed she did.

"Either way," she sighed after a few seconds, "control, tyranny, is not the answer to ensure peace."

"Then what is?" Enver asked, slowly stepping closer. He wasn't entirely sure why he had asked - he knew full well he would neither approve the answer nor even think it sensical. But, perhaps, she had been just impressive enough for him to bother and young enough to believe he could influence her. Change her. For all the men and women he had bedded, betrayed and deceived, none had ever offered a semblance of a challenge or semi-equal wit, and it was both pleasant and addicting to have it in her.

"There isn't a need to govern chaos, much less to suppress it," she smiled gently. "There is beauty in it, and it is part of us human beings as much as it is of our greatest problems and most eloquent solutions."

Enver suppressed the urge to roll his eyes and laugh in her face. There was no beauty in chaos or much less revelry, and while he agreed that chaos was innately human, he would never dare describe it as beautiful. Chaos did not provide any eloquent solutions but caused endless problems, which in turn only caused suffering. Her youthful, altruistic nature was nearly adorable - how delightful it would be for him to turn it around. He did savour a challenge, after all.

"I see," Enver nodded. "So your idea of a government is for it to do nothing."

"No," Elodie frowned. "Besides, you -"

Their conversation was cut short as the grand oak doors leading to the ducal offices opened, and Duke Portyr and Duke Liardon stepped out with grim looks and hastened steps. Whatever previous meetings they had been in - and Enver assumed it was trade-related, as most things were these days - it likely wasn't fruitful or congenial, which meant he would have to amplify his charms if he wanted to convince the oaf Portyr of the vision he held for the Tymanther-Unther War. He scrutinised the two men as they prattled in hushed voices, tension clear on their faces as both looked near furious at the other, the vexation bubbling just beneath the surface. A peculiar sight, Enver noted, yet he continued to observe, hoping the already visible tension would translate itself into something further - as it always threatened to.

From the handful of encounters Enver had with Duke Thamior Liardon, he had gathered that the man was as stoic as can be, deep brown eyes constantly assessing and calculating as he carefully observed those around him. For an elf, the man was rather tall and imposing, and while his rather charitable ventures made him a somewhat popular fellow among Baldurians, Duke Liardon was possibly the single person in this plane Enver could never quite make sense of. He knew the Duke had engaged in ignoble dealings and immoral trades, the man's history strangely interwoven with Enver's own and yet neither had ever mentioned it to the other. To know of the truth, to be conscious of another reality while dancing around carefully constructed tales had created a strange diorama between the men who otherwise did not engage with each other, though Enver anticipated the day he finally put Duke Liardon in his rightful place.

To repudiate morality while laying claim to it was one thing, though Enver did not care for liars. But a man who dealt with devils, no matter how beloved a politician, was no man he would protect when he inevitably rose above them. It was yet another process of arduous and ultimate subtlety in his ambition, his destiny, to be absolute.

"Papa," the girl next to him cleared her throat before she took assured steps towards Duke Liardon.

The two Dukes finally ceased their conversation, quick, easy and strained smiles placing themselves on their faces as Elodie approached them. Papa? Enver wondered for a brief second, though he wished to self-flagellate himself when he finally saw it. Of course - how could he have not seen it before?

He had felt the presence of nobility, understood she was wealthy beyond most people's means - she even looked like him. It was uncanny now that the girl stood in front of her father.

Enver Gortash, nee Flymm, rarely ever got excited, but that particular moment was something else entirely. Enver watched with sharp eyes as perhaps the most significant opportunity in his life arose - a culmination of years of hard work, careful planning and, in this case, sheer dumb luck.

Elodie - no longer an elusive noblewoman but the daughter of a Duke.

"Duke Portyr, Duke Liardon," Enver greeted the men. "How wonderful to see you."

"Likewise, Gortash," Thamior nodded curtly, his voice clipped as he mustered Enver. "I wasn't aware we were expecting company in the ducal offices today."

"I invited him," Portyr retorted. "We were to discuss some ... commerce strategies."

"Ah," the elven Duke nodded. "I see."

"I wasn't aware you were active in the political landscape, Sir Gortash," Elodie cut in, a curious look on her face as she retrenched this new information.

Before Enver could answer her, her father cut in, an incredulous "You know him?" spilling from the collected Duke's lips. It was the first time Enver had seen the barest hint of emotion on the man's face. He stored that information away immediately. Knowing the Achilles Heel of another was always valuable, particularly for a Duke who shamelessly bargained with infernal beings without so much as an ounce of contrition. Not that Enver was any better.

"We met at the Breaking," Enver explained with a small nod.

"I actually introduced them," Portyr exclaimed happily. "They were rather dashing on the dancefloor if I do say so myself." Enver nearly snorted as he glanced at the barest hint of displeasure and ire on Thamior Liardon's face. Achilles Heel, indeed.

"I wasn't aware matchmaking was an area of your expertise, Dillard."

The Duke laughed dismissively, the sound echoing through the grand halls of the ancient halls. "Your daughter has grown up," he remarked with a hint of both condescension and amusement.

Enver was confident he would have been privy to a fight between the Dukes then and there had Elodie not intervened with a chagrin giggle.

"Be that as it may, Mama has asked you to join her at Figaro's before the council is in session later today. Something along the lines of your doublet needing to be fixed?"

The Duke begrudgingly complied, uttering a quick "Until later" before he scurried towards the exit, a chamberlain and guard rushing to follow him before Enver was left in the company of Elodie and Duke Portyr, who conveniently excused himself with a cheeky wink. Enver carefully quelled the instinct to be overzealous, opting instead to maintain his characteristic veneer of stoicism. However, beneath his near-impenetrable façade, the prospect of engaging with her further was a discrete thrill, an emotion as perplexing as it was involuntary.

"I see my father is no votary of yours," Elodie broke the silence.

Enver barked out a laugh. If only she knew. Her father was a man shrouded in more secrecy than most Baldurian's would ever know, hardly the paragon of justice some had made him out to be and even less the devout Lathander disciple his Cleric wife had allegedly turned him into. But if they had all accepted the lie, Thamior Liardon had imposed on them – if all his records and annals told the same tale – the lies passed into the narrative and became truth. It was yet another testament to humanity's flaws, for most could be made to accept the most flagrant violations of reality, simply swallowing everything they were given without a second thought. How much they could thrive under leadership like his...

"We do not see eye to eye," Enver cryptically replied after a while. One day, he would use the lack of her knowledge against her, but in that singular moment, it had been far more sensical to omit the truth in favour of her trust.

"I'm not surprised," Elodie mused. "He's no fan of control."

"A sentiment you see to share," Enver retorted.

"I do," she nodded resolutely. "Control and power are not a means, Sir Gortash. They are an end. Tyranny itself is deeply rooted in the chaos you desperately seek to eliminate."

"I beg to differ."

"Do you?" Elodie tilted her head. "One does not establish tyranny in order to safeguard people from chaos; one sows it to establish tyranny. Sarevok himself used chaos as a means to establish his own."

"Sarevok was a Bhaalspawn," Enver interjected, befuddled. "Bhaal's scions never sought anything but conflict. It was quite literally bred into them." - and still was, he nearly said, but the girl likely lived under the belief that any Bhaalspawn had long perished.

"And yet he sowed enough chaos to nearly be crowned a Duke of this city, which would have enabled his own tyrannical rule and end in Bhaal's name." She hummed for a second as if deep in thought. "Faith is both an anchor and an excellent catalyst for indoctrination, you know."

"Aren't your parents known Lathander worshippers?" Enver asked incredulously. Such words were hardly those of a faithful.

"I am too," Elodie confessed. "And yet my point stands. How often have wars been fought in the names of gods, if only to establish something purportedly better? How often has faith been used to establish means of control, yet only chaos was left in its wake?"

Clever as she was, Enver had begun to see her point, though he certainly did not agree with her conclusion. While Sarevok's folly had been nought but chaos and destruction, it was hardly reflective of faith but more a reflection of the god. A god such as his Lord Bane would bring eternal peace, though yes, also fear, yet the brief struggle would culminate in peace if only people would see and bend to the whim of his dreaded Lord. Obedience alone was not enough unless there was suffering for a brief second in which human minds were torn apart and put together again in the shapes of his own choosing.

Enver surmised, with a grin, that Elodie was correct.

Chaos was, if only briefly, a vital aspect to assured peace and if a collective god would sow it upon all until they bend to his will - an imposture of manufactured chaos, which may have been unreal yet vitally important. His mind twisted and turned endlessly, rapidly altering and revising as Enver realised just how useful chaos could be if only treaded with trepidation, contempt, adulation, and orgiastic triumph.

"I see your point," he eventually grinned. "After all, the faithful will do anything in the name of their god."

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fallingwaynes · 9 months ago

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chapter 1 of my fic!!

“the pact of our youth”

yes the title is based of achilles come down by gang of youths hehe

Growing up in the circus was a challenging task, especially with the amount of performances and training everyone was expected to do in a day. It was especially challenging for a child, for you and your only other friend. Dick Grayson.

He was the circus’s golden child, being the only child acrobat. You were a golden child as well, being the only child with tarot reading abilities. It was highly likely that the only two children in Haley’s circus would become friends. And you two became best friends.

If anyone was to ask Dick about you, his little face would light up and he would explain excitedly about how amazing you were. He especially pointed out the times where you did your tarot readings on him and they came true. And if anyone was to ask you about Dick, you would nod shyly and talk about how his acrobatic powers would soon outshine his parents. You truly believed he would be the best acrobat in the circus.

When you weren’t doing tarot readings for paying customers or for other circus members, you were spending time with Dick. If your mother needed to find you, all she had to was visit the Grayson’s caravan or in the close area. You would always be there, giggling at a joke that the other eight year old made.

That’s where she would find you today, holding his hand as you stared at his palm. She knew, as well as you did, that you had no ideas how to read palms. This was just a simple way to humour the young acrobat; he giggled as you ran your finger in circles on his palm.

“It says that you’re have the most amazing best friend ever.” you spoke, nodding all serious like. He widened his eyes, before erupting into giggles.

“Does that mean I’m going to get a best friend?” he was teasing you, and he giggled as your face scrunched up in a frown. “Kidding, you’ll always be my best friend.”

You dropped his hand, crossing your arms with a huff; you smiled though. “Good, we should always be best friends, Dick.” Then you giggled at his nickname, he giggled too only because your laughter was contagious.

Your mother cleared her throat, turning the attention of both of you to her. “Mom!” you scrambled to your feet, and wrapped your arms around her waist. Dick stood up also, waving at your mom. She smiled sweetly at the boy, sending him a wave back and then wrapping a single around you.

“Hello, Richard.” she was one of the few people in the circus that refused to call Dick by such a nickname, and he had grown accustomed to it. She frowned apologetically between the two of you, and looked over at the approaching figures of his parents. “I hate to break you two apart, but there’s another performance tonight.”

Dick nodded understandably, turning around just as his parents reached where you all stood. They nodded at your mother, she returned the gesture. “Bye, see you later!” Dick smiled brightly at you, before placing his hand in his mom and dad’s and retreating back into his caravan.

〰☽◯☾〰

That night was the worst, you couldn’t even have used the tarot cards to read an event like this happening. Your mother had sent you to fetch more cards so you hadn’t seen it happen but you had come back to everyone crowding around the acrobat area. What could have happened to warrant such a response?

You made your way over to see what had happened, your mother was too shocked to even notice. Dick was kneeling on the floor next to two bodies. His parents’ bodies. You gasped, running to hug him; he sobbed into your shoulder and a few of Gotham’s elitists cooed in adoration.

“My parents.” he sniffled, resting his head against your shoulder and grabbing onto your hand. At this moment, while he was devastated about the deaths of the two most important people in his life, he was glad his best friend was there.

“I’m so sorry, Dick.” you whispered, running a finger in circles on his palm. You knew it wouldn’t make him laugh like earlier, but you at least wanted it to bring him some comfort for now. You stared up at the crowd, most of them were being ushered back to their seats by the Gotham police.

Dick continued sniffling, but some of his sadness had turned to anger. “Someone murdered my parents, and I’m going to make them pay.” he muttered, before glancing once more at the corpses of his parents. “Make them pay.” he repeated, just as a cop approached the two of you.

“I’m sorry about your parents, kiddos.” he looked between the two of you, and you shook your head quickly. The cop, the Commissioner you guessed by the badge pinned to his jacket, nodded understandably and crouched next to Dick. “I’m sorry about your parents, son.”

Neither of you knew the best course of action in a situation like this. Would someone in the circus be willing to take on Dick, so that he could continue to become the best acrobat in Haley’s circus? You didn’t want him to leave the circus, but you knew deep down that it was most likely the best idea for him after such an event.

You turned as your mom called out your name. She stared down with pity at the crying state of Dick, and you rushed into her open arms. “Mom, what’s going to happen to him?” you whispered, watching as the cop placed his jacket over your best friend’s shoulders.

Your mom sighed softly, it wasn’t easy having to admit that Dick would have to leave the circus and enter the foster care system. “He’s going to have to live with someone else, my little fortune teller.” she whispered to ensure that the grieving boy wouldn’t hear it.

Judging by the way he placed his hand into the Commissioner’s, the news had been broken to him and he had accepted it easier than it was expected. If the Commissioner and Dick had stayed a moment longer, they would’ve noticed Gotham’s richest playboy staring at the young boy with a frown.

You noticed however, and you began to wonder if Dick would at least be in the hands of someone who could afford all of his needs and wants. You just hoped you would be able to see your best friend before he left the circus forever.

#apollo’s writing!!#dc #dick grayson #angst #angst of course #somewhat canon compliant #childhood friends #circus #dc comics #hes so adorable #im sorry for killing his parents here #dick grayson x reader #all platonic #im feeling silly

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usmsgutterson · 3 months ago

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Achilles Heel - Givenson

oooookay!! This is the second chapter of this work. If you missed the first chapter, this chapter probably won't make sense, and if you'd prefer to read it on ao3 here's the link!

fic type - this is, once again, like if hurt/comfort and fluff had a weird child of neutrality

warnings - just like the last chapter--alcoholism and it's adverse effects are discussed (heart attack is mentioned a lot in this one and once is used for a dark humour-y kind of joke, the root cause for it is revealed and specified a bit more, and the seizure is mentioned at least once) tims time in the military is discussed a little, PTSD manifests as an anxiety attack and a bit like a flashback at the same time. Tims childhood trauma is discussed so physical abuse, as well as mental and verbal abuse are mentioned. There are a few mentions of guns in correlation to said trauma and a lot of talk about booze in the general sense.

“Well,” Rachel says as she enters Tims apartment a week later, having gotten in using the spare key he’d surrendered to her seven weeks beforehand. “That explains the kitten formula in your truck.”

He’s lounging on his couch wearing an old pair of cargo pants and a shirt that he’d gotten when he first joined infantry two and a half decades back—it's one with the military logo on it as well as his unit number from those days. It's one of the only things he got from his military days apart from the PTSD and it's only something he wears when there's just about nothing else, but it's laundry day in the Gutterson manor so he's decided to give himself a pass.

“Found her in the engine of my truck,” Tim says. “After my last appointment with Alexander. Any new leads?”

“WIth the Boyd case? Nah,” she says, objecting to sit on the floor in the space between Tims couch and his coffee table because Tim has sprawled out over his couch and has the kitten on his chest. “Figured I’d get Raylan’n we’d come and bug you for a while, try to get inside Boyds head a little bit.”

“There in lies the reason you left the door unlocked,” Tim nods, having noticed she left it unlocked after she came in. “Are Dunlop, Stevens and Marino invited to this meetin’ of ours?”

“They don’t know Boyd as well as we do,” Rachel shrugs. “What’s the furballs name?”

“Her name is Roulette,” Tim answers. “Found her in the engine of my truck so I figured it would be funny if I named her after a transformer, and she was almost named Megatron, so I feel like I could’ve done worse.”

Roulette is a cat of five weeks old who’s got a calico pattern of primarily orange and black with some white on her chin, stomach, and paws. She meows at pretty much all hours of the day and has given Tim’s heart a few jumpstarts since he’d found her in the engine of his truck, as well as having costed him nearly $600 in vet bills across four appointments.

“You could’ve,” Rachel shrugs again. “She’s cute, for what it’s worth.”

“Yeah, and she keeps me off the booze,” he says. “You told Raylan the full story yet?”

“No,” she says. “Figured I’d leave that to you. Has he stopped trying to get details?”

“Mostly,” Tim shrugs, rapidly opening and closing his fist in lieu of enrichment for Roulette so that he doesn’t have to think about Raylan more than he already has been.

“You gonna tell him anything, ever?”

“The way I see it, he doesn’t know right now and he can go on blissful in his ignorance. If I tell him, he’ll just get mad nobody told him when it happened. Act like he woulda been on a plane down here with the drop of that stupid fuckin’ stetson had you or anyone else called.”

“You don’t think he woulda meant it, had he said it?”

“Not really, no,” it kind of hurts to admit, but it’s the truth. Tim doubts that Raylan would’ve been at his bedside had Rachel called him, doesn’t even think he’d pick up the damn phone had Rachel gone against Tims wish and called him anyway. “I think that he’d say he would’ve, but I also think that if I looked him in the eye when he spoke, I’d see that he wouldn’t mean it.”

“You’re only sayin’ that because of that weird little affair you two had goin’ on on and off while he was around,” Rachel says. “I notice things, Tim, and it was damn near impossible not to notice that.”

Tim smiles, his chest slightly aching. “Careful, Rachel,” he says cautiously. “Don’t need my heart givin’ out at the reminder of that whole mess.” He says it with a clear intent in his head—get Rachel the fuck away from talking about their relationship, even if it means they talk about The Incident again,

“Don’t make jokes like that,” Rachel says. She grabs one of the stupid decorative magazines Tim keeps on his coffee table for appearances sake and thwacks him over the head with it before she sets it back down and Tim finds himself celebrating it silently. Talking about the attack and the seizure is, for some reason, better than talking about Raylan. “Your heart attack wasn’t funny, neither was seein’ you in the middle of a damn seizure covered in your own fuckin’ vomit. I know you like a bit of dark humour, but—you gotta understand my perspective. You lived, sure, but when I walked into that bathroom, I thought you were gonna die on me. I can’t have that.”

“I know,” he says, letting his voice take on a gentle tone as Roulette the kitten bites his finger. It’s a tone reserved for Rachel and Roulette alike, something that Raylan Givens has never heard a day in his life. “I’m sorry.”

Waking up from the heart attack was scary enough—he couldn’t remember much about before he’d passed out apart from the drinking and the chest pain he’d thought nothing of, figuring it was a harmless side effect of the booze. Then he turned his head to the right and saw Rachel and guilt opened it’s gnarly mouth and damn near swallowed him whole.

He doesn’t think about it much—can't unless he wants to go down a spiral that'll induce a second heart attack—but Rachels perspective of the events of that night were chronicalized so that Tim could try and jog his memory and try as he might, seven weeks gone from the day he woke up in the hospital and he has yet to forget the words she wrote on that piece of paper.

He remembers the way her hand shook as she wrote in the notepad, remembers the steeled, determined expression on her face, completely and totally determined not to show weakness despite it all.

“It was terrifying,” Rachel says. “Don’t you ever put me through that again.”

Roulette the cat curls up on his chest and starts purring up a storm, and Tim reaches out, gives Rachels shoulder a squeeze.

“You and I have spent the last eleven years since Raylan left saying that the only way we’d ever leave Kentucky was if we were transferred out by force, or we were shufflin’ out the same way we’d shuffle off’a this mortal coil, in a body bag,” Rachel says. “You promised me that once, that you’d stop being reckless.”

“I didn’t keep that promise,” Tim says. “I know. I’m an ass at my best, Rachel. You know that.”

“I like that about you, usually,” Rachel shrugs. “I can’t shake it, though. Every time I walk in here I get scared I’m gonna see you in the bathtub again, vomit all over your chin and your heart having gave out. I’m sorry to be a burdensome chief and friend, but I can’t deal with that alone anymore.”

“You’re not burdensome,” Tim says. “Do you—would it—you need me to tell Raylan, for your sake, don’t you?”

Rachel smiles. “If you wanna tell him, you can.”

“If he wants to tell me what?” Rachel and Tim both flinch at the sound of his voice, and the sound of the door closing behind him wakes up Roulette, who protests the sleep disruption by getting on her feet and meowing as loud as her little lungs will let her.

Tim sits up. Raylan sits across from Rachel, his gorgeous brown eyes piercing Tims in a way that makes the ache in his chest intensify.

Tim looks at Rachel silently. Please don’t make me tell him.

Rachel looks back at Tim. I don't think you have another option.

Tim takes a deep breath in, tries to will himself into some version of less irritated.

“You need to do a better job of making your presence known when you’re entering someones goddamn home,” Tim says, tone a bit angrier than he means for it to be. “You--it’s not—you are not allowed to freak out. No yelling, no glaring—if I see your nostrils flare or one hand gesture while you talk at me, you are picking your ass up off my floor and getting the fuck out of my apartment.”

Roulette settles in Tims lap. Tim takes a breath in, and Raylan nods.

“Must be serious,” Raylan says. “You have a deal.”

“Seven weeks ago I had a heart attack,” Tim says. He watches Raylans face contort in shock, then disbelief, then anger all the space of thirty total seconds. “Rachels the one that found me, and if it weren’t for her, I’d probably be dead.”

“And--what--” Raylans lips form an angry line and he directs the anger at Rachel first. “He had a heart attack and—seven weeks! Seven weeks and neither of you called?”

Tim immediately takes the defense. “Hey! Don’t do that,” he says. “Don’t. If you’re gonna be angry at anyone, be angry at me. Rachel isn’t the one at fault here, and neither of us called because we didn’t see the point. You have a life in Miami, Raylan, forgive me for not calling because you have a kid and a job and a thousand different reasons as to why you wouldn’t’ve been able to drop everything and visit a coworker you haven’t worked with in more than a decade.” By the time Tim finishes, he’s out of breath but he decides it’s worth it.

He can see that his words touch a nerve, too. “You know that’s bullshit,” Raylan says. “I would’ve come running the minute Rachel asked, or the minute you did. You had a heart attack, Tim. That’s not just anything. You could’ve died.”

“He didn’t,” Rachel says. “Calm your ass down, Raylan. I need you to focus on Boyd right now—he could be headin’ this way and we need at least an outline of a game plan to take to Mariano, Stevens and Dunlop in the morning. You know him best, so you’re at least in charge of ideas.”

Raylan turns his glare to Tim. "I want details about this, the second you get a chance," he says. "You don't get to tell me you had a heart attack like it's as simple as asking me about the damn weather."

Tims lips form a line. He bites the inside corner of his mouth in silent protest and hates how every single emotion Raylan feels or has ever felt is displayed in his eyes. As he gives a begrudging, mildly aggressive, singular nod, he sees care that goes back a decade and anguish lingering somewhere in Raylans eyes and almost hates him for still caring after so long.

“Fine,” he says. “Now--let’s do our jobs for an hour or two, why don’t we?”

Rachel reaches up, scoops Roulette out from Tims lap and tucks her into the space under her chin. “I like that idea,” she intones, looking pointedly at Raylan.

That night, they do manage to get somewhere and the following day, Tim wakes up feeling refreshed and optimistic.

Rachel does the mean thing, though. She sends him and Raylan down to Harlan to interrogate witnesses as a few have come forward with having seen Boyd down at what used to be Johnny Crowders bar, before Boyd had him killed across state lines.

The drive to Harlan starts out silent, but Tim can tell Raylan has things he wants or needs to say, so half an hour in, he breaks the silence of his own volition.

“All right,” he says, putting his hands up in mock surrender and glancing at Raylan, who’s sitting in the drivers seat. “That’s it—I'm done dealin’ with this. You say what you need to say to me while we’re in this damn car, and when we get to Harlan and have to step out, we get real civil with each other real quick because I spent a decade in the damn military. I can handle silences, Raylan, just as well as I can handle havin’ to sleep on a freezin’ mountain in Afghanistan or sitting in the scorching heat in Iraq, but I can’t handle ‘em when it’s clear you have shit to say and you expect me to listen but you ain’t sayin’ none of it.”

“Why didn’t you call?” Raylan asks.

“I didn’t think you’d come if I did,” he answers. “You say that you woulda but—it's like I said last night. You have a job, a kid, and a thousand other things keepin’ you in Miami. I didn’t think you’d come, didn’t wanna risk gettin’ my heart broken again, and didn’t wanna waste your time when I came out the other end just fine.”

“What triggered it?”

“Got home at midnight, drank my way through three entire bottles of Jack Daniels, a sixer of beer and an entire bottle of peach wine that my sister had sent along last Christmas,” he answers. “Guessin’ that was too much. My BAC was 0.38.”

Raylan glances at Tim. Tim returns the gesture and their gazes meet.

“You should’ve called,” he says. “Knowing you how I do--”

“How you used to,” Tim cuts. “Knowing me how you used to know me—what? What are you gonna say, Raylan. You best make it believable because if you know me as well as you think you do, you know I’m gonna be able to see right through it if you’re lyin’ to me. Don’t do that.”

“Knowin’ you how I used to to—the Tim that I knew woulda called in a heartbeat,” Raylan says. “That guy—he knew I’d drop everythin’ to get to him, no matter how far away I was.”

Tim leans back in his seat, looks at Raylan through a lense more skeptical than he ever thought himself capable.

“Yeah?” He asks, voice even, tone practically showing off the fact that he’s looking for a fight. “I don’t think you knew the guy I was back then, either. If you think I thought that way for longer than half a second before I came to my senses, you’re as dumb as I was goin’ into the fuckin’ military thinking it’d fix all of my issues instead of load me up with more of ‘em. I was eighteen then, Raylan. I have an excuse. What excuse do you have at 56?”

It’s a low blow, and Tim knows that. It hurting as much as it does is the intention, and the hurt is, just like all of his other emotions, clearest in Raylans eyes.

“That’s hardly fair,” Raylan says. “I would’ve--”

“You keep saying that,” Tim cuts. “You’re saying it like you’re trying to make yourself believe it. I’ve got a decade of military experience under my belt and sixteen years total with the Marshals, Raylan. I pick up on that shit. Half of the sentences you’ve spoken have begun with ‘I would’ve’ like this is some sort of hypothetical. It’s not.”

Raylan goes to defend himself, but Tim cuts him off again.

“It’s not a hypothetical. I drank myself into a heart attack, had a seizure amidst that mess, and then when I woke up in the hospital after almost dying with Rachel sitting at my bedside as the one and only person who has consistently stuck by me whether or not I wanted her to, I told her not to call,” he says. “That--that is the reality. I don’t give a damn what you think you would’ve done had I called, whether you’re telling me that you would’ve dropped everything so that you can eventually get to a point where you believe the shit you’re spewin’ or if you actually mean it. I’m done with this conversation, Raylan. I had a heart attack, I didn’t want you there, and that’s that.”

He’s lying, but at least he acknowledges that with himself.

He’d told Rachel not to call Raylan and when she could see that Tim wanted him there, she offered to do it anyway. He said no again, insisted that she go home so she didn’t have to deal with the mess he’d made of himself by drinking himself into heart failure. When she refused and pretty much put her foot down, Tim had known he had no choice. He was in bed for the following few days recovering, a big part of him yearning for Raylan more than he’d ever admit to anyone, let alone Raylan himself.

“Just--let me have this one thing,” Raylan says. “If you’d called, or if you asked Rachel to, what do you think would’ve happened?”

Tim glares at Raylan for a second but gives in nonetheless. “All right,” he says. “Fine. I’ll play your game, but we’re doing this my way. Had Rachel been the one to call you after the ambulance had carted me off, she’d’ve called you at about quarter to seven in the morning. It’s pretty much obligation to have your ringer on in our line of work, but would you have picked up the phone that early?”

“Yep,” Raylan says. Tim searches his face and finds he’s telling the truth.

“All right,” he shrugs. “Would you have, our history with or notwithstanding, called Dan to tell him you wouldn’t be able to make it to work that day and gotten on the earliest flight you could get?”

“Absolutely,” Raylan says, even nodding that time. If he’s trying to convince Tim, he’s doing too good a job at it. “Without hesitation.”

“And--would you have stayed for at least a week, if not two, had I asked?”

“Yeah,” Raylan gets this really sincere look in his eye when he meets Tims gaze again, and Tim swallows thickly. It’s shit like that that got his heart broken a decade past, and he’s not about to let anything like that go down again, especially not when Raylans only in Kentucky because of Boyd and would otherwise be content in avoiding it for the rest of his life. “You done?”

“Yeah,” he says. “All right—let's play it your way. Ask me your question again.”

“If you’d called or asked Rachel to do it, what do you think would’ve happened?”

“Well--the Raylan I knew a decade ago would probably take at least a few minutes to answer the phone especially if he were asleep and even more so if he’d taken the day off,” Tim answers. “I don’t think you woulda picked up and I think Rachel would get tired of dialin’ your number after the fourth time, which is being generous as to her patience as I know it. I think, despite the fact that I’d had a heart attack and wasn’t picked up til about quarter to seven, even if Rachel called, when you missed the call and woke up about two hours later, you’d be in my hospital room for four thirty just like she was.”

“Four-thirty ain’t bad.”

“I had a heart attack and was carried away at almost seven. Had Rachel called when the ambulance came and you failed to call her back until about nine then you didn’t get into Kentucky til 4:30, it’s still bullshit. Gate to gate, Miami to Lexington is two and a half hours. What exactly coulda been more important than flyin’ in to see me that leads you to wait about four hours to catch a plane?”

“Callin’ Dan, first off,”

“Takes fifteen, tops. Provided you don’t shower, you can do it while you get dressed.”

“Then Winona--”

“That is another fifteen minutes,” Tim says. “Half an hour if it’s your week with Willa. Adding in that time, ten to two o’clock is still three hours.”

“You’re being pedantic,” Raylan says, exasperated.

“You used to love that about me,” Tim says, and he knows it’s the truth. Raylan had said it a few times back in the day and it's because of how odd it was that the compliment had stuck with him.

“Didn’t particularly like being your partner for a year and a half, then two years later being the rebound to your rebound.”

“Our--” love affair? Relationship? Those words to describe it feel juvenile because he knows it was more but can’t find the word to describe ir, and partner doesn’t feel right, either. “--Thing had ended eight months before I even so much as thought about Mark like that. Do me a favour and either shut up or avoid making this into something it’s not.”

“I’m not--” Raylan shrugs. “I just—you shot Colt over it, Tim.”

“My motivations for shooting someone who was pointin’ a gun at me are absolutely none of your concern,” Tim rebuts. “And--it wasn’t like that.”

“What was it like, then?”

“It was—damnit, Raylan,” Tim laughs. He and Raylan began a weird friends-with-benefits type deal around the tail end of his first year in the Marshals service. That lasted all of a year and a half, give or take, and eight months later after they'd stopped, into his fourth year, Mark had called him for something unrelated to the debts he owed from his days of active addiction.

He and Mark had only really fooled around a bit but in true Tim Gutterson, unwaiveringly loyal to anyone who he thinks deserves it style, he felt something real and true. It was there, and it lingered for far longer than Tim was comfortable with, and when Tim had shown up to the scene where Mark and his dealers body were both dead, that feeling evaporated without choice but simultaneously without incident.

“How long after you shot him were you on my doorstep, just barely sober enough to make the drive over?”

“Almost eight months,” Tim grits his teeth.

“And--what you two had—the grief you felt, it was gone by then?”

“You and Mark are two different people,” Tim says. “I’ve never spent much time on grief, Raylan, so yeah.”

“Did the military teach you that?”

“Bein’ raised in southern Indiana with siblings who ain’t spent a day in their lives worth their salt and parents who are somehow worse taught me that,” Tim rebuts. “I grieved Mark once, now shut up before I shoot you and have to grieve you twice.”

Raylan, at least, does as Tim asks. He stops talking and the car stays quiet for the rest of the trip down to Harlan.

Raylan does the nice thing and lets Tim deliver the news, citing a need for coffee and telling him he’d bring one back around for Tims sake because they’ve finally gotten somewhere.

Tim knocks on Rachels door with a big, stupid smile, and when she lets him come in, her expression remains neutral.

“You get a lead?” She asks.

“We did,” Tim nods. “A few, actually. Locals at what used to Johnnys Bar but is now a veterans bar named Kingstons gave us leads that put Boyd near Louisville but comin’ in hot.”

“You said you had a few,” she says. “Please tell me you got one better than that or that someone elaborated with specifics as to Boyds current whereabouts even though the initial lead already put him in Harlan?”

Tim sits down in the chair opposite her desk, grin big and wide and stupid—he's gotten himself a victory. It’ll be something positive to bring up with Alexander, who asks him for something positive at the beginning of every single Friday session.

“Other lead puts Boyd a little more’n four hours outta Harlan,” Tim says. “Holed up in a pay-by-the-hour style motel called Charlies out in an Indiana spot called Crawford. The first lead I gave you was elaborated by someone—that lead says Boyds in Louisville but will be sniffin’ around Lexington in a couple’a days, when it becomes safer to do so, and he’ll only stay around Lexington for half a day before he heads down to Harlan, gets in touch with a few old contacts he used to have and waits it out.”

“What’s Crowder got to wait for?”

“More’n a decade gone and he still wants Raylan dead,” Tim shrugs. “Says the good patrons at Kingstons, anyway. Raylan and Ava are his biggest targets and try as he might, he apparently can’t find any leads as to Avas whereabouts. I say we put Nelson, Marino and Stevens on the Crawford lead.”

“’N you, Raylan and I go check out Louisville? I like that brain of yours even when I know it’s primary objective is avoiding Indiana in it’s entire,” Rachel laughs. “Only took two weeks’n we managed to get somewheres good. Did the Louisville lead get you anywhere else?”

“A few of his local haunts, all of which are primarily way out in the country,” Tim says. “It’s not a lot, but it’s good. More than we’ve had the last two weeks, at least.”

Rachel nods. “You’n Raylan managed not to kill each other,” she says. “That’s good too. You two have it out?”

“Yeah,” Tim nods. “We did, kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“He said his piece, I said mine,” Tim shrugs. “It’s not—we're not—it's not like it was. No hard feelings or let downs or—well—I fuckin’ hate it when you put me on the spot.”

“Yeah, you do,” Rachel nods. “But Raylan texted asking me to make sure you don’t leave til he comes back with your coffee, so I’m doin’ it for his sake. You got an appointment with Alexander tonight?”

“Eight through nine,” Tim says. “Or nine thirty, or ten, depending on how long I need to talk for. Raylans gonna come over once I’m done with it, and we’re going do the thing we would’ve done had the—thing—never happened. We’re gonna catch up for a bit, and the only Corona I’m having tonight is nonalcoholic.”

“Nonalcoholic booze and pizza from—let me guess—Antonios? You lucky, lucky bastard,” Rachel smiles.

“Yeah,” Tim nods. “How much longer do you think Raylan is going to take?”

“The VFW is like—it's closer to the office than your apartment is,” Rachel says, tone skeptical. “What is it? Does coffee still make your chest hurt?”

“Only if I drink it right after a run or right before or right after I’ve eaten,” Tim says. “Or if I drink too much. Just kind of—wantin' to get there, you know? They do have free decaf.”

Rachel laughs. “What is it, really? Don’t lie to me and tell me you miss Roulette.”

“Is a guy not allowed to miss the kitten he finds in the engine of his truck?”

“Who, Roulette?” Raylans voice comes through the room as he enters and Tim jumps.

“Damn it, Raylan!” He curses. “I had a heart attack seven weeks ago. You are not allowed to do that to me.”

“Yeah,” Rachel says. “Roulette the kitten.”

“She’s cute,” Raylan smiles. “Was always more of a dog person, but cats are the self sufficent type so I always debated gettin’ one.”

“I didn’t pick her,” Tim says. “Found her in the engine of my truck after therapy.”

Raylan sets down a drink tray and passes them out accordingly, giving Rachel hers first and then passing Tims to him.

“You said coffee makes your chest hurt—I did decaf,” Raylan says. “Dunno if it’ll make much of a difference, but I figured I’d try anyway.”

“What would—what would thirty-four year old Tim Gutterson say if he learned that forty-five year old Tim Gutterson couldn’t drink coffee without chest pain?” Rachel asks, tone teasing.

“He’d make fun of me, no doubt,” Tim shakes his head. “Probably do the smart thing’n assume it wasn’t just age and then lose his shit at me upon learnin’ I drank us into a heart attack at forty-five years old. Then again—that dumbass has still been out of the military less time than he was in it for and he has no fuckin’ clue what’s comin’.”

Raylan laughs and sits down to Tims right. Tim takes a sip of his coffee and hates how perfect it is.

“Time check?” Tim asks. Raylan glances at the clock.

“Quarter to eight,” he says. “We’ve got you for what—five more minutes, if not eight, am I right?”

“I never went to the VFW while you were kickin’ shit up here through the beginning to the middle of the twenty-fuckin'-tens, how the fuck do you know that?”

Raylan shrugs, smirking gently. “Guessed,” he says. “Not my fault I got it right.”

“Bullshit,” Tim sing-songs. “Nope. No way. Did Art call? He knows I’ve been goin’.”

“You still talk to Art?” Rachel asks. “I mean—more than once or twice very few months?”

“He calls me every other week,” Tim shrugs. “Found out I was booze free and just about demanded he be my sponsor. I think he’s discovered how boring retirement is in the last decade since his age forced him out of the service, and now he’s projecting that onto me.”

“You tell him about ‘The Incident’?” Raylan asks.

“No,” Tim answers. “With how big your goddamned mouth is, I was hopin’ you’d do it.”

“Whys he think you’re sober, then?”

“I dunno,” Tim shrugs again. “Haven’t asked and don’t intend to.”

Rachel laughs. “What’re you gonna do, if Raylan does tell him? Say Raylan assumes your accusation and insult are open season on tellin’ Art everything he knows, and then Art calls you all pissed off?”

“I’m going to be dodgin’ those calls like Avas managed to dodge the US Marshals service’ locatin’ her for the past eleven goddamned years,” Tim says. “Not for eleven years, though. Eleven days, at most.”

Rachel laughs a bit more, and Tim checks the clock before getting up in a manner that’s almost too excited.

“Ah, it would be time,” Rachel says. “You meet Raylan and I back here for seven, all right? Louisville is only an hour and some change away, but we need as much daylight as we can get if we wanna get Boyd before he does some serious damage.”

Tim smiles, nods, grips his to-go cup of coffee just a tad tighter than usual, and heads out.

He makes it to the VFW with a minute to spare, is walking through Alexanders open door for eight on the dot.

“Something positive,” Alexander says in a voice that’s almost singsonging it but not quite there.

“We got a break in the case we’ve been workin’,” Tim says, closing the door behind him before he plops down onto Alexanders couch. “Two weeks of nothin’ and finally—we got somewhere! I’m so happy right now I could just—I could pour all of the booze in my fridge out like I’ve been meaning to do for seven weeks now.”

“I really hope you’ll do that once you get home,” Alexander says. “Now for the heavy stuff. You been thinkin’ much about your time in the military in recent?”

“Not since Wednesday,” Tim smiles, tight lipped, and moves into a laying down position so he can stare at the ceiling because doing that, oddly, always helps. “Bet I’m about to start, though, aren’t I?”

Alexander gives a hearty laugh. “Monday and Wednesday we focused on your time in the infantry,” he says. “We’re not doing this structured in any particular way and you’ve had a rough few weeks and I thought we’d hit infantry first, child and teenhood trauma second, then rangers trauma last. Today is child and teenhood trauma day, likely much to your chagrin.”

Tim takes a deep breath in. A full hour spent talking about all the ways in which his father failed him? He can handle that. Totally.

“Okay,” Tim nods.

“All right,” Alexander says. “First and foremost, when did you get the idea to take the ASVAB?”

“I was—it was January of my senior year,” Tim says. “I’d grown up in an awful environment and joinin’ the military seemed like the only way out. I figured I’d take the test, join on the day I hit eighteen and then be set to go from there.”

“How bad was your life at home?”

“My father drank almost all the time,” Tim says. “Every single day, unless my grandparents came around.”

“How did your mother feel about the drinking?”

“She hated it,” Tim says it earnestly, almost hates admitting that he’d been around his family long enough to make that observation because that—by default, that means the eighteen years he’d spent under their roof were absolute shit instead of just inherently bad or difficult. “She and my old man used to get into fights over it all the time.”

“Did those fights ever become physical?”

“No--my father always told my brother and I traditional shit like ‘boys don’t cry’ and ‘don’t ever hit a woman!’,” Tim sighs. “My brother turned out to be worse about the alcohol than my father was, and I turned out gay, so my hitting a woman has become something of very little concern over the years, but that’s besides the point. My father never laid a hand on her; verbal and psychological abuse suited his needs just fine.”

“And you thought that joining the military was your golden ticket?”

“Yeah,” Tim nods. He clenches and unclenches his fists, needing something to do to distract his mind, even if that distraction is momentary. “I did. I was seventeen when I took the test, barely more than eighteen when I joined up.”

He’d joined the week after he’d graduated, four days after his birthday. He could operate a gun and knew the precise mechanisms and tools required for cleaning one before he could legally drink in the very USA that he spent a decade serving.

“How did your family feel about it?”

“I left my childhood home the night before I was due in Georgia for basic,” Tim answers. “I’d told my mother—she was scared shitless but she knew there was nothing that’d stop me. My father tried by attempting to barricade me into my bedroom from the outside in, but I just climbed out the window. Neither of them liked it, but they had different reasons.”

“What are those reasons?”

“My mother didn’t want me to go because the idea of me dyin' scared her shitless,” Tim laughs. “She didn’t wanna lose me to the military, and no matter how much I reassured her, nothing did the trick.”

He sits up, slides his hands down his face and plants his elbows on his knees.

“My father hated it because it meant he couldn’t control me anymore, and he didn’t realize that until he saw what little of my life I cared to bring along tucked into a suitcase, the rest of it sold or donated.”

“Did you ever see your dad again after you left?”

“He died before I got back from Basic,” Tim shrugs, leans back, tries to force himself to relax even though nothing does the trick. “I wasn’t even there for the funeral.”

“Do you wish you had been?”

“Not even a little,” Tim admits, laughing a bit, fighting the anxiety that’s creeping up on him just like it always does when he talks about his childhood or his parents, or those last very tepid few days before he joined the military. “My mother played the grieving widow and my siblings and I grieved in our own ways—Keith took to the very menial amount of booze that my father had left behind, I went to the shooting range everyday until my anger subsided and Lisa poured herself into her degree. My mother inherited the house, I inherited a few of the guns he’d wave around to scare us as kids, my brother claimed his booze collection and my sister claimed the law school textbooks he kept in his study.”

“All right,” Alexander smiles. “Seems like we’re getting somewhere and we’ve barely been here fifteen minutes! Nice.”

Tim knows it’s a ploy to get him to relax—he can feel the tension in his shoulders, the way that his teeth are clenched and his jaw is set.

“Yeah,” Tim nods. “I don’t wanna lose momentum and I’d rather just get this out in the open so I don’t have to think about it—so—next thing.”

“Tell me more about your families structure,” Alexander says. “As a start.”

“Lisas the oldest—she's five years older than I am so she’d be fifty by now, if not close to it,” Tim says. “She sends booze at Christmas in a bid to win me over so I give her the house but we don’t talk so I can’t really remember her birthday anymore. Keith is forty-seven.”

“Do you and Keith talk?”

“He calls me once every few months,” Tim shrugs. “I should really stop pickin’ up the phone, but—he's my brother, you know?”

“It can be hard to let go of family ties,” Alexander nods. “How did your siblings feel about you bein’ in the military?”

“Keith thought it was cool. He joked a few times that I’d be the only one in our family to ever make it out of Indiana. He was right and sometimes I hate him for it a little bit, you know?” Tim says. “If Lisa felt anything, she didn’t show it—the opposite of love is indifference, and sometimes I think that's all she's ever felt."

Alexander laughs a little. Tim, absently, finds that he'd rather shrivel up and die than divulge more of his childhood or teenage years, but he does it anyway for his own sake.

Alexander asks him more about his family, and Tim tells him everything he wants to know, dissociating his way through the process because of how mentally draining it gets.

He talks about his first ever time seeing a gun—he was seven, his father was pissed, and he was threatening to kill everyone in the kitchen a la murder suicide—and then the first time he ever watched his father get so angry over something he felt the need to scream—he'd been nine, it was because a candle his mother had lit had been left to burn til the wick was put out by being submerged under the wax—and then went on further to talk about the explosive reactions his father had to every academic failing during his middle and high school years, the way that his father used to smile when Tim would flinch and how by the time he was seventeen, he stopped flinching and learned that just staring straight ahead was the best option because eventually, his father would get bored of his torments and either go locate his mother or go to his study.

When he’s done, it’s 9:30 and he’s drank the coffee Raylan had gotten him in it’s entire. He leaves the VFW with a certain kind of weight in his chest, the kind he’d’ve drank away if he could still drink without fearing one sip would send his heart into overdrive.

Fourteen hours later, they have a lead at last. Raylan and Tim are cooperating with each other and despite the fact that Raylan, ever one to enjoy the front passengers seat, has been booted to the middle back seat of Tims truck, things are going decently.

After spending a good three or so hours in Louisville, they have a concrete lead that will place Boyd in or around Harlan come nightfall. He’ll be at Kingstons bar and Rachel has decided to have Tim and Raylan there while she waits posted with Dunlop, Stevens and Marino just down the road from Avas old place, just in case Boyd swings by on the off chance the lead was wrong.

What used to be known as Johnny Crowders bar among the locals is now Kingstons, a spot not too unlike the VFW: only vets and their guests are permitted entry.

He and Raylan linger at a table near the back, Tim nursing a nonalcoholic modelo—which, having drank the alcoholic version of the same, he will never understand Rachels preference for Modelo over Corona or just about any other beer on the market—and Raylan is drinking a bourbon.

They’re in a spot just hidden enough to not be visible from the door but visible if you take a seat at the bar and decide to look around a little bit. Raylan isn’t wearing his hat, thankfully, and Tim is dressed as nondescript as he can be, wearing a pair of black jeans, the same green carhartt he’d decided to wear upon going back to the VFW for therapy, and a black leather jacket because it’s fuckin’ mid-October in Kentucky and therefore, cold.

He’s deep in thought like he always is whenever he’s surrounded by people who’ve had experiences similar to his own, and Raylan is quick to pick up on that.

“Relax,” Raylan says, his voice gentle. “I can see the cogs turning in your fried veteran brain.”

“My brain’s not fried, my heart is,” Tim rebuts. “And--there are no cogs to turn anyway. I’m fine.”

“Are you?” He’s thinking about his time in the rangers after hearing a few guys his age talk about their time only a table or two away, so he’s not, but he’s not going to tell Raylan that.

“Yes,” Tim says, albeit a little forcefully. “I’m good. You don’t need to worry about me—I'm asking you not to worry about me.”

In truth, his mind is on his second tour in Afghanistan and his second-last tour with the military as a whole. He’s somewhere between the glint of the scope on his rifle and laughing with Mark on base, feeling his shoulder touch Marks as he finally eases up enough to be capable of sleeping through the night.

Raylan shrugs. “You seem jumpy,” he says. Tim picks up the Modelo, takes a sip and fights his grimace. He’s going to finish it no matter how much he dislikes the damn thing—it costed him too much not to drink it entire.

“I’m not,” Tim denies. He has half a mind to tell Raylan the truth but he doesn’t. Raylans not a vet, he wouldn’t understand, he works in law enforcement. but he’s always lived a civilian lifestyle--or at least these are the excuses Tim uses to justify it. Raylan has spent his entire life a civilian, never gone a decade without it like Tim had done willingly when he thought the military was his only way out of a crappy home and a crappy city in Indiana.

“Okay,” Raylan says. “Just--talk. You look to me like you’re three seconds away from wanderin’ off on me entirely and I would really rather not have that happen. We’re going to talk about The Incident.”

“I thought we were done with that,” Tim realises that Raylans doing this because he can sense that something is off, and even as his mind runs through active zones of combat from his days working infantry, he’s grateful for it.

“I told Art,” Raylan confesses, the words whispered and the guilt evident in his tone.

“Well,” Tim laughs, grips the Modelo like his life depends on it as he tries to remember what Alexander had told him to do when his trauma was manifesting in the form of brutal flashbacks and anxiety. "I’ll be avoiding his calls for the next several days.”

“Are you havin’ a panic attack?” Raylan asks, voice calm and even. “It looks to me like you’re havin’ a panic attack.”

He takes a deep breath in, his mind somehow trapped in three separate places all at once.

“I dunno,” Tim says. He takes another sip of the Modelo, tries to calm his mind again, only to find it doesn’t work. He takes in another deep breath, and then he feels the rough but still sort of soft skin of Raylans palm against the top of his left hand, and that—it just—fuck.

It snaps him right back to reality, works better than any deep breathing ever has, and he snaps his hand away despite wanting that contact. Raylan, he decides, does not get to touch him like that. Not given their history coupled with the fact that he'd never have come back to Kentucky if not for a case or the fact that it'd been Rachel who'd asked him back around.

“Okay,” Raylan says. “I told Art about the heart attack.”

“How’d he react?”

“He was angry you hadn’t told him,” Raylan says. “He said he’d mention it eventually, but only if you didn’t first and he got sick of waitin’. He was shocked Rachel didn’t call either, but that doesn’t surprise me at all. I suspect she ran the necessary channels by you, and you vetoed everyone except her and maybe Dunlops presence in the—what, three, four days you spent in the hospital recoverin’?”

Tim takes his lip between his teeth, the sound of Marks laughter and the smell of gunpowder fading just to a point where they’re tolerable.

“Just Rachel,” he says. “No Dunlop. Just her.”

“You two have been workin’ together since—well, forever,” Raylan snorts. “And neither of you have transferred out?”

“Contrary to what you believe, Kentucky is not a universally hated state,” Tim laughs. “I’ve lived here for sixteen years and I like it just as much as I did my first week. Rachel and I have had a running joke since before you came around—only way either of us is leavin’ Kentucky is if we’re transferred out and forced, or if we go at the same time we shuffle off this side of the ground.”

Raylan laughs in turn, and Tim sighs. It, really, doesn’t feel like Boyd’s gonna come in. Maybe the lead they had had fed them bullshit?

“Where abouts did you grow up, anyhow?” Raylan asks.

“Indiana,” Tim shrugs. “Small town about ninety miles outside of Corydon. Smaller than Corydon, too.”

“How much smaller?”

“Corydon has more than three thousand people,” Tim says. “My town has barely enough to breakeven with 1000, and that’s on a good day.”

Raylan snorts, and of course, their conversation somewhat slows. Raylan gets up to piss and Tim heads out to smoke the last cigarette in his pack, sticks close to his truck in the process. He idly checks his phone, sees that Rachels found nothing while waiting at Avas. He reports back that he and Raylan have yet to hit the jackpot, finishes his smoke down to the last puff and puts it out with his foot.

Instead of going back in, searching for a trashcan, he objects to put the empty cigarette carton back in his truck. He stores it in the center console, figuring he’ll just throw it out once he’s home and the only person who can judge him for smoking at all is himself.

As soon as he closes the door of his truck, he’s knocked out cold.

#justified #raylan givens #rachel brooks #tim gutterson #raylan givens x tim gutterson #givenson #justified fx

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smallraindrops-blog · 5 months ago

Note

Oough all this talk of Hades 2 has me imagining Y/n interacting with young Melinoë and Hypnos.

(Longgg drabble warning Melinoë is roughly 8-9)

Every time he comes back from a mission, and after his reports, he goes straight to Hypnos. No greetings or salutes to the others as he only has one thing one his mind... Well, technically, two, if the young Princess insists on watching over Hypnos while he's gone.

The young Princess had seen you fret over Hypnos body, change his poppies when they got to dull, read to him, and even braid his hair! The Princess wanted to show that she could help, too, to make sure you knew he would be safe when you left. From there, she would come up with bundles of poppies and books to ask if she could watch over Hypnos, too. You wanted to turn her away, tell her it's alright, but the look her eyes, the determination and need to be useful struck you. So you had said yes and taught her how to care for your little corner of the Crossroads.

Going to Hypnos and your corner of the crossroads (mostly hypnos, your bedroll hasn't been used in quite some time. Hypnos would be scolding you about that. You wish he was at this point... You miss his voice), you notice the young Princess. Usually, when returning, she's braiding his hair, rearranging his poppies, or talking to the shades that carry his hammock. (They seem to worship you and Hypnos, guardians, they whispered. You cared not how they felt about you, as long they didn't drop Hypnos, you're fine with them.)

This time was something new, something that left your heart aching.

The young Princess was sleeping atop hypnos chest, his arms wrapped around her. For a moment, you wondered if anyone saw this, if they tried to scold Melinoë. You hope not. The young Princess finally looks comfortable. Most of the time, when she sleeps, she has nightmares and would seek comfort from Hecate. Lately, she has been coming to you after learning you to have suffered from nightmares. (Unlike you, however, she still needs to rest, so you try your best to comfort her and tell her what Hypnos would tell you after a nightmare he couldn't keep away.)

The shades seemed content to hold Sleep incarnate and the Princess of the Underworld as they slept. They almost seemed to be expecting you to join them in rest. A foolish idea (if you slept, would you see him? Would he visit you in your dreams? Would you be able to hold him and he hold you back? Would he forgive you for not taking care of yourself?) You doubt the tiny shades could hold all three of you.

As you watch over the two, Melinoë begins to stir, and as her eyes fluttered open, you slowly approached. The young Princess still dazed and confused from waking up, doesn't put up a fight as you pick her up. She simply sighs and nuzzles her head on your shoulder as she falls back asleep. Hypnos barely twitchs, simply a few mumbled words and soft snores.

As you walk the young Princess back to her bedroll, you ignore the looks from those inhibiting the Crossroads. It's not every day they see the son of Achilles and Patroclus, the shade who once took down Ares, care for someone that isn't Hypnos.

Hecate doesn't say anything when you return from tucking in Melinoë, simply watching you go to Hypnos and scowl at the shades talking loudly about what they just saw.

Reaching him, you replace the old and damaged poppies with new ones, readjust Hypnos' laying form, and wait for Hecate or Odysseus to request your help.

You also wait for Melinoë, who you're sure will be embarrassed when she wakes up. You'll simply pat her head and tell her it's alright. Thank you for keeping Hypnos company, I'm sure he enjoyed having someone to nap with.

(Cough cough,I wrote this at 4 am, so apologies for any spelling errors. Hope you enjoy it, and I can't wait for the next chapter of WMFTD!)

*feral screams*

Anon this is so lovely! I am going to ramble so more under the read more. Also you did great for 4am writing! Don’t worry about misspelling or errors. I make so many during normal waking hours so you are totally fine! :)

Thank you the food my friend!!!!! 🙏🙏🙏🙏

little Melinoë!!!! I can just see her determined little face staring up at Y/N, daring you to tell her no. Little baby omg.

I am just imaging y/n keeping a watchful eye on her as she tries to carry an armful of poppies she found, dropping some as she hurried over to Hypnos with y/n picking up the fallen ones to carry for her.

Also Odysseus had totally teased you about going soft. You might or might have punch him in the arm. Hard.

not that it stopped him much. That shade still seem enjoying pushing his luck.

Also I like to think Melinoë would read outloud to both Hypnos and Y/N and sometimes Y/N would have help Melinoë sound out a new word.

And the two shades being worshippers are a wonderful idea! It works too, since many greek heroes have their own hero cult (y/n included, lol i had a fic idea of him having to deal his own set of worshippers bugging him.)

also imagine they almost did drop Hypnos once. The glare you gave them could had set fire to water. It never happened again.

also if they are worshippers, are they warriors themselves, hoping learn more of your strength or Hypnos’ gentleness? Or more like priests/priestess, devotion to the maintaining the mythology and care to the divine? 🤔

Awww, poor Melinoë, she already has so much to deal with she shouldn’t have to deal nightmares 😭

but I like the idea of y/n sharing a moment of vulnerability with her, letting her know everyone has nightmares. Even Odysseus, even Hecate.

Maybe after that conversation, you would look toward Hypnos and hoped that you handled it right. You thought you saw a faint smile but you couldn’t be sure.

gods you missed him so much. You would settle for even a single teasing joke at this point.

i bet you did try to sleep once in hopes of finding Hypnos but wherever he was, it was beyond your reach.

You just hope it was peaceful. Until you would keep watch, his faithful guardian.

And anon, the picture you painted of y/n coming back to see Melinoë cuddled up in Hypnos’ arms broke my heart. Like the gentle light, the softness of their peaceful expression.

And you could tell Melinoë needed it.

It actually broke your heart because you knew it should had been her parents or Zagreus holding her.

Damn Cronus. Damn him.

You were so gentle with you picked her up, not used to children or small they feel in your arms.

You and Hecate rarely speak, but you knew her well know to see the wry amusement in her eyes

A week later you find her there again. But you let her rest for a little bit longer. Hypnos seemed a little happier.

Aaa aaaaaah aaaaaa. Omg this is so good. Thank you sending me this. I am gonna be thinking about this alllllll day.

#wake me from this dreaming #asks and replies #not my fic #WMFTD fics by others

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eleanorblythe · 1 year ago

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Romantic Homicide - Anton Chigurh x Original Female Character - One Shot

This is a supplemental to my first three chapters and explores Anton and Her before the events of Romantic Homicide.

This is their first meeting.

Also on Ao3 with author notes and translations - here

Late Spring of 1977

This was getting tedious.

She had been tailing this imbecile for three days now, but he was never alone. She preferred, whenever possible, to limit the amount of collateral damage.

She was currently watching him in a bar making a fool of himself to a group of women, pulling out fat wads of cash and waving them around.

Idiot.

By the end of the night she would have those wads, she would consider it a tip, for a murder well done.

She shuddered at what she was about to do, but she rose from her quiet corner of the bar and sauntered over to Mr Moneybags. When she knew she was within earshot, she waved over the bartender and ordered a cocktail she had heard him order several times over the last few days. That grabbed his attention. He turned to her and she pretended she didn’t see him undressing her with his eyes. Creep.

“A lady with taste I see,” he leered and leaned towards her.

“I’m sorry?” She pretended she didn’t understand.

“Your drink, it’s my usual,”

“Oh? How strange,” she turned on an easy smile and fluttered her eyelashes.

“I haven’t seen you around before,” he was yelling, a little too drunk.

“I’m just passing through, shame I didn’t meet you sooner,”

“How long you here for?”

“Just one night sadly, I wish you could have shown me around…”

In the end, it was easy. So easy. She took him to a motel nearby, chewing the inside of her cheek as he wrapped his arms around her and tried to cop a feel. His tongue practically lapping at her as she unlocked the door to her room. Or his room, she supposed he paid. Desperate to get her on the stained mattress and no doubt thoroughly disappoint her.

At first she allowed him to kiss and grope her, but when he started to tug at her dress to attempt to take it off she stopped him.

“I don’t think so,”

“What do you mean? Come on baby,”

“I don’t want to, and I’m not your baby,”

She broke off and turned away from him, looking for something in her bag.

“Don’t be such a fucking bitch!” He suddenly erupted. He lunged forward to grab her but she saw his reflection in the cheap tv and quickly moved out of his way. He stumbled and she took the knife out of her bag and quickly cut both of his Achilles tendons.

He let out the most pathetic wail as he fell onto the bed and tried to scramble away.

“You fucking whore!” He screamed.

“See, your logic makes no sense,” she calmly walked around the bed and proceeded to straddle him. He wasn’t strong enough to throw her off him. “You call me a whore and yet, I have no intention of ever sleeping with you,”

He continued to thrash, but she held fast. He spat at her and she delivered a swift backhanded slap. She thought she heard something crack or pop.

“You’re not helping yourself here,” she spoke very quietly. “Treat me nicely and I may be merciful,”

“Fuck you, cunt,” his voice shook.

She raised a single eyebrow before plunging her knife into his chest. She may have gotten a bit carried away because when she finished there were several stab wounds, some even on his face.

“I don’t like that word,” she said to herself.

She had made a bit of a mess. As she dismounted him and went over to the mirror she saw that his blood was everywhere. That movie, Carrie came to mind. Luckily she had a change of clothes in her bag. She checked the time, not long after midnight, she had time to shower she supposed.

The water pressure was fine enough. The towels were far too small though, not to mention rough. She wondered absently why she could never have jobs that meant she could stay in nice hotels. One with a pool. Or a spa…

She came back into the main room carefully running the towel through her hair. She gave a cursory glance at the bloodied man in the second bed. Before leaning on the first bed to pull her bag closer to her.

There was a metallic clanking sound and something quickly whizzed across the room.

What the fuck?

She quickly held the towel over herself, pulled her gun out of her bag and trained it on the door.

It swung open and a tall, dark and oddly, handsome man stepped into the room holding a modified shotgun. He immediately saw her standing there. Dripping wet, covering her modesty with a, too small, towel and pointing a pistol directly at him. He had spotted the rather messy scene on the far bed and had realised very quickly it was his target.

“You wouldn’t happen to be room service, would you?” she quipped.

“No.”

“That’s a shame. I could do with a bigger towel.”

“Yes. You could.”

“What are you doing here?” She had a curious tone.

Anton looked over at his target still keeping his shotgun pointed in her direction.

“Him.”

“Ah. Friend of yours?”

“Target.”

“Oh, see now that’s where you’re mistaken, he is my target. Was my target. I’ve been following him for a few days now,”

“I have a contract to fulfil,”

She narrowed her eyes, then something clicked for her.

“Whose contract?”

He remained tight-lipped. He saw her sigh and suddenly look very irritated.

“Let me guess, Mitchels?”

He said nothing, but his face must have had a tell, because she shook her head and gave a dry chuckle.

“Should have known…sexist prick,”

“You were hired first.”

She hummed and leaned towards her bag. His attention became more alert and he adjusted his gun. Her eyes snapped to his.

“I would like to put clothes on, unless of course…you like me without?”

Anton reached over to her bag keeping steady eye contact, and pulled it towards him. He emptied the contents over the floral top cover, hearing her faint tsk of disapproval.

“What, are you worried there’s something worse in there than the gun I’m currently pointing at you?”

“You can never be too sure.”

“May I change now?”

He stood straight and watched her with a blank expression.

“You may.”

“And there’s no chance you’ll be turning around?”

“No.”

She wanted to be indignant, but she couldn’t help but smirk. She wondered if she would be able to contort herself underneath the towel while holding her gun, but instead she placed the pistol on the bedspread and dropped her towel.

To his credit, he didn’t flinch, he seemed totally unbothered. Then she glanced over at the bloodied corpse, she supposed they both saw things much more shocking than a naked woman.

His face was passive, but his mind was racing - he was only a man, after all. It was clear she worked out. Her skin was soft, unblemished. Perfect. Shower drops sliding tantalisingly over her arms. Her legs. Her chest all the way down to…

She looked over the bed for her underwear, but couldn’t see them. She knew she packed them.

“I don’t suppose my underwear is by your feet?”

Anton looked down and picked up her panties, hanging them off of his index finger. She delicately took them with a saccharine “thank you,” and quickly slipped them on. Of course she was embarrassed, but she was more weary of the shotgun pointed at her. She quickly slipped the clean dress over her head, like hell she was going to put on a bra in front of this man.

She glanced down at her pistol, knowing she wouldn’t be allowed to pick it back up. Her bottom lipped jutted out, then she met his gaze again.

“I’m sorry, you’ve been dragged out to this godforsaken place, rest assured I’ll be having words with Mitchels…well…maybe not words,”

Anton couldn’t help but look curiously at the strange woman. She allowed herself to be completely vulnerable in his presence, yet she was so headstrong.

“Obviously I will be collecting the bounty on this one, it is after all my…handiwork.” She continued. At this they both turned their head to the body that had, finally, stopped bleeding out. “But because you’ve been so gracious as to not shoot me and you did come all this way…” she then ducked under his shotgun and walked over to the dead man trying to reach something in his back pocket before giving up and kicking the man over until he hit the floor face down. She reached into his pockets and took out the stacks of bills he kept stored there. She held them out to him, but he simply stared at her before finally asking:

“You want to pay me?”

“You’re right, you should be paying me, for the reverse strip tease I just gave you,”

This woman was reckless. Sloppy and carefree and reckless. And yet, he liked her. He finally lowered his shotgun, he saw the subtle breath she let out. Good, at least she could still be rattled and on edge. She smiled and held out the money again, but he rejected it with a simple shake of his head.

“You keep it. Use it to buy yourself some more clothes.”

“Oh, so you’re funny?”

“No.”

She chuckled softly and gathered up the items he spilled out of her bag. Anton had nothing further to do there, so he made for the motel room door.

“I have a question, did you drive here?”

“Yes.”

“Then, if it’s not too much trouble, might I get a ride with you back to my car. I left it at the bar.”

He turned back around and stared at her. She pouted and fluttered her eyelashes. The back of his mind was screaming at him to get the coin, but he quieted those voices with a single beckoning of his head. She followed after him and turned off the lights as she shut the door. She noticed the door had no lock for her key. That must have been what flew across the room. She saw him lean down to pick up an air canister before marching on towards what she assumed to be his car, though she highly doubted he was the registered user.

They drove in silence. When he pulled up at the bar she got out of the car, without a word. Anton took a moment to take stock of what had happened this evening. He had travelled hours to get here after receiving intel from his contractors. He had been given someone else’s contract. The target was already dead. And her. Her, he didn’t want to dwell too much on. She couldn’t be explained away. He wasn’t sure why.

He was about to drive away when she suddenly appeared at his drivers side window. She tapped rhythmically on the glass and he rolled the window down, staring at her. She crouched down and leaned with both arms on the door frame.

“I never asked. You got a name handsome?” She was very close to him. He didn’t know how to feel about that.

“Anton Chigurh.”

“Ah. I know that name. You’re the famous Anton. You’re much better looking than I imagined.”

He didn’t want to think too much about that either.

“What’s your name?” He asked, masking the dryness in his throat.

She smiled and leaned forward even more.

“With eyes like yours, you can call me whatever you want,”

“And if I want to call you by your real name?”

That musical laugh filled the small space and she told him. He knew who she was as well. Their reputations proceeded them both, it seemed. He turned her name over and over in her head. Before he could fathom or even react, she closed the final distance and kissed his cheek before removing herself from the car entirely.

“Thanks for the ride, Anton. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again, our kind have to stick together. Maybe next time I’ll get to see all of you,”

“I wouldn’t count on it.”

“Never say never,” she hummed as if daydreaming. She gave him a quick wink before skipping off to her car.

He would never see her again.

He was fine with that.

He didn’t want to see her again.

He didn’t care.

He would move on. So would she.

He was, completely, fine with that.

He took out a bronze coin and flipped. When he saw the face that stared back at him, he was finally satisfied. He started his car and drove away, watching her also set off into the night in his rear view mirror.

Never say never.

#fanfiction #anton chigurh #anton chigurh x reader #no country for old men

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