#let him have a touch of crow's feet and brow lines and scars

[unnecessarybeltbuckles]

I love that even in his "young" form Shang Tsung looks to be leaning towards middle-aged, it's a key feature for me

[omgreally]

Face to Face Rating: E Pairing: Din Djarin/OFC Words: 4,695 Summary: Din Djarin gets a haircut with a happy ending. That's it, that's the shameless excuse for smut plot. This loosely ties into the fic Set in Stone but can be read 100% standalone. Substitute your favourite OC or you for Kit, and please enjoy this shameless, shameless filth!

Content warnings: S M U T, p/v sex, unprotected sex (unless you’re Mando and Girl, wrap it before you tap it, kids)

Read on AO3

---

“It’s getting long.”

The Mandalorian shifts in her arms. He’s lying half across her body, his weight on her chest a comfort in the pitch blackness of the cabin. He often sleeps like this, his head pillowed on her breasts, and the first time it took the girl he named Kit'la a little while to figure out why: He’s listening to the sound of her heartbeat. Something he could never get close to with the Beskar helm in the way.

It warms her, expands the space between her lungs reserved only for him. She knows the stutter of her breath, the skip in her pulse will not go unnoticed with his ear pressed flush to her skin, but he never comments on it. He savors the sacred darkness, the stolen moments in the first minutes after waking, when neither of them have to move or acknowledge anything besides the other.

She strokes the back of his head, threading her fingers through the unruly locks of hair. Hair, the true color of which she still doesn’t know. She’s only ever seen him in half-shadows, in moments where touch was more important than sight - and sight, she’s long since learned how to live without.

But his hair is getting long.

“What?” he asks, his unfiltered voice husky, mellowed by the aftereffects of sleep and - other things. Kit feels the roughness of his stubble and the contrasting softness of his lips brush her skin as he speaks. “What is?”

“Your hair. It’s going to start growing out the sides of your helmet soon.”

He snorts, an inelegant, human sound that makes her smile. He props his chin on her sternum, peering at her in the dark, and she imagines his eyes - are they dark? Or perhaps a pale ice blue? It doesn’t bother her that she doesn’t know, may never know; after all, she counts herself lucky to see mere shadows.

“I’ll cut it before it gets to that point.”

“You do that yourself?” she asks, mock-horrified. His fingers creep up her ribs, tracing the scars there, but she ignores them for now. “With what?” She’s pretty sure she’s never seen scissors on the Guardian, except maybe in the medkit.

“Vibroblade,” Din replies, without a hint of irony. Kit shakes her head back and forth and tsks him.

An idea occurs to her, one she voices before she can think better of it. “Would you...would you let me do it for you?”

She feels him tense, imperceptibly, through the sudden stillness in his fingers and the pause in his breath. Then he shrugs, the bare line of his shoulders shifting under her arm.

“Sure. Okay.”

She’s surprised he agrees so readily - after all, it’s not as if he goes out of his way to show her his face. Twice in shadow, in a closed room when emotions ran high and they were both too concerned with bodies rather than faces - but not in the softer, slower moments between. Those are few, and usually spent like this, locked away as if in secret. Not hiding, exactly, but she knows Din is more comfortable like this, and Force knows he’s earned the right to rest.

“Okay,” she echoes, stroking the back of his neck, his curls. She’s not sure, but she thinks she can feel him smile against her skin.

---

Din sits stiffly in the pilot’s seat, his cloak wrapped around his shoulders like a towel, facing away from her.

His hair is brown. Kit’la isn’t sure why seeing that realization, and that alone, makes her breath catch and her face warm. It’s just hair, and she’s touched it plenty of times before, felt the thick, wavy locks as she’s carded them between her fingers, warm and clumped with sweat. He’s washed it now, thankfully, and it’s still a little damp, covering his ears and escaping the top of his cowl, reaching to the bottom of his neck. She combs any tangles out with her fingers, and he shivers as her nails rub just lightly across his scalp.

She tries not to look at his face. She knows he’s not entirely comfortable with that yet, and she doesn’t want to push him. Besides, this is more than enough to warm her dreams during any nights without him for a long time to come.

“This okay?” she asks as she lifts the scissors, testing their sharpness with her thumb. They’re small, and it’s going to be a mission to get through his hair - it’s thick - but she thinks she’ll manage. And Din seems to trust her.

That realization, more than anything else, threatens to make her hands tremble and her eyes cloud with moisture. She steadies herself with her free hand on the back of his shoulder as he nods.

“It’s fine. Go on.”

The first few snips send clumps of hair drifting to the deck. To Kit’s surprise, Din relaxes after that, as if the first cut was the worst, the one to get over. He’s probably never had anyone do this for him before, she realizes.

She feels humbled by this, such a simple act, and she has to swallow around the lump in her throat as she keeps going with small, measured clips.

“This may not look the best,” she warns as she works. “These scissors aren’t suited for this.”

“It’s not as if anyone but you will get to see it,” Din tells her. And there it is again, the catch in her chest. “Keep going.”

Kit is careful around his ears, her fingertips brushing the outer shell as she guides the scissors around them, and when she feels Din shudder she experiences an echo of it down her spine. It’s not just nervousness prompting his reactions, she realizes, and she’s glad he’s facing away from her sly smile.

When she’s done with the back and sides and it looks reasonably neat, she hesitates, dropping her hands to his shoulders. “Do you - d’you want me to do the front, too?”

There’s only the smallest of pauses before he says, “Yes.”

Drawing a deep breath, Kit’la steels herself before she steps around him. She tries to keep her focus fixed on his hair, really she does, but she can’t help it - her gaze drifts downward and meets a pair of deep, dark eyes, eyes shadowed by well-defined brows, brows that draw together in a slight frown over a strong, aquiline nose. A nose that she has felt nuzzled against her neck, her chest not too long ago. The thought makes her shiver.

Crow’s feet map tiny lines in the skin at the corner of his eyes, and his brow is etched with the echo of his frown. His beard is patchier than she expects - she swears that against her skin, it feels rougher and thicker than it looks  - and is speckled with a hint of grey at the edges. His cheekbones are high, and muscle memory in her fingers remembers tracing the outline of his strong jaw in the dark. Translated to sight, he is unmistakable. He is her Mandalorian.

And he is beautiful.

“Does it look that bad?” he asks, and the brows raise a little. The quirk at the corner of his lips is subtle, but there; a smile. Kit’la finds herself releasing a breath she didn’t know she was holding and smiles back.

“What? Your hair, or your face?” she teases, resisting the urge to reach out and run her fingertips from his temple to his jaw. She doesn’t want to overstep. With her touch, at least.

Din shrugs. “Either.”

“No,” she says. “They’re both fine.” She draws another breath before she lifts the scissors to the mess of curls hanging over his forehead. He holds very still.

“Just ‘fine’?”

“Your hair is fine. Your face is...beautiful.” It slips out before she can stop it, and Kit swallows her nervousness, keeping her eyes on the scissors and continuing to snip away.

“Thank you,” Din says stiffly after a moment. “Can’t say I’ve ever heard that before.”

“Never?” He knows what she’s actually asking. He nods, and the scissors almost slip - she hisses a warning and stills his head with her free hand on his chin without thinking. To her surprise, Din leans into the touch, and she can see his eyelids flutter briefly - he seems to crave it as much as he does in the more intimate moments. If not more.

“Never,” he confirms aloud, and the last curl falls. Kit lowers the scissors and looks at him. At his face, not just his hair. He meets her eyes without flinching, without glancing away, and it’s like touching an electrical circuit; his gaze earths in her body and lifts a shiver from her scalp to her toes.

“I’m finished,” she says, trying to clear the hoarseness from her voice and failing. Din nods, but he doesn’t take his eyes off her, not even when he reaches for his helmet. She experiences a flash of disappointment, of longing, one that is quickly tempered as she realizes he’s using the Beskar as a reflective surface to examine her handiwork. He tilts his head, the same way he does when he wears it, and she sees the corners of his lips twitch, his eyebrows lifting a little.

“Not bad,” he says simply. Approving. Kit beams with equal parts relief and pride.

When he doesn’t put the helmet back on straight away, she hesitates - only for a moment, but it feels like an age before she sets the scissors aside and reaches out to card her fingers through his hair. She left enough length on top for it to hang over his forehead, but not in his eyes. It suits him, she thinks, but maybe she’s biased.

She brushes stray clippings from his hair, from his ears, from his cloak around his shoulders. Even without the armor he is broad, a pillar of muscle and tension beneath her hands. They drift down his temple, his cheek, and again she feels it - the way he angles himself into her touch, chasing the press of her fingertips.

“Thank you,” Din says - again, not something she expects. “For this.”

He’s not just talking about the haircut. Something small and soft inside her catches, warming her from her sternum to the pit of her stomach, and she reacts on instinct - leaning down to press her lips against his cheekbone.

It is a touch that others might consider chaste, but for the Mandalorian, it is one of the most intimate. It’s something he’s never allowed himself, and it shows in the way he tenses, the soft puff of a surprised breath warm against her jaw.

“You’re welcome,” she murmurs into his cheek. He smells like soap and leather, metal and sparks, all heat and light and clarity. And he draws her in like a magnet.

There are those who think Beskar is cold, unfeeling, and that the Mandalorians who wear it are the same. But beneath the steel is a heart that burns brighter than the center of any star, threatening to consume her, and she goes gladly. She would do anything for him; she would burn herself up in his atmosphere, blaze out, bright and brief and eternal.

He knows it, he knows it in the way he responds to her touch, in the way he touches her. It’s in the reverent press of his fingers at her waist, the nudge of his nose against her cheek as he tilts his head, the brush of his lips over hers, soft and quick and blistering. She chases his lips and the buzz of his chuckle lifts hairs on the back of her neck; he wraps his hands around her wrists and draws her down, down into his lap, where her knees bracket his hips and she sinks into the encircling cradle of his arms without resistance.

“You’re so good to me, cyar’ika,” he whispers, and no filter or vocabulator could possibly replicate the effect his raw voice has on her - her reaction is physical, visceral, a coiling in her gut that pools heat in the pit of her stomach. One of his hands spreads wide at the small of her back, the other drifting up her side, pushing her shirt up her ribs, his thumb brushing the revealed skin as she arches for him. “My sweet Kit’la.”

“You should let me take care of you more often,” she says, fighting to keep the shake from her voice, wishing for a vocabulator of her own. Her hands seem small against the vastness of his shoulders, but Din gives into the gentle push regardless, leaning back into the chair. Only her toes brush the floor as she shifts her hips forward, and she feels him draw a breath as the cradle of her pelvis settles over his groin.

Kriff - he’s half-hard already.

“I should,” he agrees, and she doesn’t miss the way he plants his boots against the deck and lifts up against her, just enough to feed the growing warmth between her legs with a friction she can grind against. “But then I’d have to return the favor.”

“I’m not letting you cut my hair.”

He chuckles into her neck, and Kit'la shivers at the warm burst of air and the sweep of his fingers back and forth over her ribs, underneath her shirt. “Not what I meant, cyare,” he murmurs, setting the edges of his teeth against her pulse, which she knows is stuttering and jumping in time with her heart.

She can’t see his face like this, but she can feel it, picture it in her mind’s eye as he sucks deep, bruising kisses into the side of her neck. Eyes closed, brows drawn tight, stubble rasping against the sensitive skin of her throat.

Din never takes long to get possessive, to get grasping and greedy with his touches, like he’s afraid that every time, this will be the last time. Maybe he is. Maybe it is. Despite the few seconds of prescience she is privy to thanks to the Force, neither of them truly know what the future holds. Their only choice is to hold now in both hands, to hold each other, as close and as tight as possible.

And the Mandalorian does.

He has his hand in her pants before she even realizes what he’s doing, his fingers working through her curls and seeking her clitoris with devastating, pinpoint precision. She cries out at the sudden press of his fingertips against the sensitive bud of nerves, bucking into his hand; she can feel his feral grin of triumph against her jaw the instant before he drags his lips over her chin and kisses her.

Din is no less needy with his mouth than he is with his hands. He tolerates only a moment’s press of their lips before he parts his and his tongue slips into her mouth, wicked and urgent. He drinks in her moan, swallows it whole, licking sweeping strokes against her teeth and tongue with his own.

His fingers never stop moving, always on the edge of too rough but never quite crossing it, pulling the thread of her pleasure out taut and strumming the tension with each brush of calloused fingertips against her clit. The frission builds between her legs, and she can practically feel the moisture gathering in her slit, already threatening to seep from between her aching folds.

Kit knows she could come so easily just from this, legs spread while his hand works in her pants, mouth overtaken by his, but the more he gives the more she wants to take. He is addictive, worse than spotchka or spice, and her head spins with every stolen touch.

“Din,” she gasps into a break in the kiss - and that’s all she has to say. He withdraws his hand and she whimpers at the loss of contact, until she realizes he’s nudging her knees together to get her pants down over them, underwear too.

She doesn’t even remember kicking her boots off, doesn’t register when Din pulls his shirt over his head. But suddenly she’s in his lap again, half-naked, pressing into him, hands swiping deliriously over his bared skin.

“Gar’ner,” he murmurs, tugging her shirt up to bare her breasts, and he’s not gentle but she doesn’t need him to be. She groans as he twists a nipple between his fingers, shudders when his free hand returns to her cunt, nearly combusts as he slides two digits home inside her, twisting and curling against her walls.

“Fuck,” Kit hisses, arching into his hand as he moves it, precise and rigorous. He’s priming her, she realizes, stretching her open in preparation for him, and her mouth floods with saliva and her belly with molten heat when his other hand leaves her breast to reach for the fastening of his pants.

So far, all her hands have done is paw hopelessly at his chest, his shoulders, distracted by the skill of his, but she forces herself to participate - she slides them down to interrupt his fumbling, although she’s not much more graceful as she yanks at his buttons and tugs the zipper down.

Din’s reaction is marked, though, when she frees his cock and curls her fingers around it; his unfiltered, stuttered groan against her cheek makes her shudder, her inner walls flexing around his fingers.

This time, when he pulls them from her, Kit doesn’t mind at all - especially not when he reaches up and slides his fingers into his mouth, sighing softly around them at the taste of her. It also allows her to shift her hips forward and open her thighs wide around his waist, her knees pressing into the sides of the chair as she slides over him. She uses her grip on the base of his cock to guide the blunt head against her weeping entrance, and they both groan in unison as she drags him once, twice, through her soaking folds.

But Din is too impatient, too eager, too ravenous to let her take her time. Suddenly his hands are on her hips and he’s dragging her down over him, stretching her open, and she gasps and arches as his cock breaches her and begins the slow, achingly powerful slide home.

She grabs his shoulders for support, the dull bite of her fingernails into the solidity of his skin dragging a grunt from his throat. His grip on her hips is just shy of bruising; perfect; a counterpoint to the languishing burn and stretch of his cock sliding through her.

Burying her fingers in his hair, Kit grasps for length that isn’t there any more, remembering belatedly what led them to this. She presses her mouth to his temple, breathing hard, and when her hips finally settle flush to his, she feels his hand at her nape of her neck, tugging her head back.

She closes her eyes on instinct, overwhelmed by how full she is of his cock, of the feel of his skin, of his presence; she is as engulfed by him as he is of her in that moment.

“Cyare. Look at me. ” Din's usually calm baritone is huskier than normal, low and deep in its intensity. “Look at me.” His tone tugs at the deepest parts of her, so that her eyelids fly open without her conscious input, and she meets his gaze with a gasp that draws her out of herself.

His eyes are open, pupils blown so wide that the brown is almost eclipsed by black, and the intensity there makes her clench from her stomach down through her cunt and thighs, curling her toes with its vehemence.

Din holds her there with the force of his gaze, with his fingers digging into her hips, for what feels like eternity, half a second or forever - she’s not sure. Then her hands lift, her fingertips hesitating a millimeter away before she touches his face - and it’s his turn to exhale sharply as she strokes his cheeks, his jaw.

“Din,” she whispers, and he throbs within her, but he’s no longer so impatient, so driven. He lets her linger there, her pelvis flush to his, his cock spearing so deep inside her she can feel him when she swallows. But nothing is so intense as the feeling that fills her as she strokes his face.

She explores his jaw gently, his chin, her thumbs tracing the tremble in his lips and up, across the broad sweep of the bridge of his nose. She travels his eyebrows, learning the planes and angles of him by touch, fighting to keep her eyes open, to commit every single pore and line and hair to memory. She has done this before, but never in the light. Never when she was allowed to see him.

And now it is her turn to whisper the word, “Mesh’la,” and the Mando’a from her lips makes him tense. Kit’la feels it beneath her, inside her, in the spasm of his fingers as they press marks into her flesh. She responds with a slow roll of her hips, the shift of his cock through her a reminder, a prompt: “I’m yours.”

Din growls, a sound from deep in his chest. He is done waiting, lingering. He pushes his feet down and lifts up into her, her toes leaving the deck entirely; she floats, impaled on his cock, the entire universe narrowed down to the exquisite fullness of him inside her. He does it again, and again, working the smooth, velvety thickness of his length through her cunt; she grips him with a flutter of her inner muscles and a gasp, and it’s as if she can feel every vein and ridge as he pushes into her.

Soon enough, he sets a punishing pace, and with no leverage and no points of contact with the floor or anything but his body, it’s all Kit can do to hang on. Her nails prick his shoulders again and the ferocity of his groan makes her dig in harder, and he thrusts and grinds up into her like he’s trying to bury himself with the intention of never pulling free. At this moment - at any moment - she would not complain.

The slow, sharp flame of sensation is already licking up her spine, gathering in the pit of her stomach, at the aching point of her clitoris as it is compressed by the wiry thatch of hair at the base of his groin with every collision of their hips. She could come at any time, she thinks, just let go and float away, ruined by this, by him. But she wants to look at him while she does it, and she wants to see him fly apart underneath her, she wants to see what he looks like when he comes.

It’s a mission for Kit to pull her head back and keep her eyes open, as with every jolt of his body into hers her scalp prickles and whimpering sounds are torn from her throat, but she manages when Din’s face swims into focus. He’s frowning again, this time in concentration, his brows drawn tight over the bridge of his nose, and his eyes are half-closed, moisture from sweat or tears glimmering with devastating gravity in his lashes as they brush his cheeks. He bites his lip against the quiver in them, and she’s not sure who is more overpowered by this - her or him.

“Din,” she gasps, “Look at me.” The echo of his earlier words prompts the lifting of his lids, and she gives in to a full-body shudder and the bow of her spine as they lock eyes again. He’s barely keeping it together, she can tell, and not just from the sounds from his mouth. He babbles brokenly, sounding almost drunk on it - on her.

��Fff- fuck , you’re so - so fucking good - “ Din kisses her, briefly, sloppily, unable to keep his lips and tongue moving cohesively, but it’s okay because it means she can frame her face with his hands and pull back to look at him again. “So soft, sss- so strong, cyare, ugh, shit - I-”

She hushes him with her fingers on his lips, and he kisses them too, drawing the tip of her middle finger into his mouth and biting down lightly on the first knuckle at the same time as a particularly vicious lift of his pelvis strikes the swollen head of his cock into a place inside her that makes her see stars. She cries out, fighting the urge to slam her lids shut and arch into the impending fall of her orgasm, but instead she forces her eyes wide and tips her head forward and focuses on him.

Only on him. Nothing else.

His hands guide the next few bruising thrusts, and her feet leave the floor entirely as he holds her up and stares back at her with his mouth open - wordless, stunned, disbelieving; as if he can’t comprehend that this is happening to him, that this feels so fucking good and it’s real and he has allowed himself this small, bright spark of wonder in a universe that could care less about Din Djarin, the Mandalorian, and what he wants or needs. Kit wishes she could tell him he deserves this and more, deserves everything she can give and even then it won’t be enough because he should have the world; no, the galaxy, the universe and everything in it.

But all she can give is herself. And she does.

Kit'la palms his face and strokes his jaw and keeps her eyes locked to his, even as the blinding rise of pure, physical bliss overflows and floods through her with the inevitability of a dam breaking, a river bursting its banks. Her eyes threaten to close, her body wanting to concentrate only on the input of touch, but she curls her hand around Din’s wide, stubbled jaw and uses the touch to anchor her to him, gasping his name as she looks into the deep, devastating darkness of his eyes.

Din comes. With another one, two soul-demolishing thrusts, he holds himself up, buried to the hilt inside her, and even through the squeezing spasm of her inner muscles, she can feel it as he swells and pumps cords of thick fluid into her. She spreads her thighs as far as they can go and arches her pelvis to take as much of it, as much of him in as deep as she can, and he groans through it, shaking beneath her so hard the chair rocks with the force of it.

Finally, together, their eyes close, and they are still. The only sound in the cockpit is the combined heaving of their breath. Kit sags first, leaning in to rest her forehead against his shoulder, her hands descending the sweat-beaded, muscled flesh of his biceps, tracing scars both old and new.

She thinks she could stay here forever with him inside her, panting against her cheek, spent and sated. Evidently, the Mandalorian feels the same, for he makes no effort to lift her up, to pull out of her. Instead his broad hands drift the length of her back, fingertips tracing her spine, and she shivers with a phantom twitch inside and out as the long digits tangle in her hair, keeping her anchored there with his hands and his body.

Eventually - she’s not sure how many minutes or seconds later - she manages to say something. It's not poetic, but it is true:

“You should let me cut your hair more often.”

Din laughs, a broken, half-swallowed chuckle. And when he speaks, he sounds utterly wrecked, little more than a buzz against her skin as he turns his face to mouth her neck.  “Only if we do this every time.”

She pulls back to look at his face. Just once more, she tells herself. Just once.

“Din Djarin,” she says, and the combination of his name from her lips and the hungry way her eyes rove his face makes him feel infinite inside, “If we do this every time, you’re going to end up kriffing bald.”

[whentommymetalfie]

Breathe Again -Chapter twenty-one 

-Track of time- 

prologue//one//two//three//four//five//six//seven//eight//nine//ten//eleven/twelve/thirteen/fourteen/fifteen//sixteen//seventeen//eighteen//nineteen//twenty

Chapter Summary: Tommy continues to struggle with the news from Birmingham. And finally admits something to Alfie 

Wordcount: 3,9 K 

Warnings: suicidal ideation, disordered eating, discussions of mental illness, suicide and self harm, 

”Go on, the weather’s lovely. No snow yet, but it could happen any day now,” Esther says cheerily as she helps Tommy sit up on the bed. It’s one of those days when he needs it. Alfie has left the room, and he can hear him pacing in the hallway. Heavy, impatient steps.

“Come on, get your scrawny arse out of bed, Tommy, or I’m coming in there to fucking drag you out by the hair. Don’t think I won’t.”

Esther huffs and rolls her eyes, but chooses not to comment. He sits there on the bed with her arm still around his shoulders, held by the secure weight. She’s not very tall, Esther, but she’s strong and sturdy. Perhaps it’s out of pity, this embrace, but he can’t reject the touch. Starved, craves it.

Tommy rubs a hand over his stomach. He tried to eat breakfast but the mud was in the way-

Esther squeezes his shoulder.

“How are you feeling?”

It’s too difficult answering questions like that, Esther knows and rephrases it. “Are you feeling sick?”

“He was sick, for a long time,” Michael Gray tells us when we meet him at his new office, “We’ve of course decided to keep it private, for the sake of the family. I took over more of the day to day work-“

Michael’s voice has become clear in his mind, an as real and solid presence as any of the others these past few days. It’s his own fault for reading the article so many times. Compulsively scratching a wound and refusing to let it scab over.

Esther asked a question.

He swallows thickly and manages, “No.”

Esther keeps rubbing his arm but he barely feels it.

Rumours have spread of Shelby’s deteriorating mental health, something Michael Gray only briefly touches upon-

“Are you sure? You’re looking quite pale.” She touches his forehead gently. The lines on her furrowed brow are blurred, everything around him seems to be enveloped in fog.

Michael’s voice continues to recite the article without missing a beat, “Unfortunately, the war left him with damages not even time could repair. And it began catching up with him. Which is how one can explain some of his less… rational decisions as of late.” One of these less than rational decision might be the choice to ally himself with Oswald Mosely, which-

He shakes his head, trying to erase the words, wishes they’d blur and fade like so many of the memories. They’re lodged like sharp pieces in his head. The worst parts he’s managed to wrap in enough fog to soften the edges. But bits and pieces still slip through.

“One has to remember they started with nothing, from an unfortunate background, so it’s no small feat, what Thomas has managed to do. Even if it’s been through questionable methods. Which of course is not something I can stand behind nor endorse, but it was before my time. Things are changing, now.”

Esther gently moves his hand away from his scar and places it in his lap instead.

“Are you sure you’re not feeling unwell?”  

He shakes his head. Tries to say something reassuring, something that will make her happy, but the dirt is in the way and all he manages is a croaked ‘tired’.  

Esther holds him closer. “I know, love. But it’ll do you good, getting some air.”

“We’ll go look at that tree you like so much, if you can manage it that far,” Alfie calls from the hallway. Heavy footsteps approach and soon he pops his head in through the doorway. Raises both eyebrows expectantly. His gaze softens when it takes in the sight.  

“Just a short walk, to get some air. You’ll feel better,” he says and comes to stand before the bed, towering above him in his large black coat. “One step at a time, eh?”

Why is it so fucking hard? it’s never going to be better, it’s too hard, all of it-

“Alright, up you go then. And let’s see if we can put some more clothing on you because pyjamas are entirely inappropriate attire in this weather.”  

When he’s pulled upright, he stumbles on unsteady feet. But Alfie doesn’t let him fall.

It does help, going outside. There’s no snow yet but the air is crisp and a layer of frost has encased the branches and the grass, making the world glimmer in the sunlight. It feels strange and nice, noticing it. And after smoking two cigarettes in quick succession, he can finally breathe. The mud has almost cleared away from his chest, his stomach, and instead there’s just frosty air with a smattering of salt. As usual, Alfie talks enough to drown out the sound of Michael reciting the article over and over again.

The sun is shining. And it’s daylight, many, many hours until nightfall when he has to lie there in the darkness and the voices become so much louder.

Alfie has a pleased smile on his face, as if this whole thing is a personal victory. Tommy likes it when he smiles. The realisation puzzles him. He glances at Alfie again, to make sure he isn’t mistaken. Watches as he scratches his beard absentmindedly, the rings glinting in the sunlight. His one good eye glints in the light too. Like this, he radiates peace and safety and Tommy wishes he could huddle into his coat, wants to be so close that his body melts together with Alfie’s.

When they get as far as the chestnut tree he’s so exhausted he has to rest. The past days inability to stomach anything at all hasn’t made him any stronger.

He promises himself to try harder with dinner.

“There you go, nice and easy, did so well, didn’t ya´? Didn’t faint or even swoon the tiniest bit,” Alfie mutters as he leans against the trunk of the tree.  

He steps back to give him a onceover and Tommy’s hand instinctively shoots out grasp his coat sleeve. The moment his fingers close around the fabric he’s flooded with regret, but Alfie doesn’t seem to mind. That pleased smile is back on his face.

“Look at that, quite nice innit?” he says and nods upwards, where the sun is shining down between the branches. he closes his eyes and focuses on the rays warming his face.

When he opens them again, Alfie is watching him.

Alfie has a way of looking at him that makes something flutter in his chest. The scrutiny can become uncomfortably intense sometimes. Especially on those days when he’s all too aware of what he’s been reduced to, when he looks down at his awful hands and the ugliness seems to cling to his skin- But not when Alfie’s eyes are soft, like this. When he looks at him as if he’s-  

“The same way you’d look at an abandoned fawn you found in the woods, with a broken leg,” Grace muses. “And you’re considering whether to shoot it or not, to end its suffering-“

Alfie’s hand comes up to cup his face. His rings feel cool against his cheek, but his skin is warm.

“You alright? Seems like something crossed your mind just then.”

“I’m fine.”  

He wishes he could be more for Alfie. That he could do something to earn the affection he desperately craves. He’s not enough.

“You’ve never been enough for anyone. Never been able to offer anything-“

He closes his eyes, like a child trying to hide. As if he could disappear.  

“Why do you think they never came to see you?”

“Tommy, hey,” Alfie holds his head a little firmer. “Eyes on me. Go on.”

He obeys, clings harder to his coat and tries to focus on the warmth of his hands.

“Whatever they’re saying, I suggest you try and listen to me instead. Yeah?”

Alfie accepts the tiny nod he manages as the only answer. Rubs his thumb up and down his jaw. Frowns. Tommy tries to count the creases on his forehead in search of distractions. They smooth out a little when Alfie makes up his mind and says, “Think that’ll have to be enough for today. Let’s get you home.”

He wraps an arm around his waist (“Just to keep you steady, eh, Tommy?”) and sets off down the path towards the house.  

The sun still shines. Alfie lights another cigarette for him and then he tells him the intricate details of how swallows build their nests. Tommy leans in, ducks his head until it’s almost resting against Alfie’s shoulder. His coat smells like pipe tobacco and salty air. Alfie squeezes his waist.

Right then he wishes he could freeze the moment and stay in it forever.

…

He still takes refuge in the living room at night, when the nightmares wake him up. The past few days it’s happened too often.

Alfie tells him to wake him up instead, but he can’t. Reaching across the mattress and shaking him feels impossible, asking, demanding too much. He’s promised he won’t get angry but people lie, don’t they? We’re only trying to help, Tommy, we won’t hurt you, we’ll take care of you, you just need to rest, Tommy, rest, sleep, and it’ll get better, there’s no bullet there, all healed, see, look for yourself, nothing there, you just need to rest-

“This is why you need to listen to me.” Grace’s soft voice is clear among all the others. “You can trust me.”

It’s childish and naïve, thinking he’d be able to hide from her, from any of them, simply by leaving the bedroom. They follow, always know where he is. Grace is stood in the corner, by the bookshelves. The crow is behind her, on its perch on the shelf, still now, staring at him with glassy eyes,

still and dead.

“It’s not real,” Alfie reminds him. “Or well, it’s real, innit, but it’s not alive. Alright?”

And Grace is not real, he knows, he knows and still it doesn’t help because in the dark it’s hard to know for sure- and does it matter, when he knows she’s telling the truth? Real or not.

The darkness makes everything worse.

The darkness, knowing everyone else in the world is asleep, the sheer loneliness of it all. Even if Alfie is only seconds away. Esther too. He could be the only one left in the entire world and it wouldn’t make a difference.

“Please come wake me up if you need to, Tommy,” Esther keeps saying. A bit like Alfie, but gentler in her insistences. “It’s fine. I’ll sleep better knowing you feel safe.”

He usually nods, yes, he’ll come wake her up, even if he has no intention to. He wishes he could.

“I’m trying to care for him, but nothing seems to help,” Lizzie’s voice comes from the corridor, through a tiny gap between the door and the frame that casts a thin strip of light onto the dark bedroom floor. “I only seem to make things worse.”

“Not to worry, mrs Shelby, this is why I’m here. To help. Your husband is very sick, and it’s difficult, caring for someone in that position.”

“I can’t get him to eat. At all. Barely get him to drink either.”

“That is concerning, of course, but there are measures we could take-“

“And it seems like he never sleeps. He just lies there, staring at nothing and-”

He can’t wake Esther up either.

He’s already a burden, doesn’t want to make it worse. Knows because of their tired eyes, each time they have to lead him back to bed, the same tired eyes Lizzie had, they

“-don’t understand, don’t know how to help you, Tommy-“

That’s why they were sending him away, to that place the voices spoke about behind the door, where they don’t have to see, don’t have to be bothered, they can safely forget and move on. Build their lives back up, bricks upon bricks, it’ll be easy to fill the hole until it’s as if he were never there they’ll be happy to be rid of it

The pain is fresh and raw, torn up again by the words in the paper, the glimpse into a life he doesn’t have anymore, perhaps never had, just clung to with a white knuckled grip

“For how long can you keep doing this?”

How long? Imagining the rest of his life stretched out in an endless string of days has installed nothing but terror in him for so long.

The pain makes his body seize up and his fingers close around something smooth. He looks down to find the chestnut there in his palm.

And he thinks of Alfie. Of falling asleep curled up in his arms as he reads, walking in the snow, sitting outside when spring comes, the way Alfie talked about. That would be nice.

Maybe he still wants things that feel nice.

The thought sparks a tiny, flickering light that warms the empty cavity in his chest.

“What do you think he gets out of this? Having to care for someone like you, without getting anything in return. You don’t deserve any of this.”

The answer comes instinctively, “I know-“

But he wants it-

“Haven’t you gotten enough of the things you’ve wanted?”

“But-“

“Stop questioning me.” A twinge of cold steel creeps into Grace’s voice.

When the urge to dig his nails into his skin comes over him he squeezes the chestnut harder. Tries to focus on the smooth surface.

“I want to stay.”

Wants to stay, wants to be here with Alfie. It feels so strange to want anything at all, he’s not allowed to. For so long there’s just been this void inside of him. How could he want anything, then?

But he wants to be here with Alfie.

Grace’s eyes glint with ice in the dark.

“He’s going to hurt you. How can you not see that? When he finally realises how much it’s cost him, all of this”

He nods, hopes to appease her, can’t stand that voice. Even if the tiniest part of him wants to protest. Alfie wouldn’t hurt him.

“You know you deserve to be hurt.”

The chestnut lands on the floor with a soft thump. Instead, his hand grips a green vase that glimmers on the mantlepiece. The glass is cool underneath his fingers and it rests heavily in his hand. Shimmers blue in the faint moonlight from the window.

“It’s so easy, Tommy,” Grace’s voice is soft again. “So easy. With me you’ll get to rest.”  

He closes his eyes and tries to breathe, fingers convulsively tight around the vase. Tries to will himself to put it back on the mantle.

“You can’t stay here.”

“I want to.” His voice cracks pitifully and the hand holding the vase is shaking, shaking wonders if his bones will crack before the glass does

“Evening Thomas. Thought we’d gotten an unannounced visit, but it’s just one of your ghosts again. Suppose they might classify as one, still.”  

Alfie is standing in the doorway, seems to fill it entirely with his broad frame and Tommy wants to fling himself into his arms and cling to him but he’s lost control of his own body, gaze flickering back to Grace who is still watching him with cold eyes. Alfie walks up to him without another word, takes the vase away from him and puts it out of reach on the mantle.

He was so angry, that time when he broke the vase, even if it was an accident. Yelled and looked at him with hard eyes full of accusation. Now, Alfie just strokes his cheek. His fingers are rough and warm against his skin and he leans into the touch.

“ ‘s alright, hm? Yeah, you’re alright,” he says. “Look, I brought your blanket. There we go- c’mere” He wraps the blanket tightly around his shoulders, pulls Tommy into his arms, into folds of sleep-warm fabric, solid muscle anf softness that he can bury his face in. He’s been holding his breath for so long it starts coming out in harsh hiccups against Alfie’s chest as he rocks him back and forth. Slowly slowly, until he eventually says, “A’ight, let’s get you back to bed and away from the ghosts, eh?”

When Alfie tries to move him, Tommy finds himself frozen on the spot.

“No? Not ready to go back to the bedroom? Do you want to stay here for a bit?”

He shakes his head but doesn’t know- what does he want? Wants to be close to Alfie. But in the dark bedroom, there’s the expectation of sleep. Sleeping feels impossible, his heart is still thrumming so hard in his chest. Hammers against his ribcage, sending vibrations through his whole body. He looks at the floor, searches for the chestnut he dropped. Alfie’s gaze follows his and he soon finds it, picks it up and presses it into Tommy’s hand

“There you go. Now, you just sit right here-“ He leads him over to the sofa and plops him down onto the soft cushions. “And hold onto that, while I light a fire. Think you can do that?”

The surface is smooth and familiar under his fingers. He nods and pulls his feet off the cold floor.

Alfie lights a fire that chases the shadows into the corners of the room, bathes the room and his face in warm light that breathes life into everything. Then he seats himself next to Tommy on the sofa and pulls him into his arms again. Tucks his head under his chin.    

“There we go. Suppose we’ll just sit here for a while, then. Can’t read anything I’m afraid, seeing as I left my glasses in the bedroom, but we can, yeah, we can just sit here and relax.”

He never realizes just how cold he is until he’s close to Alfie. Alfie is so warm. Warm and strong. Safe. Like this, he doesn’t have to believe the voices. Not any of them. Like this, he feels safe. The fire crackles softly and melts together with Alfie’s breaths into a soothing hum.

“Who is it that you see, hm, Tommy?” Alfie asks once he’s stopped shaking.  

It’s not the first time he asks. They all ask. The answer is always lodged in his chest and too hard to get out. But now it floats dangerously close to the surface. His breaths tremble as he pulls them into his lungs. He worries the fabric of the blanket under his fingers, rubs the pad of his other thumb over the chestnut. It’s warm now from resting in his palm. He buries his face deep in the fabric of Alfie’s nightshirt. Until he can pretend he won’t hear him.

“Grace.” It’s surreal, saying it out loud. Even if he whispers it so quietly it might as well have been the wind. As if it’s not his voice, as if the reply is separate from himself.

“And she speaks to you? When you see her.”

A hum is all he can manage.  

“And what does she say?”

He shakes his head. No no he can’t, he’s not allowed-

“Go on, you’re doing so well.” Alfie mutters into his hair. “Yeah? What does she say?”

“Bad things.”

“Like suggesting you put a gun to your head, or break my glassware to potentially do harm to yourself? Or walk into the bloody ocean.”

Perhaps Alfie can sense that he’s sinking with every word because he holds him tighter.

“See that’s important, innit? Granted I don’t fucking know your wife, but it seems highly unlikely she’d be so fucking adamant that you hurt yourself. So I think we can safely say whoever keeps pestering you isn’t really her. Does that seem like a reasonable theory?”  

He doesn’t have an answer. Grace, the real Grace, has gotten oddly blurred, the warm, rosy memories faded at the edges. It seems so long ago. And he was different then. Maybe a bit more deserving of her love. No, he never deserved it but at least he wasn’t… this.

The good memories hurt too much. He locked them away, tried to forget. And now it seems like he has.

“It’s my fault. My fault that- that she’s dead“

Alfie’s fingers wind into his hair and tugs it backward until he’s forced to meet his gaze.

“Did you hold the fuckin’ gun, eh? Logic like that is useless once you get into a business like ours. How many times do I have to fuckin tell you?”

“I might as well-“

“Don’t argue with me. See I’m a wise, wise old man, not to mention, a quite recently instated God. I’d be deeply hurt and offended if you decided to not treat my advice and wisdom with the utmost respect.”

“There are others,” Tommy says, still having to tear the words from throat to get them out. Alfie hums. Allows him to hide in his shirt again.  

“Suppose it’s hard, having so many people in your head all the time But, I’d say that all things considered, you probably shouldn’t pay too much attention to what they are saying either.”

“Why?”

“Well, to put it simply, if they tell you to hurt yourself, you shouldn’t fucking listen. Or if they tell you- fucking hell, whatever it is that make you wander off in the middle of the night, or stare into the distance with that horrified look on your face.” Alfie pauses his increasingly agitated monologue and huffs out a harsh breath through his nose. He combs his fingers rhythmically through his hair in the way that always makes Tommy feel as if he could melt. Now, it at least soothes his wracked nerves. Alfie sighs. “Whatever they’re saying it’s not worth listening to.”

“They’re right.”

Grace might’ve loved him, even if he didn’t deserve it. Maybe Lizzie did too. For short while, at least. Before he destroyed that too. There’s something wrong with him, something ugly and black and broken that makes it impossible to love him. Even Ada said so, everything he touches-

Alfie’s eyes glint in the light of the fire as he grasps his chin and nudges his head up. He focuses on the clear one, the one that isn’t a reminder of-

“They don’t fucking matter,” he says, voice sharp. “Fuckin’ ghosts and spectres. They’re not real and they don’t matter, you hear me?”

“It’s hard. Knowing what’s real.”

Alfie nods and guides his head back against his chest, his touch gentle again. His head is cradled in his palm, warm breaths in his hair as he whispers, “This, this is real.”

And with the sound of Alfie’s heartbeat and the crackling fire in his ears, Tommy closes his eyes.

…

The next thing he becomes aware of is that he’s floating. At least it feels like that at first. But he’s anchored in a set of two strong arms, head still propped against a familiar chest. Floorboards creak underneath heavy steps. He tries to open his eyes, but they’re too heavy. Shifts the tiniest bit to bury his face in soft fabric.

“Shh, shh, settle down. Settle down, I’ve got you.”

Alfie hushes him and rocks him ever so slightly, pulling him slowly back into sleep as he’s carried through the house.

The voices and the mud can’t reach him here, in Alfie’s arms.

[bythehook]

Part Two: Decisions

“My baby,” Hook repeated the mad woman. “Bridget?” He asked, the name causing his throat to go dry. Did Helena know that she was alive? Did she know where she was? He couldn’t believe he’d wasted a visit on his horrid visions when she might have been able to lead him to his daughter.

“No, no. Not that little bird,” she crowed darkly.

“Blake, then?” He asked sourly.

“No, no. A new one,” she grinned, and then laced her fingers across her belly. James glanced down at her fingers before releasing a single, hollow laugh. 

“You’re joking,” he muttered, and then a slight fear took root inside of his chest at the look on her face. “You’re not serious.” 

Helena closed the distance between them so quick, it were as though she had floated across the room. 

“Oh,” she pouted, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it,” she crooned, playing with a small curl behind is left ear. “It would only be one night of excessive pleasure to you. Don’t tell me,” she started, hand tracing down his vest and hovered over his groin. “Have you gone soft?” She asked, fingers tugging gently at the laces at the top of his trousers.

“No,” he took a step back, bumping into his desk, and took a seat. “That is asking too much,” he told her, a cold look in his eyes. 

Helena pulled a disappointed face and sighed. 

“Oh well. There is only one other way that I know of then,” she shrugged. “And now you know too.” 

The witch moved to the window, bringing the cage along with her. Helena unlocked the wire door and pulled the Neverbird out, running the back of her knuckles down the neck of the quietly chirping bird. Hook watched in dismay as she let it free through the open window. Typical. 

“Well, if you change your mind,” she stated, pulling a black gem from one of her necklaces and set it on the desk with a sharp clack. Hel hovered her fingers over the jewel and it glowed a faint violet before returning to onyx. “Merely raise this to your lips. I’ll retrieve you.”

And in a blink, she was gone. 

                                                       -------------

Three days had passed since the witch’s visit, and by the end of the third day, James had made his decision. He’d not spoken to anyone of their meeting, not daring to let a single soul in on the offer she’d made. 

Smee, Hook knew, would advise against. Hell, he’d probably be furious that James was even considering dealing so intimately with the likes of her. Sam, he doubted would be contradictory, but also didn’t think he’d condone it deep down. Aurora would laugh at the very idea of it, perhaps even make a joke. And Queenie. How could he even begin to tell her?

In the end, the decision was his own, and as the curtains of night drew around the Roger, James stood in his empty chamber. The captain held the black stone out before him, watching the dark fog twist and curl around inside of the gem. It was unlike an he had ever held, and it called to him like a siren’s song. Before he could second guess himself, James closed his eyes and brought the stone to his lips. 

The wind howled outside, but Hook felt no difference. He cautiously opened his eyes, before his brows shot up in surprise. He was now stood in a dark room, ground firm beneath his feet, indicating that he was no longer on the sea. 

James looked around the windowless room, taking in the black foliage creeping up the walls, the flickering fireplace upon which a black pot bubbled forebodingly. A stocky wooden table faced the fire, and upon it sat two silver steins and a scattered pile of knuckle bones. The air was almost too warm, heavily spiced with some herb he couldn’t place. Finally, his eyes crossed to a wooden, black chair, the backing regally carved with vines and leaves. Upon it, legs crooked over one arm rest, sat Helena. 

Her wild hair hung in curls down her back, and she wore only the hide of a gray wolf. It wrapped around her like a cocoon, her bare, pale shoulders poking out from underneath. A devious smile played on her bloodred lips. 

“I see you’ve found your sense,” she spoke condescendingly. “And that there is no other way to save your twisted little mind without harming the woman you have become so infatuated with.”

James stepped forward, setting the onyx gem onto the table. 

“Not as twisted as yours, dear Helena.” 

The witch gave a gleeful laugh, clutching her cloak around her and crossing her legs at the ankles. 

“Oh, you charmer,” she teased, raising a hand. With a flick of her wrist, a chair much like her own spun into existence and landed in front of her. “Come. Sit. Have some wine,” she beckoned James forward. 

Moving slowly, Hook took his seat, watching her cautiously as she summoned the steins to her lap. She looked at them and tutted, before whispering something low. The silver cups slowly morphed into goblets, and the witch smiled approvingly. She pulled a skin of wine up from the floor and poured one glass liberally before handing it to James. She filled a second and raised it out to him.

“To your health,” she grinned.

“And to yours,” James returned. He dare not refuse now, though every inch of his being shouted at him to drop the cup. They both sipped, Helena eyeing him like a hawk. 

“So, you’ve come to take the deal?” she asked, a wily look in her eye. 

“Aye,” James said, licking wine off his bottom lip. “But first, I want to know why. If you don’t mind.”

“Oh, but I do mind. What do you care about one more spawn?”

James arched a brow at her crassness. 

“I do like to know what my children get up to--” he started, but frowned as Helena belted out a peal of sharp laughter. 

“That is rich. Do you really think that dashing Blake and darling Birdie are your only progeny?” Hook blanched, though his face remained stony. “After your decades of traveling the world, the ports you’ve dropped anchor in?” She raised her brows at him, implying she wasn’t talking about ships and docks. Helena raised her glass to him. “I’ve never known a pirate so...fertile,” she stated, draining the last of her wine. 

Hook did the same, far too sober to be hearing information like this. 

“Alright, captain,” Helena purred, standing to her bare feet. She pulled the glass from his hand and set them both onto the table. “Stand up, dear donor,” she flashed a wicked grin. Hook did as she told, and stood still as she circled him like a vulture, cloak trailing on the floor behind her.

Helena ran her fingernails along his back as she moved. When she arrived in front of him, she picked up his hand and inspected it. Tracing his callouses, and spinning a ruby ring on his middle finger, she peered up at him in amusement. 

“Well this,” she spoke suddenly, pulling his hook up quickly. “This will never do. You could poke someone’s eye out.” 

James stared down at the blonde and couldn’t help the twitch of a smile in the corner of his mouth. He straightened his gaze above her head. 

“I’ve never had complaints with what I do with this in bed,” he stated steadily.

Helena gave a shriek of surprised laughter.

“Oh, I have no doubt. But all the same,” she flicked her wrist. 

To James’ utter shock, the hook clattered to the floor. And there, at the end of his arm, as though it had never left; his right hand. Hardly a breath later, the wolf cloak joined his hook on the floor, and Helena stood before him, completely bared. 

“The bed is this way,” Helena said in a low voice, and turned from James, disappearing through the darkened doorway. 

Hook stared at his hand, flexing his fingers. The lines in his knuckles stared back at him, as did the faint scar in the center of his right palm. It had been made years ago, when he and Mary had made blood vows to each other. The right index finger bore his father’s signet ring, dark metal with a silver compass rose in the center. As he reached to touch it, Helena called out.

“Would you keep your redeemer waiting?”

Hook steadied his gaze and started towards the door. For the first time in nearly two hundred years, James undid his shirt buttons with both hands, before passing into the darkness. 

To be continued...

[yeojaa]

SUGAR HIGH, chapter xvi. (w. JJK)

You're not entirely sure when it happened, though you'd come to terms with it. You'd counted the days, waiting for the inevitable. You'd truly thought you'd be okay, but by the broken, half-beating thing in your chest - you knew you'd never really been prepared.

alt summary.  You thought you’d known real love and maybe you had - it just wasn’t with who you thought.

pairing.  jeon jungkook.  mentions/involvement of ot7.

tags.  angst, break up, post-break up, comfort, OT7, slow burn, friendship, moving on, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, emotional baggage, fluff, canon compliant, jeon jungkook is bad at feelings, jeon jungkook is a good friend, jeon jungkook is a sweetheart.

rating.  general 

word count.  1550

chapter 16.  Ending Scene

Now, that's a question.  He knew his reasonings were poor - unfettered doubts with no bearings - but they existed, nonetheless.  How could they not when they'd sat in the cavern of his chest for the better part of his life, unattended like a wilting garden? It was simply an unfortunate consequence of unrequited love.

Weeds grew where hands couldn't reach.  It was neither your fault nor his.

"Say it again.”  He means it like a question but it fills you like a demand, sloping your mouth around syllables you'd repeat until you were hoarse.

"I love you.”  The kiss he rewards you with is breathtaking, quite literally tearing the air from your lungs with the intensity of it.  "I love you,”  you repeat like a mantra, if only to draw that same fire from him.  You want him just as badly as he needs you and you revel in the realization and the power it brings.  You're drunk on it.

He keens against you, edging at your throat and smiling giddily when the profession never stops.  "I could listen to you say that forever,”  he admits, easily, with little shame.

"I could say it forever.”  And you could.  You'd give him this, every day, for the rest of his life.  It'd be as easy as breathing, you think.  That was the power of your love.  It existed in every action and inaction.  Unconditional, as it should be and as it had been since you'd been children.

The frame of his arms holds you relentlessly, crushing you to his chest as he exhales the happiest noise you've ever heard.  He's back to being the boy you love, if not a little waterlogged.  You can still feel the wet of your tears and his, carved into your cheeks and anywhere he'd brushed against.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

It's honeycomb, scratchy and saccharine, sinking behind your molars and all over your hands.  It sends you miles over the moon, flying on a sugar rush you don't want to come down from.  Each kiss, each caress - it's another inch given into your addiction.

You don't mind.  Really, you'd happily perish if it meant going out this way.

You roll your eyes at the beautiful boy in your arms and it hurts a little, strained from saltwater.  "Why didn't you tell me sooner?”  The return is tender as always, further softened by the hand that drags the length of his cheekbone and settles affectionately on his shoulder.

"There was never a good time.  You were always in a relationship or...  something.”  As if that's the most obvious thing in the world, though you find meaning further than he intends, catching all the things left unsaid in between.

You pass a kiss over his temple, tickled pink by the soft tendrils of off-blue and not-black.  "I wasn't always in a relationship,”  you insist.  It's true.  There'd been times throughout the years that you'd been alone.

No, not alone.  You'd had him.

"You know what I mean.”  He mumbles his response into the stained satin of your neck, nosing softly there.  "You were either in a relationship or getting over one and I didn't ever want to be a last resort.”  Your heart aches when he puts his concerns to you, lets them linger in the spaces he can't fill with his physical self.  "I wanted you to be with me for me."

You know how hard the words are for him.  It'd taken him years and years to come to terms with his emotions - in all aspects of his life.  Even now, he was still growing, learning, evolving in ways you couldn't even begin to fathom.  It was, after all, one of realities of being an international superstar.  He had to grow up so fast.

You appreciate every verbalization he offers, tucking vowels and consonants into the corners of your heart for safekeeping.

"Jeon Jungkook, I'll always love you for you.”  You've caught him in your line of fire again, cradling his sharp jaw in the palms of your hands.  He tries not to meet your gaze - directs it to the freckle on your shoulder - but you remain steadfast.  "You’re my best friend.  Have been my whole life."

There's a sadness in your voice that creeps his eyes back to you, purely out of concern for your well-being.

"How could you ever think I wouldn't want you?"

Now, that's a question.  He knew his reasonings were poor - unfettered doubts with no bearings - but they existed, nonetheless.  How could they not when they'd sat in the cavern of his chest for the better part of his life, unattended like a wilting garden? It was simply an unfortunate consequence of unrequited love.

Weeds grew where hands couldn't reach.  It was neither your fault nor his.

"Couldn't help it.”  Another half-answer.  You've had enough of those.

With a strength that surprises even you, your mouth finds his.  Lips mould and meld, reshaping in a new kind of promise.  Like the ones you'd always made, but with fewer parts.  Better, in a way.  "I'll make it up to you."

"You have nothing to make up for."

You're not sure whether he believes it but you sure as hell don't.  You'd put him through hell these past few weeks - made him wade through an inferno like some poor soul - and here he was, soothing your ache as if it were his own.

"But I do,”  you pepper kisses over his nose, insistent.  "I have years and years to make up for."

He scoffs, rough and low.  Not because he doubts the intensity of your words, but because he's suddenly very amused by a thought.  "I don't think you could make up for fifteen years, no matter how hard you tried.  It just isn't possible, realistically."

The smugness on his face only acts as an accelerant to your actions.  You're crowding every inch of him in chaste pecks, from the top of his head - which smells vaguely of hairspray and his shampoo - to the faded scar.  You leave no patch of skin unattended, taking his words as an unnecessary challenge.

You linger at his cheeks, the taste of salt stilling your persistent motions.

He takes that as an unspoken forfeiture, his own hands shifting to draw you away until he can see you clearly.  When he glimpses the consternation in your brow, mockery flies out the proverbial window, instead replaced by concern.  "What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry."

You've said it enough times tonight that he shakes his head, laughter dragging his shoulders and filling your senses.  "Stop saying that."

"I can't,”  you retort, fingers tracing the path his tears had carved.  They're stark beneath your touch, distinct by the natural flush of his skin beneath the carefully applied makeup.  "I hate seeing you cry."

Jungkook's head tilts, eyelids fluttering closed as he nuzzles into your caress.  "And I hate you seeing you cry, but you do it all the time anyway.”  It's meant to make you laugh.  When you don't immediately, he pries an eye open, surveying you closely.  Your lips are pursed and you're not quite meeting his eyes, instead focused on the sadness that has long since dissipated.

"I'm serious.”  You're pouting and he thinks it looks too good on you.  It shouldn't, but it does.

"So am I.  Stop it.  I just told you I love you."

The reminder does perk you up, if only a little.  He sees it swimming in the back of your gaze, just beyond the worry that circles like sharks.

“Shouldn’t you be jumping for joy or something?”  Brow lifts, quirks high, and for a moment, all of the tension in your expression is gone.  You study him steadily, thumbs brushing the delicate hollows of his eyes and where the cut little crow’s feet imprint. 

“I think your fame is getting to your head.”  It’s gently teasing, soft as feathers.

There’s the girl he loves – the sweet thing who picks him up when he’s down, who has him full belly laughing without trying.  It feels so utterly good to have you here like this, wrapped in his arms and held like you’re meant to be.  It’s the best feeling in the world.  He won’t even let your half-hearted teasing deter him.  “It’s actually your fault,”  he drawls into your palm, a satisfied humming chasing the words out.

“How is it my fault?”  You’re scandalized in inflection only, soothing ministrations drawing his head to rest in the crook of your neck.  He inhales deeply, like you’re a breath of fresh air. 

“You’ve given me everything I could ever want.  My ego’s pretty big cause of that.”

It’s so matter of fact that it leaves you speechless, your fingers pausing in their gentle combing through his hair.  It makes him laugh, the breath spilling over your violet-marked skin.  His hands smooth over your sides, across the small of your back, settling happily into the pliable flesh of your thighs.  “What?” 

Honestly, you’re not even sure.  You’ve traded affections all your life, pressing them into linked fingers and childish giggle fits.  “You can’t just say things like that!” 

“Why not?”  Jungkook’s looking at you like you’re crazy.  There was no way in hell he was about to tone down his feelings for you when you’d just finally – finally! – gotten over the biggest hurdle.  No, he’d shout it from the rooftops, crush you with the weight of it.  He hopes you won’t mind.

When you drag his chin, tilt his face towards yours with hands that feel deliberate, he blinks owlishly up at you.  He’s not sure what you’re looking to convey – he can’t read it in the constellations swirling in your irises.  He wishes he could.

But he’ll settle for the words that come instead, filling him with all the light of the stars.  “I love you.”

notes.  hello, dear reader!  thank you for sticking through this tiny whirlwind of emotion.  for the most part, this story has been wrapped up.  they love each other!  they're gross and perfect!

i will be continuing their story with a bunch of one-shots detailing their relationship and the ups and downs.  there won't be a lot of rhyme or reason - just things i want to get out.  mainly stories that explore their dynamic, really.  their first date, meeting while on tour, etc.  these will be done under a different title (but as part of the same “series”).  if there's anything you'd like to read, please let me know.

i appreciate you sticking it out to this point.  wishing you healthy and happy!  xo

[kbstories]

Ontological

on·to·log·i·cal (adj.) Existing as such; metaphysical.

Eustass Kidd and Killer, during and afterwards.

(Or: Killer is healed and they kiss a lot.)

Tags: Established Relationship, Aftermath of Violence, Recovery, The “Comfort” Part of Hurt/Comfort

Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Post-Wano setting. Content warning for dangerous levels of fluff.

***

Light falls on him, gentle, crawls up his shoulder, his neck. The touch of weightless warmth over fluttering lashes, pooling around closed lids clenching tighter against its orange glow; iridescent spots, shifting, dancing.

A tired groan. Kidd burrows deeper into the crease of his elbow, into that tentative darkness that comes with the scent of his own skin and sweat.

He drifts. Dreams, perhaps, of explosions booming in the distance and bones snapping under fists made of scrap. Of snakes with eight heads and unbreakable blue scales and the ground under his feet, soaked in blood–

Remembers, in sharp detail, a room tinged blue and Killer’s hand in his, crushing, crushing. Screaming gone hoarse until vocal cords give entirely and Trafalgar Law’s face, pale and slick with effort, straining–

There are fingers in his hair. Careful, soothing, four points of pressure tracing and re-tracing the same path. Soft breathing.

“Sleep”, a raspy voice mumbles. Kidd sleeps.

*

Killer.

That’s the first thing Kidd thinks, the only thing. Killer, Killer, eyes suddenly open wide and searching, where is Killer, is he–

Blonde hair, mussed and bunched up and everywhere, spilling across messy sheets like spun gold. Half-lidded eyes surrounded by deep shadows but shining, on him. Thin lips smudged in faded red and he’s not–

Kidd rasps, “Killer”, reaches for him – right here, he’s right here – and under the tender press of his thumb on the corner of his mouth Killer smiles, just a little, tentative and shy like he’s always done when it’s the two of them and nobody else. “It worked? Are you…?”

“Yeah, think so”, he tells Kidd, whispers it against his palm and Killer sounds so worn out Kidd’s heart aches for him. “You okay?”

And it makes him laugh, laugh until the sting of tears threatens to overwhelm him. “You don’t get to ask me that.” There’s drowsy concern in Killer’s gaze and Kidd shakes his head. “Baby, ’m fine. More than fine, believe me.”

Killer huffs, that little line between his brows showing up and oh, Kidd loves him. Tangles his fingers in Killer’s hair just to feel those soft strands catch on the roughness of his hand, skin cracked and bruised.

“Fuck. It’s good to see you, K, c’mere.”

Yet Kidd doesn’t pull, merely holds Killer close until he can haul himself there and kiss him – once, twice, the simple press of lips against lips. Killer makes a noise, demanding despite how weak it is. Kidd is dragged closer by his hair and he grins even when everything blurs and he tears up for good.

Blood and salt and stale breath on Kidd’s tongue and he wouldn’t trade any of it for the world. Fuck One Piece, fuck anything that isn’t the sound of his name coming out of Killer’s mouth like he can’t help it, like it hurts not to say it.

Killer’s crying. He’s crying because he can and Kidd would’ve never thought that would make him as happy as it does.

It worked. It fucking worked.

Their noses brush as they come up for air. Kidd is so relieved he’s gasping, shaking apart with the things he let happen to Killer, his best friend, his partner. Agony given words and expression (“I almost lost you, K, I almost f-fucking lost–”) and still he can’t stop. Fleeting kisses to Killer’s chin and his cupid’s bow and where tears spill to the side, the hint of crow’s feet there that Kidd adores. “I’m so glad. I’m so glad you’re alive.”

“Kidd.”

Killer’s hands are gentle where they cup Kidd’s face, trembling. “Kidd”, he repeats and Kidd curls into that touch. Lets Killer’s voice wash over him, the words that take shape against the curve of his jaw. “Breathe, love. You didn’t lose anything. I’m here. I’m with you.”

Kidd sniffs sharply. “I know, just…” The nook of Killer’s neck is right there; Kidd pushes his face in there, shifting so his temple rests against the rhythm of Killer’s pulse, growing calmer. “I know.”

Snot dribbles from Kidd’s nose to Killer’s shirt and it only adds to how head-to-toe disgusting they are, covered in days-old grime and dried blood and whatever else they dragged off the battlefield. There’s a wound or three protesting the position, the scars on Kidd’s bare shoulder red and raw against the sheets.

Kidd couldn’t care less. His arm digs under Killer’s bulk and pulls him closer, chest to chest and hearts beating as one.

“You’re crushing me”, Killer mutters and does absolutely nothing to change it. Just puts one hand across the nape of Kidd’s neck and the other back in his hair, pushing the slick spikes to lie as close to flat as they can get (which is barely).

They stay there, sprawled and starting to sweat in the morning light conquering more and more of the room. “We owe Trafalgar big time”, Kidd says eventually, too drained to sound anything but grateful about it. He shifts against Killer, pillowing his cheek on his pec with a low grunt.

“Him and that reindeer guy. Don’t ask me what exactly they did but they said they got it all out. All side-effects reversed. Strawhat’s holding off on the party until they got through all the others. The, um. The little girl, too.”

Killer hums. “…I don’t remember much. Do I wanna know?”

“No. Hell no.” Kidd shudders, pushes the memories far, far down. His fingers throb with it, regardless: The bruises stopped swelling, at least. “Never eat a Devil Fruit again, ‘kay? They taste shit. You love to swim. We can’t both be hammers. Lots of reasons not to.”

A sigh. “Kidd–”

“I know but fuck that. Not worth it. Got it?”

All Killer gives him is an indistinct “Mh”, which is fine. There’s no way in hell anyone’s ever getting to him like that, not without going through Kidd first and there goes Killer’s reason for throwing away his life like that.

Boom, problem solved.

That thought rattles around in Kidd’s brain for some time, that and all the other crap he chucked aside to keep himself together. Kidd’s pretty sure he’ll never hear the exact circumstances of this particular shitshow – Killer can be bullheaded as hell if he wants to. In the end, knowing or not knowing won’t change what matters.

Kidd trusts Killer. With his life, and everything else.

With Killer’s heart thumping steady as ever under his ear, the pain is easier to bear. Easier to let go of, body moving with every inhale and exhale Killer breathes, slow and deep. His fingers stopped moving a while ago, only loosely cupping Kidd’s head now.

Kidd glances up to see Killer’s face gone slack in his sleep. It softens something inside him, something that makes him want to etch this exact moment into his mind so he never forgets it: Blonde lashes fanning delicately across the cusp of Killer’s cheeks; the miniscule scrunch to his nose where a wayward strand of hair is tickling him.

It’s a bit of a struggle to get his arm out from underneath Killer’s back to tuck it away but Kidd manages. Brushes the tips of his fingers along his jaw, afterwards, until Killer mumbles vague nothings and drops off to proper slumber.

The arch of Killer’s mouth settles as it should, marginally sloped downwards, lacking any tension.

Kidd huffs, quiet and fond. He gets comfortable, claiming the space along Killer’s side and nudging his arm in a better position to put his head on it. Killer is warm, all solid muscle and soft skin.

Kidd is all too happy to melt into that. It’s gotten kinda hard to catch some rest any other way.

Wire by wire, the knot in Kidd’s chest loosens. The constant worry, the sheer hopelessness of a future where something as simple as this would be rendered meaningless – “I missed you, y’know”, Kidd tells Killer, low enough that Killer’s breathing drowns out most of it.

They sleep.

*

By the time Heat pokes their head into the room and spots them, the pile of blankets and limbs that are Kidd and Killer are snoring loud enough to rouse the dead and then some. Completely passed out.

Heat sighs. Strawhat’s banquet will have to wait a little bit longer, then.

[spectralscathath]

In Another Perfect Life

Fair Game Week, Day 4: Soulmates/Birds

Everyone on Remnant has a leitmotif, a soul melody that they know from the moment they’re born. It was said that singing or humming your leitmotif causes it to play in your soulmate’s head. It was lucky to have a soulmate, some said. Someone who had a deep tie to you, beyond the limits of friendship and family and even romance, in some cases.

Qrow, since the universe saw the word ‘lucky’ and cackled maliciously, had no less than three damn soul melodies in his head, aside from his own.

He wanted to file a complaint.

Ao3 Link

Qrow heard Tyrian’s stupid fucking soulsong start up in the back of his head and viciously kicked the wall. Stupid fucking murder soulmate. Raven’s bitch ass tune he could deal with, she was his twin, even if she was a goddamn fucking harlot who fucked off and also tried to kill him. At least she almost never hummed her stupid melody.

Tyrian, though? Every. Fucking. Day.

It wasn’t until Qrow had heard Tyrian humming it under his breath as they tried to kill each other in Oniyuri that the creepily cool leitmotif had turned into a source of unending annoyance.

Apparently murder soulmates were definitely a thing, and Qrow was going to wring Tyrian’s neck until he never had to hear that damned tune in his head again.

It would be nice if Number Three could start doing their thing again. Qrow hadn’t heard that person do anything with their melody in a while.

Knowing his luck, Person Three would also try to kill him.

Tyrian started in again on another rendition of his stupid theme song and Qrow gritted his teeth, pursing his lips as he whistled his own melody to try drown out Callows, and maybe annoy him as well.

The next reprise of Tyrian’s soulsong sounded smug. Qrow was gonna rip off what was left of his tail and shove it so far up Tyrian’s arse the faunus would be tasting his own venom for weeks.

Screw it.

He stomped past the briefing room where everyone else was waiting, shoved open the nearest window, and jumped out without the slightest hesitation. If nothing else, he could at least try to clear his head with a flight.

Or, he thought as he shifted forms with a touch of magic, he could hunt down the maniacal bastard and pay him back for the poisoning.

His wings flapped in the cold breeze as he headed off, unfortunately missing Clover looking outside the briefing room with a confused-yet-hopeful grin.

------------

In the Xiao Long household, there was a bookshelf that was stacked with books that were all about animals. Lots of illustrated guides and glossaries. At least three were about bugs, Ruby had a fascination for creepy-crawlies as a kid, with another devoted specifically to the different species of arachnids. There was a book on dogs, birdwatcher guides to just about everywhere Qrow had visited when he’d had the lien to pick one up, a couple of others about wildlife in general, and then there was one that sat, not on the shelf, but on the coffee table.

The Illustrated Encyclopedia Of Remnant’s Corvids, by Dr Jay Jackdaw.  

A gift from Summer, once she and Tai had calmed down about the whole ‘turning into birds’ thing. She was such a brat.

He’d ended up reading it, cover-to-cover, just to make sure that nothing would surprise him about any possible side effects. Ozpin had said there wouldn’t be, but hey, turned out he was wrong.

Qrow didn’t know if it was his natural thief tendencies, honed from being raised as a bandit and a scavenger, or if it was bleed over from his corvid form, but he had a fascination with shiny trinkets. One look at a small treasure hoard stored in a box in Tai’s room gave that away.

But it wasn’t just his tendency to purloin new sparklies, it was all the other random stuff. The way he liked to mess around with people’s hair if he liked them, from messing up Ruby’s do to scruffing Tai’s mop with both hands, gentle carding of calloused fingers through Yang’s golden locks as he treated it with the same care that she did.

Even James got it, with playful flicks to that one piece of his hair that always fell over his face. Then there was the slightly weirder things that couldn’t be brushed off as normal quirkiness, like how he had a tendency to squawk when he got surprised in a sound that was way too similar to a caw.

There was the way his pupils pinned when emotional, which wasn’t technically a crow trait, it was a parrot thing. Tai, resident nerd, had brought that up with Ozpin and gotten a shrug and the answer of ‘it’s magic’. Summer had always liked how his hair fluffed out sometimes, like a bird’s feathers. Head cocks were fairly standard, and he couldn’t really complain about the other eccentricities either.

Not when the usefulness of his bird form far outweighed literally any downside.

It was a weird, nonsensical train of thought,stupid and really irrelevant to his current hunt, but thinking about bird facts and the effects they had on himself was still better then Tyrian’s fuckin-ass clown music. 

He hated that guy.

He broke out of his musings as he heard Number Three’s soulsong enter his head, clear as mud, the sound dimmed by his different form. He flapped his wings as he scanned for a good perch, landing on a streetlight as his talons clicked on the cold metal. He cocked his head, listening to the melody in his head.

It was a lot more jaunty and triumphant to Raven’s dirge and Tyrian’s whatever-the-fuck. He knew his own was able to be both victorious and melancholic at the same time, depending on how fast he strung the notes together in his head.

Number Three reminded him of an honest-to-gods sea shanty, sometimes. Made him think of rolling waves or still waters. Raven’s put him in mind of cold shadows and moonlight scattered by clouds, and Tyrian’s was fucking clown music or something stupid like that, fuck, Qrow hated that slimy bastard.

It was nice to hear Person Three was still around though.

Speaking of, it would be smartest to head back to Atlas. He’d missed whatever mission he was assigned for today, instead hunting down Tyrian himself from the skies. Nothing, not that he expected to spot the faunus when the sun was out. Tyrian was a predator, he’d probably stick to the natural advantage the darkness gave his faunus eyes.

Not only that, but people feared the night, as a whole. Night time was when people were vulnerable, when they slept, when they locked up their homes and tried to avoid the unsavoury types lurking out in the shadows.

Only two people worked at night, in Qrow’s opinion. Criminals and Huntsmen.

He flew in through his own window, always left open just in case, and landed in a crouch, straightening up and fixing his hair before he opened the door to a set of seafoam green eyes and a shiny clover pin.

Sometimes he really wanted to nick that pin, but he refrained. Personal trinkets to others were something he’d long since made off-limits to himself.

Still, this was a surprise. “Clover. Hey. What’s up?”

“You missed briefing,” Clover’s hands were folded behind his back, but there wasn’t accusation on his face. Rather, he looked pleased and like he was trying to hide it. “Any reason why?”

“Went looking for Tyrian.” There was a vibrant purple scar on his side that was going to be a permanent reminder of their first duel. “Didn’t find him.”

“You should be more careful, instead of going off alone. Our records show that he’s a very dangerous individual.” Clover’s hidden enthusiasm faded to concern.

Qrow shrugged it off. “Yeah, I know. He and I had a fight.”

“In Oniyuri? That’s what Ren, Nora and Ruby said after the rally.”

Qrow crossed his arms. “Bingo.” He should probably invite Clover into the shoebox that James had given him access to. Letting him stand in the doorway seemed weird. “You coming in?”

Clover blinked and recovered. “Oh- yeah, sure, of course.” He stepped in and waited for Qrow to give him the nod before sitting down. “You fought him and he apparently nearly killed you. Next time it would be best for you to bring back up.”

“We had a mutual aura break.” If Ruby had just stayed out of the way then he would have won, or at least taken the freak down with him. “I’ll get him next time.”

“I see. Well, next time, make sure you call it in so that-” there was a moment’s hesitation as Clover seemed to skip over whatever word he was about to say, before continuing smoothly like the break had never happened, “there can be back up ready to cover for you.” Clover looked him in the eye. “Alright?”

Qrow looked back, and realised that Clover was offering to be that back up. That he was asking Qrow to promise not to go in alone. Qrow’s mouth felt a little dry as he nodded, before deciding to not be a jerk and actually answer. “Yeah. Okay.”

Clover’s determined look softened a little as he smiled, laugh lines creasing in his face. They were similar to the crow’s feet that were forming at the creases of Qrow’s eyes, and they suited Clover, made him look steady. Steady was good, compared to Qrow’s life of unpredictability.

Qrow realised he was maybe staring a little bit when Clover quirked a brow curiously, his greying hair fluffing up as he dropped his eyes to his hands, fiddling with his rings and spinning one on his finger. “So. Anything else?”

“No, that’s everything.” Clover was still smiling, and Qrow had a mad thought of inviting him to stick around and hang out for the night.

He shook that off too. Probably wouldn’t be a good idea. “Cool. I’m gonna head out, check on the kids. See you at the briefing?”

Clover looked almost put out by that, but he smiled gracefully and stood, brushing off his uniform and flicking his pin. Weird. Qrow thought he only did that when he wanted to be extra lucky. Clover paid no heed to Qrow’s cocked head and raised brow as he spoke. “I’ll see you there. Enjoy your evening, Qrow.”

“You too, Shamrock.” He gave him a wave off as the ace operative walked by, hands folding behind his back as he stepped out. Qrow couldn’t help but watch him go, noticing a faint bounce to Clover’s steps before he heard the man humming something, the sound fading into the ambient noise as he left.

That was Soulmate Number Three’s tune.

Qrow grinned. Son of a bitch.

-----

I’m very excited for tomorrow. Thought you ought to know.

[unfunny-quips]

Midoriya is more than a head shorter than Shinsou and yet never fails to put his smaller frame between the tall boy and the rest of the world. He does the same for Hastume from support as well - the only two friends the green haired boy seems to have - though it’s not nearly as obvious with the pink haired girl when they are so close in height.

Sometimes it's a subtle thing, just a boy standing close to his friend, shoulder’s barely overlapping with Midoriya only just ahead of his companion. Sometimes - like now, as Hizashi calls to his two students and strides over to them in the hall - it’s far more obvious.

Midoriya shifts, movements flowing like water to stand between Hizashi and Shinsou like the boy has spent a lifetime practicing putting himself bodily between threats and those he cares for. The green haired boy looks relaxed to the untrained eye. Hizashi has had years of training though, he knows what to look for.

Midoriya’s hands are untucked from his pockets, not in fists but loose and ready at his sides, stance relaxed but precise, balanced. Prepared to absorb the force of a blow or redirect a hit. Hizashi watches green eyes shift quickly and efficiently over his own taller form. The glances so quick that even he nearly misses the way they linger just barely on all the teacher’s most vulnerable spots, taking stock of how well they are protected.

In moments like these - when the warmth that Midoriya shows his friends fades and there’s only a skittish, half feral child left behind - Hizashi becomes far too aware of the spider web of scars that traces above the boy’s left eye.

A collection of scars that are only mostly hidden by wild green curls. They shine silver where the light hits them. One line stretches down to touch the corner of Midoriya’s eye, another down the boy’s cheek and all the way down his jaw. When Midoriya smiles the scar makes his crows feet stretch awkwardly to accommodate, making him look older than he is. Hizashi only knows this from seeing it happen at a distance. Midoriya has never once smiled at a teacher in his time at UA.

He makes a note to talk to Hound Dog later, it’s only been two weeks and already he sees far too many warning signs in the freckled boy.

“Hey Listeners!” He greets, careful not to let himself get too loud. Both boys are prone to flinching at raised voices. “Glad I caught you before lunch! I was hoping I could go over the requests you made about auditing the Hero Course.”

---

A bouquet of flowers arrive at the school addressed to Midoriya after the Sports Festival.

As with everything that arrives at UA, the flowers are checked carefully for anything that might cause the students harm but nothing is found. Just a lovely collection of White Anemones and Daffodils with some Bluebells tucked into the mix. A small envelope with a note tucked inside, and though carefully checked for anything dangerous, the note itself was left unread out of respect for the privacy of the student receiving it.

The flowers were sent from the office to Class 1-C, interrupting Present Mic’s long winded explanation on why English is just like that to his students before releasing them to their lunch.

Teacher and class alike were delighted by the flowers, though the green haired boy they were meant for blushed furiously as they were presented to him. Mic, content to let the last few minutes of class slip by in exchange for seeing Midoriya get the chance of admiration from a fan - he’d earned first place at the festival with blood and sweat and a determination that made the blond hero proud - flashed an encouraging smile and earned a smile back for his trouble.

He was making progress with his two soon-to-be Hero Course students. Slowly, but still, progress.

Shinsou urged his friend to read the note, joking that the other boy had gotten a secret admirer after showing off so much at the festival. Mic was half convinced that it was the taller boy himself that had sent the flowers. It wasn’t quite Shinsou’s style - he seemed a bit too shy for such a bold, public confession - but the flowers’ meanings made Mic lean that way anyway. Sincere respect and gratefulness certainly aligned with what Mic saw in Shinsou’s feelings towards Midoirya. Along with a healthy dose of affection that neither boy seemed aware was mutual. They were adorable.

Midoriya, blushing so hard that his freckles nearly disappeared, gently pulled the small envelope from the bouquet and fumbled to open it. A sheaf of paper lay inside, folded up neatly to fit, the printer paper at odds with the fine stationery of the florists envelope.

The boy unfolded the letter with gentle care - and even from the front of the class Mic could see that it was a full blown letter rather than a short and simple note - and began reading.

The flush of excitement and delight drained from Midoriya’s face as he did.

The boy’s expression went flat and cold as he stared at the words before him, mouth pressed into a thin line. Beside him, Shinsou - always atuned to his friends’ moods - tensed, brow furrowing as he asked Midoriya what the letter said.

Midoriya didn’t answer.

Instead the boy abruptly rose from his seat and marched dutifully towards Mic, mouth a hard line as he held out the paper to him, careful to only touched the barest corners - worried about fingerprints.

Mic needed only to scan the letter before dismissed the class and calling an emergency meeting.

---

Midoriya had received a letter.

From Stain.

With flowers.

A gushing, overly wordy missive that bordered on sappy in places. Waxing poetic on the boy’s strength of character, his awareness of how broken the system was, his potential to be a hero.

The only thing Hizashi can find himself even remotely thankful for in the wake of the letter is that - for all its purple prose - it doesn’t cross the line into love note territory. He could not, under any circumstance, handle one of his students having to face that without running blindly into the night and attempting to find and murder the madman in a protective feral rage. He still might do that. Stain had gone after one of his kids.

The other tiny silver lining was that the flowers and letter came to the school rather than being delivered to the boy’s house. Flowers delivered to Midoriya’s house would mean that the serial killer knew where he lived. Flowers at the school - terrible as it was - at least gave some hope that Midoriya and his mother were marginally safe in their home. Hopefully.

It didn’t stop Hizashi from going at least a little insane with worry for his student anyway.

“Stop pacing.” Shouta snapped, not for the first time since the emergency faculty meeting had been called. Hizashi might have taken offense if it wasn’t for how tense Shouta’s body was, how absolutely furious he looked.

In the short time since the school year started both Midoriya and Shinsou had found themselves the cause of a soft spot in Shouta’s usually gruff personality. They were the exact kind of kids Hizashi and Shouta had been at that age - determined, underestimated and undaunted by how hard the road ahead of them was. It didn’t help that the two boys were marked by a trauma he and Shouta could understand all too well.

Trauma that would not be helped by Midoriya having a not-so-secret admirer in the form of the fucking Hero Killer.

[wistfulwisteriawitch]

Arthur Morgan x Lilith Vallent OC: Vas Ura (My One)/ Vas Soluna (My Bonded) Part 01 Chapter 03: Colter

Part 01 Chapter 03: Colter

I managed to get myself set up, knowing we’d actually be going after John since he was still missing. Attaching the leather over bust corset riddled with knives as well as the leather leg guards I exhaled, it would be interesting to see what they thought of our way of doing things but they seemed rather accepting thus far.

And as we moved to go out, Abigale grabbed my sleeve. “Miss Vallent?”

“Yes Abigale?”

“John…”

“Oh the gentleman that you said was your sons father?”

“Yes…”

Arthur had walked into the room and was warming himself by the fire. “Where’s little John gotten off to?”

“Arthur he hasn’t been seen in a couple days, I fear the worst.”

“John is fine, he gets himself out of scrapes all the time.” Arthur huffed. "Granted he could throw himself on the ground and miss so that's a feat in and of itself."

I cocked a brow, “I’ll go find him.” I pat her arm, “I can track him.”

Arthur groaned, “I’ll go with ya.”

“How kind.” I grinned as I walked by, Hosea nudged me as I sidled by with a smirk and a whispered thank you.

“I’ll come too!” Javier noted. “John would do the same for me and Arthur.”

“Sure, might be good considering the wolves.”

“Wolves?” Javier asked as we mounted up.

I nodded, after ensuring I had everything needed including shotgun with slugs. “Yes, alright you two, flank me, head forward in a V position, and try to keep it unless we head up the mountain, in that case line up.” With that I spurred Luna into a gallop. “Let’s go! Belladonna shadow!”

“Aye Milady!” And with that her horse charged off into the wilderness.

“Shadow?” Arthur inquired as we moved at a quick pace.

“She’ll scout ahead, and send Aristotle if she finds something.”

“And that is—“ A screech above as a Ferrugius Hawk soared past.

“She is skilled in Falconry, her family learned for many years in her home country. Normally their line uses Peregrine, but him...he's been with Belladonna alone, and each member has their own Falcon breed. Birds like that are the largest of hawks to be used for Falconry. And he is quite protective. She found him in Mexico.”

“Ha!” Javier seemed a bit stunned, “you all keep surprising us.”

“We are a surprising people. Javi.” I managed to find John’s trail and exhaled, “fuck he went up the mountain.” Just like the game.

Arthur rolled his eyes, “just like him to have someone dig his ass out of snow.”

I sighed, “Arthur take the middle, Javier take the front, I’ll watch the back.” And with a chiding look as he glanced over his shoulder. “This is what family does.” I noted as we lined up and began to trek up the mountainside, myself taking the end. “Javier do you see where the trail picks up?”

“Yes, he headed up this way.”

“We’ll have to leave the horses.” Arthur noted and I agreed, we got off and began to make our way further along a cliffside. “John!” Javi shouted.

“HELP! DOWN HERE!”

With that I took off, making sure to keep my movements swinging forward to help me trudge through the snow faster. “Mister Marston?” I called finding him on the ledge. “Awe poor puppy.”

“Puppy?! Who in the fuck are you?”

“A friend. Hold the fuck still. We don’t need you bleeding and bringing a bear. Wolves are a pain in the ass enough.” I gathered what I needed from my satchel and made him down a few tonics and salved him up with an antiseptic solution of old mans beard and golden thread. “That will have to do for now, I’ll need to draw any infection out at the cabin. Alright, come on.” I gripped under his arm and hauled him up. “Arthur!”

They were there reaching for him, Arthur laughing, “well now Marston, looks like ya got yer head ate by wolves. How much’a yer brains did they get?”

“Shut up Morgan.”

“You gonna have to come up with a better story for those scars.”

“Getting half eaten by wolves ain’t enough?”

“We got company gentlemen!” I shouted, ”Javier, Arthur— get him to the horses!”

“I got you.” Arthur had one shot down in seconds as the others charged down the slope.”

“BELLA!” A shrill whistle as a large hawk circled over head and dove into the eyes of one of the wolves screeching.

A black streak of horse and woman charged forward from behind us as she leapt off it's back, her body clad in leather padding as she took the tackle of a she-wolf head on while I dodged and sliced a death blow to a jugular. “Come on ya wee bitch!” Bella roared plunging a blade into it’s throat.

Aristotle soared high, blood splattering from his talons and across his feathers as Bella let out a snarl of glee when the final wolf was downed by a blade thunked into it’s throat.

Arthur shot down the final one, sighing and glancing at the two of us. “Remind me never to make her angry.” He mused as Bella ruffled Aristotle’s feathers and set him loose again, “that is a big bird.”

“He’s a beauty inn’e?” Bella asked fluffing her hair out and wiping blood off her face. “We ready?”

“Yes, John how you holding up?” I asked.

“Feel drunk.”

“Good that means it’s working.”

“Oh joy.” Was the sarcastic reply.

We managed to make it down the mountain, Belladonna staying to get the meat and pelts from the wolves.

“She gonna be alright?” Javier asked.

“Worry about the woodland creatures who piss her off.” I laughed.

“Bella?” Belial asked as we rode in, “ah…hunting.” He chuckled and walked off back towards the kitchen area.

Arthur sighed and leaned over to speak to me, “watch the golden boy not get a scolding despite holding up a job.”

Dutch of course was ecstatic John was back and Arthur rolled his eyes.

“Siblings?” I asked smiling.

“We both was raised by Dutch and Hosea. They taught us to read.”

“Awe, I can see that.” I smiled wide at him, and he returned with a shy smile back. He gets a bit of a playful look, “you know for someone so small you sure as hell take up a lot of space.” He sniffs and cocks a brow.

“You know for someone so big you can curl up on the edge of a bed real easy. Next time just huggle-up and I won’t have to latch on like a damn possum.”

It was the first time he genuinely laughed. “I’ll remember that little wolf.” He was glancing over my gear and had a look of confusion.

“Leather, protects quite well.”

“What ya goin to war?” He poked my arm guards and outer leg guards as well as the leather corset flicking a knife handle.

“Life is war.” I tilted my head.

“Hmph, ain’t that just bout right.”

As I was about to ask what he meant Belladonna zoomed into camp with furs and blood all over her. “I’m back!” She said prancing off her stallion Bairn.

I chuckled, “welcome back sister.”

“Didja see the pelt on that she-wolf?” She crowed tugging it off her horse, “it’s like ya hair milady, I should make a new cloak and we can trade.”

“I would like that thank you Bella.” She grinned and whistled for Aristotle who landed on her thickly gloved forearm. “There’s a good boy.”

Everyone in camp balked.

“Wah ya never seen’a damn bird afore?” She scoffed. “Come on pretty boy.” She was feeding him strips of wolf, “lessee what ya da is up ta.”

I rolled my eyes. “You get used to her.”

“Body can get used to anything…”

“Even hanging.” I finished and we laughed walking over to Hosea and Dutch.

“Got anymore maidens that need saving?” Arthur asked.

“No,” Hosea chuckled. “Thanks you three.”

“Javier tipped his hat and walked off as Arthur joined me in the cabin where Abigale tended to Marston.

“Alright, lemme work.” I shooed most people away, and grinned. “Marston this is gonna hurt like a bitch.”

“Ya aint gotta look like ya gonna enjoy it!”

Arthur chuckled, “I will.”

“Of course you would.” John muttered.

I forced willow bark tea down his throat, irrigated the wound with stinging solutions of horsetail and once it was cleaned I made a salve and packed it with bandages. “Don’t touch it. You’ll have a mark but congratulations you were chosen to bear them by a powerful creature. In our ways it means you are protected.”

“Sure felt like that when they bit me.”

“They could have killed you.” I said softly. “But they did not. They left. Think upon that. I do not play with coincidence or dice to tell me my fate rather that things happen for a reason.”

John pondered and cracked a slight grin. “Guess so.”

“Either way, get rest, I shall have Bel bring food, you need to gather your strength to heal.”

“Thank you.” Abigale clutched my hand tight and I nodded, “let Jack see his Pa.” I leveled a gaze at John, “I am sure he was quite worried for his father.”

John seemed to squirm under my direct gaze and I softened it before leaving.

“What was that?”

“It seemed there was some tension in regards to little Jack.” I said.

“That obvious?” Arthur huffed an annoyed sound.

“Yes, but Marston is young, he can learn.”

Arthur glanced me up and down, “hm.” Was all he said.

I really wished I could get into his head sometimes.

— - - - - - - - - - - -

Arthur grumbled, “some people learn too late.” And he walked away, his chest heavy with memories long past. “Other’s should be so lucky.”

She caught his hand, “Arthur, despite that lessons can be passed down to prevent more pain.” Her voice is soft, and that damned look she gives him— it’s not pity, he couldn’t stand it if it was but this is somehow worse— she has an air of understanding, an acceptance about her with him as if whatever he lays at her feet is perfectly fine.

“Maybe so.”

That hand retreats, she seems to be thinking as she chews her bottom lip looking at her feet for a moment.

“S-sorry I know I probably—“

“S’fine.” He assured her rubbing the back of his neck. “Just a hang up he and I have had.”

Lilith nodded, “my brother and I had something similar happen.”

“Oh?”

“Yes…but we managed to talk it out.” Arthur lets out a bark of harsh laughter.

“Me and him? Talk? Shoot, ya ain’t known us long but ya gonna see that’s a bit hard for us Van der Linde boys.”

“Oh that’s plain as day Mister Morgan. But as I said, everyone can learn.” A wink as she sauntered off.

“Damn woman.” He grumbles to himself striking a match on his boot to light up a smoke. He couldn’t make heads or tails of her as she checked in with Dutch and asked him several questions, Dutch did seem to be in a better mood, and she was always checking in with him— she said the word was deference. She acknowledged he was leader. But she herself led the two people she had.

Arthur had to admit the way she did things did scream leadership. It was rare to see such things. There wasn’t anything she herself wouldn’t do that she’d ask of others. Mucking a stall, hunting, ensuring people were clothed, mending, healing…Dutch hadn’t done that for a long time but he did get his hands dirty when needed.

It further solidified Arthur’s ideology that if women ran shit it might be a mite better, he glanced at Susan who was chatting with Hosea before she went off to screech at someone for not working hard enough.

Belladonna walked up to him and grinned, offering her hawk, “wanna pet’im, seems ta like ya.”

Arthur was never one to pass up petting an animal.

Shit he’d pet a bear if it wouldn’t rip his damn arm off.

“Sure, Aristotle was it?”

“Mmhm. He had many ideas of the stars that man. Mi’lady said it suited because this hawk could damn near fly to them with these wings.” She kissed the hawk who let out a little chirping sound as Arthur placed a warm finger against it’s chest feathers. The big raptor fluffed his feathers and crooned, leaning forward and nudging Arthur’s hand.

“Here, he likes meat.”

“Here boy.” Aristotle took the piece and gulped it down and flapped his wings before Bella let him go. “He just nests somewhere?”

“Oh aye, he has a mate somewhere, but I canna catch her, she is too fierce. But she hunts with him and has never left his side. They keep the same mates their whole life.” She smiled up at the sky and sure enough, a smaller hawk circled with him swooping and gliding. “Quite a sight.”

“Sure is.” Arthur grinned. “You all keep any other animals?”

“Oh aye, you should see the family wolves.”

Arthur paused as he walked by, “beg pardon?” He furrowed his brow.

“Milady found a pack of wolves who’s cubs were abandoned. She took them all in, they are the sweetest, deadly, but they are the comfiest things to snuggle with. Sometimes all four of them are with her.”

“And these are….ah…”

“No here. They in the wilds probably hunting, somewhere up north west in the Grizzlies. They look different, no from here. Timber wolves from the west. Darker coats. Then the wolf dogs…all except for Talla—they look like they wolf kin. She is almost a strawberry color but she’s half wolf and half some big dog from Alaska.”

“Been round a lot.”

“Aye, we been all over. The wolves are bout five or so now. Talla and her siblings are with her brothers, she breeds them.”

“Breeds wolves.”

“Just for the family.”

“Ah.” This family got weirder and weirder, “they guard? The wolves not the half breed ones.”

“No no, wolves are quite timid despite people thinking they fierce, unless the family is attacked, they no just go about attacking randomly, Talla and her siblings though, they were bred with a type’a dog that will protect their master anywhere, any time. Talla especially, her mate is a full wolf, but she is far fiercer than he.”

Arthur laughed, “you talk like they people.”

“You talk to yer horse like it’s people.”

She had him there. He kicked at the snow. “Never knew an animal to dislike it.”

Belladonna grinned, “you ken for a scary bastard, ye pretty nice.”

“Don’t know nuthin bout that.” Arthur snorted as he walked off.

Dinner was a lighter affair now that John was back, everyone celebrated with some whiskey and a meal of wolf steaks and deer meat. Arthur watched as everyone milled around, chatted, and tried to liven their spirits, the deaths of ones close still loomed— as did the damn frost.

Some spring this turned out to be.

He glanced at the three strangers who had dropped into their lives as he scribbled.

It is rather strange to be in the company of wolves.

I find that they are a gentle people unless provoked, despite their appearances, the females are far more aggressive then their male counterparts, as Belial seems to have a very playful nature, they all do in fact. Shoving at one another as they walk in the snow to push the other into a drift. Or leaping onto one another’s backs as they run off.

I have only seen wolves play once, when I came across a den by accident when the welping season came. Indulgent and confident in my spot I had used binoculars to watch a game of tag played by the pack. It is of similar air.

Hosea is doing alright, but I know the dark haired woman named Lilith is concerned, he is coughing a lot, and his breathing is labored, he stays indoors mostly under her direction, and she’s been shoving tonics into his mouth whenever he allows it. Seeming hell bent on keeping him alive.

John is alright, a pain in my backside still, but he’s lucky to be alive. … We all are.

Not sure what in hell happened on that boat, but whatever it was it weren’t good. Charles heard that a girl died. Dutch outright shot her…saying it needed to be done….

That ain’t like him…

The red head reminds me of Sean, I wonder where that Irish bastard got off to. Knowing him he’s probably found trouble. Davey…Jenny….Both gone in a matter of weeks….We lost folks before but not like this— so needlessly. They are calling it the Blackwater Massacre.

This family is strange, stranger still is the kindness they show everyone. It is gentle, despite their steel hard spines and unwavering eyes…unnerving eyes.

Eyes that gleam when they look at ya, like a beast’s catching firelight in the dark.

She looked at Micah as if he were nothing but an ant to be pitied for facing a mountain.

Wonder what that’s like….ain’t never said I was confident, I can fight with the best of em…

But I have a feeling this woman could give me a run for my money…

Half inclined to piss her off and find out…

[driedletters]

The Cruel Prince • Holly Black     ★★★★★

•  Quotes

Jude ran at the man, slamming her fists against his chest, kicking at his legs. She wasn’t even scared. She wasn’t sure she felt anything at all.

•

As for dancing, once begun, you mortals will dance yourselves to death if we don’t prevent it.

•

Three is an odd configuration of sisters. There’s always one on the outside.

•

“Dirt. It’s what you came from, mortal. It’s what you’ll return to soon enough. Take a big bite.” “Make me,” I say before I can stop myself.

•

Nicasia’s wrong about me. I don’t desire to do as well in the tournament as one of the fey. I want to win. I do not yearn to be their equal. In my heart, I yearn to best them.

•

Cardan is even more beautiful than the rest, with black hair as iridescent as a raven’s wing and cheekbones sharp enough to cut out a girl’s heart. I hate him more than all the others. I hate him so much that sometimes when I look at him, I can hardly breathe.

•

You mean because of Cardan and his Court of Jerks?

•

The pictures are taken one right after the other, the kind you have to sit in a booth for. Vivi is in the photos, her arm draped over the shoulders of a grinning, pink-haired mortal girl.

Having stepped off the edge, what I want to do is fall.

•

Liking both girls and boys is the only thing in this scenario Madoc wouldn’t be upset with Vivi about.

•

I delight in the chemicals that would doubtless sicken all the lords and ladies at the Court.

•

We’ve gone three rounds like this already. I keep thinking of the lazy blink of Cardan’s lashes over his coal-bright eyes. He looked gleeful, gloating, as though my fist tightening on his shirt was exactly what he would have wished. As though, if I struck him, it would be because he had made me do it.

•

Beg. Make it pretty. Flowery. Worthy of me.

•

You think because you can humiliate me, you can control me? Well, I think you’re an idiot. Since we started being tutored together, you’ve gone out of your way to make me feel like I’m less than you. And to coddle your ego, I have made myself less. I have made myself small, I have kept my head down. But it wasn’t enough to make you leave Taryn and me alone, so I’m not going to do that anymore.

• 

As I make my way back to the tournament and my sisters, I can’t stop thinking of Cardan’s shocked face, nor can I stop considering Locke’s smile. I am not altogether sure which is more thrilling and which more dangerous.

•

Not that I’d be the first to green gown her. Faeries

•

It feels a little bit like expecting a proposal of marriage, only to get offered the role of mistress.

•

“Now no one will be able to control you,” he says, and then pauses for a moment. “Except for me.”

•

Truly, he has come by his cruelty honestly in Balekin’s care. He has been raised up in it, instructed in its nuances, honed through its application. However horrible Cardan might be, I now see what he might become and am truly afraid.

•

Welcome,” says the Roach, “to the Court of Shadows.”

•

Not totally Cardan’s puppet like the rest of them.

•

Hard enough to dig through the page, maybe to scar the desk beneath. If that’s what he did to the paper, I shudder to think what he wants to do to me.

•

I have been trying to feel nothing about what happened. I am afraid that if I begin to feel, I won’t be able to bear it. I am afraid that the emotion will be like a wave sucking me under.

It’s not the first awful thing I have endured and pushed into the back of my brain. That’s how I’ve been coping, and if there’s another, better way, I do not know it.

•

He’s kind of a weird kid, maybe because he’s a faerie or maybe because all kids, human or inhuman, are equally weird.

•

Why don’t you ever trust me with him?” I shout, and Oriana wheels around, shocked that I said a thing we don’t say.

•

Mithridatism, it’s called. Isn’t that a funny name? The process of eating poison to build up immunity. So long as I don’t die from it, I’ll be harder to kill.

•

I do not understand why he likes me, but it is exciting to be liked.

•

We are children of tragedy.” He shakes his head and then smiles. “This is not how I meant to begin. I meant to give you wine and fruit and cheese. I meant to tell you how your hair is as beautiful as curling woodsmoke, your eyes the exact color of walnuts. I thought I could compose an ode about it, but I am not very good at odes.”

•

He watches me as the girl kisses his mouth, watches me as she slides her hand beneath the hem of his silly, ruffly shirt.

•

Do not reveal your skill with a blade. Do not reveal your mastery over glamour. Do not reveal all that you can do. Little did Prince Dain know that my real skill lies in pissing people off.

•

I think of Cardan’s mouth, flaked with gold

•

I love my parents’ murderer; I suppose I could love anyone. I’d like to love him.

•

Time to change partners,” a voice says, and I look to see that it’s the worst person possible: Cardan. “Oh,” he says to Locke. “Did I steal your line?”

•

Dark silver paint streaks over his cheekbones, and black lines run along his lashes. The left one is smeared, as though he forgot about it and wiped his eye.

•

With a sigh, I take down my braids, rubbing my hands through my hair until it hangs wild in my face. “You look…” he says, and then trails off, blinking a few times, not seeming able to finish. I am guessing the hair thing worked better than he had expected.

•

Jude?” he asks, up against the wall, pronouncing my name carefully, as though to avoid slurring. I am not sure I have ever heard him use my actual name before. “Surprised?” I ask, a fierce grin starting on my face. The most important boy in Faerie and my enemy, finally in my power. It feels even better than I thought it would. “You shouldn’t be.”

•

The High King Balekin is a friend to my lady’s Court,” Cardan says, silver-tongued in his silver fox mask.

•

Tell me anyway,” he says, and yawns. I really want to slap him.

•

I hate how I feel around him, the irrational panic when I touch his skin.

•

Cardan’s clothes are disarranged, from crawling under tables or being captured and tied, and his infamous tail is showing under the white lawn of his shirt. It is slim, nearly hairless, with a tuft of black fur at the tip. As I watch, the tail forms one wavering curve after another, snaking back and forth, betraying his cool face, telling its own story of uncertainty and fear.

•

Only in my dreams has Cardan ever been like this. Begging. Miserable. Powerless

•

...a love mark on my brow so all who looked upon me would be sick with desire, ...

•

Let’s talk about your behavior tonight,” says Madoc, leaning forward. “Let’s talk about your behavior tonight,” I return.

•

So he proposed to you,” I say. “While the royal family got butchered. That’s so romantic.

•

I think of Cardan tied to a chair to cheer myself.

•

Then I think of the way he looked up at me through the curtain of his crow-black hair, of the curling edges of his drunken smile, and I don’t feel in the least bit comforted.

•

... ‘mortal feelings are so volatile that it’s impossible to help toying with them a little’.

•

He smiles down at me, as if the reason I’m on my knees is because I am curtsying.

•

I’m nervous,” he says. “I smile a lot when I’m nervous. I can’t help it

•

Very well.” He fixes me with a spiteful look. “I hate you because your father loves you even though you’re a human brat born to his unfaithful wife, while mine never cared for me, though I am a prince of Faerie. I hate you because you don’t have a brother who beats you. And I hate you because Locke used you and your sister to make Nicasia cry after he stole her from me. Besides which, after the tournament, Balekin never failed to throw you in my face as the mortal who could best me.

•

Most of all, I hate you because I think of you. Often. It’s disgusting, and I can’t stop.”

•

Just looking at him makes me feel hot with shame. “You sure you brought me here just to talk.

•

Jude Duarte, daughter of clay, I swear myself into your service. I will act as your hand. I will act as your shield. I will act in accordance with your will. Let it be so for one year and one day…and not for one minute more.

•

I fix him with a look. “I can be charming. I charmed you, didn’t I?” He rolls his eyes. “Do not expect others to share my depraved tastes.”

•

Oh, really?” The human surprises me by speaking first. “Yes, mortal,” I say, like the hypocrite I am. 

•

We go over the plans again, and Cardan helps us map out Hollow Hall. I try not to be too conscious of his long fingers tracing over the paper, of the sick thrill I get when he looks at me.

•

By this point, I have told this story enough that it’s easy to hit only the necessary parts, to run through the information quickly and convincingly

•

With Vivi, I feel forever doomed to be the little sister, foolish and about to topple over onto my face.

•

I do not have endless patience,” Balekin growls. “Cultivate it,” Cardan says, and with a small bow, he navigates us away from Balekin and Madoc.

•

Jude?” I may never be used to the sound of my name on his lips.

•

The Ghost tosses the crown to my identical twin. It falls at Taryn’s feet.

•

Of Nicasia giving Cardan a lingering kiss on his royal cheek.

•

He rises from the throne. “Come, have a seat.” His voice is replete with danger, lush with menace. The flowering branches have sprouted thorns so thickly that petals are barely visible. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he asks. “What you sacrificed everything for. Go on. It’s all yours.”

•  Black, Holly. “The Cruel Prince (The Folk of the Air Book 1)”. 2018.

[lepus-arcticus]

OMENS: CHAPTER SIX one | two | three | four | five trigger warnings apply

HORIZON POLICE STATION 3:20 PM

Hugh sat with his elbows on the desk across from Scully, fingers interlocked in front of his mouth, his brows knit in pensive, tortured reflection.

They were alone in the dim, chilly police station, and the rain outside had begun again in earnest, all the more livid for having given up this morning’s skytime to the sun. The station had been a schoolhouse in a previous incarnation, and green chalkboards still lined one wall, a faded, dusty black-and-white photograph of Truman lurking crooked above them. Theo was off somewhere, chasing down a rogue preteen who’d gotten ahold of a can of spray paint, leaving Scully with a set of keys and instructions for the finicky coffee maker. Not that she needed it with all the caffeine swimming in her blood already, or the jolt of pissy adrenaline that bickering with Mulder always gave her.

Scully hugged her elbows against the cold, letting the revelation settle between them.

“You’re sure?” Hugh’s voice was soft, unsteady. “You’re sure she was pregnant?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.” Scully said soberly. Anna’s body, or what was left of it, was still in the next room, piled like compost into a biohazard bag in the fridge. Maybe it was because of the nightmare, or because this might very well be her last case... but it had affected her more than she would have expected. The absolute carnage of it, the impossible task of trying to arrange the raw-hamburger heap of torn flesh and skin into something readable, something that might give her any insight into what happened that night.

From what little she could ascertain, the characteristics of Anna’s remains would, hypothetically, match the tearing patterns of beaks and talons. But she still wasn’t ready to admit that crows could have done this. It was too sensational, too extraordinary to believe.

She thought of Anna’s pale face, marred almost beyond recognition, cold and lifeless below her on a surgical table that had previously only ever seen ailing family dogs and diseased sheep.

Anna’s pale face, above her in the night, screaming, tortured, falling apart.

In the painstaking process of sifting through the meat, she’d almost missed the cluster of soft, tiny bones, a small ribcage, the shards of a miniature skull. Anna had to have known.

She shivered, willing the image away.  

“Mr. Daly…” The man was frozen, blank, completely unresponsive. Scully looked him over⁠—his hunched shoulders, his three-day beard, the dark circles under his eyes⁠—and her heart went out to him. It was almost inconceivable that she’d found him so unnerving at their last encounter. She reached out and gently touched his arm. “Hugh…”

He shook her away, a muffled sob rising from his throat, and cast his eyes downward. “Please don’t make me look at her. I can’t bear to see her,” he said, and the utter defeat and devastation in his voice humbled Scully further.

As she watched him try to pull himself together, try to wrestle with the demon of his grief, something expanded and softened within her. She couldn’t help it. She’d never been able to; something about growing up with her father’s stoic, expressionless mein meant that she could hardly bear it when grown men cried.

“Hugh… there’s no need to look at Anna’s body. You don’t have to see her. Theo, Rhiannon, Marion… they’ve already given us a positive identification.” He sucked in a breath, then let it loose. “But if you can think of any reason, any reason at all, why Anna might not have shared the news that she was pregnant with you… we need to know. I need to know.”

“Ehm…” he shook his head slowly. “I don’t know why Anna would have kept this from me. I really don’t. We weren’t… actively trying to become pregnant or anything, but there were no... I mean, we were married. There were no… precautions taken, either.

He wiped at his eyes and placed his hands face-down on the table, breathing deeply. “Miss Scully… Agent Scully. Back at the farm… yesterday. I am such an ass. Such an intolerable ass. I’ve been an utter mess since Anna…” He shook his head. “Forgive me. I beg of you.”

She pulled her lip between her teeth. “You’ve been under a lot of stress.”

“I should have never spoken to you in such a disrespectful way… I’m so sorry. You’re here to help me.”

Scully, almost unconsciously, let one of her hands fall lightly next to Hugh’s. They were farmer’s hands, scarred and calloused and square, and she found herself appreciating the sheer masculinity of them. “It’s okay,” she said after a moment, and meant it.

“Have you ever… lost somebody? I mean, like this? Unexpectedly? Tragically?”

Scully looked at her hands, then back up to his face.

Hugh’s red-rimmed eyes remained on hers, bright with spent tears and deep with acknowledgement. “What happened?” he asked.  

“It’s a long story,” she said, quietly. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” he said, under his breath. “I’ve seen my fair share of unbelievable things, Miss Scully...”

She took him in, all of his unsophisticated honesty, the unpretentious poetry of his voice, like a peasant prince in a fairy tale. “It’s, um… it’s Dana,” she said mildly. “Call me Dana.”

“Dana,” he said. “Please. I can’t be here. Not with… not with her in the next room. And I’m in dire need of a coffee. The Half-Moon’s just fifteen minutes north, can I buy you a cup? It’s the very least I could do.”

Just then, her phone shrieked from her pocket, shrill and unpleasant and demanding. She slid her hand from beside Hugh’s, fumbled around for the wailing hunk of plastic, looked back at the man across from her… and ended the call.

“Sure. I could use one too.”

KICKING HORSE B&B 3:30 PM

The rest of the drive back to Rhiannon’s was silent, save for Neil Young’s nasal crooning and a few distant, ominous rolls of thunder. Mulder’s mind was doing somersaults. He tried to worm his way into Marion with a few tentative questions, but she was quiet and resolute, determined to keep him in the dark, and he knew better than to push her until precisely the right moment.

Kicking Horse stood tall and proud over the wheat and wildflowers, the lake like a silver coin in the distance. Mulder eased the truck up the driveway and killed the engine. Immediately, Marion reached over and yanked the keys from the ignition, throwing the passenger door open and clambering out. He followed her up to the porch, where she unlocked the front door with shaking hands, mumbled a goodbye, and practically sprinted back to the truck. Before Mulder had a chance to organize his thoughts, the truck growled back to life, and she was already driving away.

He watched her disappear into the fields, and then opened the front door.

The house was dark with the coming storm, the watery afternoon light stretching shadows across the walls. “Hello?” he called, shrugging off his trench and hooking it onto the old brass coat tree. At the sound of his voice, Hypatia’s long white face appeared from the top of the stairs, and she barreled down to greet him with a low whine. She writhed in excitement, mouthing at his hands as he knelt to unlace his shoes. “Get outta here,” he scolded, brushing her away.

As he stood up and toed his shoes off, leaving them in a muddy jumble at the entrance, he noticed a slip of paper on the hall table, bright against the dark wood. He picked it up. An old receipt for fertilizer, a note scribbled onto the back. The handwriting was an unfamiliar loopy scrawl, barely legible.

Fox, Dana - If I’m not back before you, please make yourselves at home. R

Mulder crumpled the note and stuffed it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, fishing out his cell in the process. He thumbed star one on the speed dial, and stood, gnawing his lip, anticipating the soft, staticky bleed of Scully’s voice over the line.

One ring, two, and then it disconnected abruptly. She must still be at the station.

He didn’t like it, any of it⁠—the fox, Abel Stoesz, Marion’s tear-stained, panicked words on the highway. Scully, clearly affected by the results of the autopsy, likely in the middle of questioning a man who made her uncomfortable. A man who, despite the lack of evidence pointing towards him, Mulder was beginning to think of as a suspect.

Get a grip, he admonished the part of himself that wanted to run to her, find her, make sure she was okay. She was the most capable woman he had ever known, and cancer didn’t negate that.

He checked his watch, and decided he should probably eat something. Hypatia trotted after him as he moved into the kitchen and plucked an orange from the bowl on the countertop. He dug a fingernail into the rind and peeled it off in one go, unsuccessfully searching for a garbage bin before tossing it into the sink. The dog stared at him.

“What?” he asked, and she turned tail and paced off into the conservatory. He figured he didn’t have anything better to do until he could get ahold of Scully, so he followed her.

The conservatory was quiet, save for a few lyrical pings of rain against the curved glass. The air was rich and heavy and alive, sweet and spiced with the scent of nectar and herbs. Mulder pulled in a deep and cleansing breath, and padded along the cool tile in his socked feet, munching sections of his orange, surveying the greenery. Next to a potted rose bush, a thick vine of near-ripe tomatoes climbed up a rickety trellis. A box of rosemary sat next to a planter of sage.

As he leaned in to better inhale the green fragrance of it, he received a sudden, unbidden image of his father’s mother in the garden in Quonochontaug, her knees caked with dirt, her wide-brimmed hat casting her face into shadow. Samantha running towards her, braids whipping in the wind, half-bloomed peonies tucked into the breast of her overalls.

He was lost in the memory, turning it over and smiling sadly to himself, when something caught the edge of his attention.

The barest wisp of movement from the kitchen, barely discernible out of the corner of his eye. He turned sharply, but there was nobody there. His nerves tingled. The dog stared up at him with warm, steady eyes.

A deafening crash of thunder overhead startled him, and then a moment later, a gentle rush of rainfall obscured the sky. Mulder shook himself out of it. He finished his orange, sucking his fingers clean, and returned to the kitchen.

The dog followed, watching.

He walked past the island and into the dining room, trailing his fingers along the worn surface of the table. The fireplace yawned in front of him with a mouth that was cold and black and empty. Without Rhiannon, the house seemed to take on an energy all its own, and Mulder found himself with the unshakeable sensation of being watched. Of being noticed.

The sitting room was dark and crowded with mismatched furniture. There was an overstuffed floral couch bearing a cluster of beaded pillows, a wooden rocking chair wedged into a corner and piled with quilts, a Victorian loveseat squatting under a lace-curtained window. Mulder located a vintage glass-bellied lamp and switched it on, making his way over to the wall of books.

He lingered over the contents, wary of Hypatia’s stare from her chosen perch on the couch. Outdated veterinary texts were wedged in between leather-bound photo albums and volumes of poetry. The collected works of Shakespeare were arranged in a tidy row, sandwiched between Interview With the Vampire and The Six Pillars of Self-Esteem. 1984, The Story of O, Jane Eyre. Mulder narrowed his eyes, trying to make sense of Rhiannon’s scattered reading habits.

He eased a fat photo album from its place on the shelf and let it fall open, balancing it in the crook of his elbow. The pages were black, old-fashioned, the photographs held in place by small, ornate brass corners. His eyes fell on a faded snapshot of a little girl, around 9, freckled and smiling in the sun. Her hair formed a boisterous marmalade cloud around her cherubic face, and she was missing a front tooth. The photograph beside it showed a woman swooping in to scoop her up, and Mulder realized from the striking resemblance that this must be Rhiannon and her mother. He thumbed through the pages, watching Rhiannon grow.

Rhiannon as a gangly teenager, sitting on the porch railing, her skinny legs dangling. Rhiannon astride a horse, hands knit into his mane, bareback and barefoot. Rhiannon in taffeta on her way to the prom, with a young, blond, beaming man hooked by the elbow. The first man, in fact, that Mulder had seen in the album at all. He looked familiar, and as Mulder studied his face, he realized it was Theo, football-thick beside Rhiannon’s thin frame. Mulder recalled the look they’d shared at dinner the night before.

On and off, maybe? Divorced? Hopelessly and painfully in love, but never managed to sack up and just make it work?

Mulder closed the album with a grimace and slid it back into its spot, tipping out the next one. The first page featured a yellowed clipping of an obituary.

Morgana Elizabeth Bishop Morgana Elizabeth Bishop, 53, of Horizon, Montana, departed this earth suddenly on Thursday at her home. A practicing midwife for 30 years, she was well-loved and well-regarded by the citizens of Glacier County, many of whom she helped to bring into the world. Born in 1932 to the late Agnes Bishop, Morgana spent her life in service to the community of Horizon. Morgana is survived by her daughter, Rhiannon Bishop. Funeral services will be held at 7 p.m. on Sunday at the historic Kicking Horse homestead.

The photograph above it featured a woman that looked like an older version of Rhiannon, with a few more lines around her eyes and a sallow, sunken look to her cheeks. 1932... 53… the obit must have been from sometime in 1985. Rhiannon most likely would have been in her 30s. Mulder turned the page, and was surprised to see a jump in time.

Marion peered up at him from the cusp of 16, already tall, her arms crossed on the porch of Kicking Horse. Her smile was tight and wary. “1991” was looped in white chalk beneath the photograph. Mulder fingered the corner of the page, intrigued, and continued.

Hypatia as a puppy, her nose hooked over Marion’s shoulder as Marion pressed a kiss to her ear. Marion’s long braid reaching the small of her back. A candid shot of Marion and Theo washing dishes in the sink. A rueful-looking Rhiannon opening a present at Christmas, a pine lit up behind her.

And then Anna appeared. She posed on the porch with the half-grown dog, teenage-chubby and extensively freckled. Anna and Marion in the barn. Anna and Marion laughing and posing in front of Marion’s Chevy. Anna in the grass, sleeping, a book tented over her face, with Hypatia curled beside her, snout resting on her thigh.

Mulder turned another page, and found it blank. No photos of Marion graduating from the police academy, or in her uniform, like you might expect any proud foster parent to display. None from Hugh and Anna’s wedding. None of Hugh at all. A good third of the album remained empty.

The wind knocked against the window, and a chill ran down his spine.

He realized with some confusion that he’d been humming something, and stopped himself.

The water is…

But then he heard it again⁠—a small, thin voice, shifting in and out of his periphery. But no, he wasn’t exactly hearing it… but he could sense it, could almost even make out a tune.

… cannot get o’er….

He shook his head to break the spell. It was probably the rain, the thunder, the winds. Turning his attention back to the album, he studied the last photo of Anna, looking for shadows of turmoil, hints of anything.

There was a flicker of light in the corner of his vision, and his eyes jolted upwards. He went still, suddenly aware of his heartbeat, of the hairs on his forearms. On the couch, Hypatia flattened her ears and whined. Nobody was there. He willed himself to calm down. He was just getting spooked. It was just his imagination.

Or was it?

“...Anna?” he tried out loud, his voice cracking. He ran through the lore in his mind, looking carefully around him, holding his breath, his stomach twisting itself into a fist. Places could hold memories, energetic signatures. Spirits repeating their earthly paths, walking hallways and doing the dishes. Spirits reaching out for help, for closure.

He glanced down at the photograph one more time, and then he saw it again, in the corner of the room. Not quite a shadow, not quite a light, not quite a shimmer, but something that somehow contained all three. If he looked at it straight on, it disappeared. Hypatia keened. The surface of his skin prickled.

He slowly replaced the photo album, and moved towards where the glimmer had been. “Anna, are you here?” A glimpse of movement in the hall, drawing him onwards, drawing him upwards. He pursued it, the floor creaking under his footsteps.

The rain picked up outside, falling harder, faster. His heartbeat followed suit.

He tiptoed up the stairs, slowly, the faces of the Bishop women following him from their frames. Brotherless, fatherless, sonless. He was beginning to suspect that it wasn’t necessarily a design choice.

In his periphery, the glimmer seemed to slip into Scully’s room. He followed it in, his hand resting instinctively on his sidearm. The bed where they’d laughed the night before was still rumpled, which struck him as strange. Scully was usually tidy to the point of absurdity. No matter how seedy the motel, she’d unpack completely, hang her clothes up, make the bed before the maid could get to it.

Hypatia whined uneasily behind him, and he turned to her. She pawed at the threshold of the door, but would not follow him in. Her ears lay flat and quivering against her head.

Mulder looked once again around the room. With a swell of guilty curiosity, he slid the top drawer of the bedside table open. Scully’s folded pajamas, a pair of stockings still in their packaging, a makeup bag, a black journal, an extra clip. He touched the journal lightly, as if he could absorb her thoughts through osmosis.

And there it was again, that wisp of something in the corner of his eye. He slid the drawer shut and followed it out, moving slowly, carefully through the hallway. Past the tiny bathroom, past the faces of the dead, all the way to the base of the spiral staircase that led to the tower. He hesitated, just for a moment, and then began the climb, an unexplainable sense of dread burning hotter and hotter in his chest.

Hypatia was at his heels, trying to get in his way, blocking his path, whimpering. And then, without warning, her demeanor changed, and she began a low, persistent growl. Mulder glanced back at her. Her lips were peeled back to bare her long, white teeth, her body locked in a tense crouch. He stared at her a moment, palmed his gun, and continued.

There was a door at the top of the stairs. Mulder jiggled the handle with his free hand. Locked. Hypatia snarled and yipped, but didn’t advance. Mulder dug in his pocket for his lock pick. Just as he was about to withdraw it, there was a voice from the bottom of the staircase.

“Fox.”

Mulder jerked in surprise, almost drawing his gun up. Rhiannon stood, arms crossed, at the base of the staircase. The dog cowered behind her.

“That door is locked for a reason,” she said, frost edging her voice. Shame and suspicion crept up his neck. “This is my house. Please respect my boundaries.”

Mulder nodded and pressed his lips together in a small smile. “Bad habit. Sorry.”

Rhiannon retreated and he returned to his room, immediately trying Scully’s cell again. The call was cut short. He flung the phone hard down onto the bed, and dug into his duffel bag for his laptop.

Something wasn’t right.

[simplysparrow14]

The Introduction of Skeksa and Amri

I’ve had this idea in my brain for awhile of how Season 2 could introduce Skeksa and Amri into the storyline. This is a headcanon of sorts, but if it somehow becomes true then call be a phrophet, becuase i know everything!

season 2 better introduce Skeksa and Amri in the most dramatic, pirate way possible. 

(This can also be a perfect opportunity to introduce Amri, since Season 1 didn't have a chance too. I’m not too well-versed in the J.M Lee books as I’ve only read book 1, but I’ve read from snippits/other tumblr posts that Amri likes to boast and flirt on occation.  I know he’s a soft bean, but I just like that thought of a pompus, kind-of-dickish Amri that slowly starts to become the small bean we see in the novels. If anyone who’s read the books can tell me if I got Amri’s nature down right) 

imagine--> Our heroes (Brea, Kylan, Naia, Gurjin, Rian, Hup, Seladon and A very weak Darkend Deet), tied up to their the railing/mast of the pirate ship.  Rian and Gurjin, with Kylan between them, are tired by their wrists to hooks strung up on the Shrouds (The Spiderweb ropes commonly found on ships).  Naia and Brea  and Seladon are tied to latches bolted to the railings. Hup, unfortunately, Is tied upside down, being swung back and forth by a pair of Gelfling triplets who find amusement in the podlings apparent motion sickness. 

No one has touched Aughra, who sits with her cane on a small barrel near the girls.  No one would dare come close to the old crone, for fear of the wrath from her eight-and-a-half-fingers. 

Deet, due to her uncontrollable powers, and the fact that the ship is a living breathing ecosystem, is put into a close-knit metal cage, hanging off the edge of the ship by a hook above the raging sea.  Deet can bairly keep her eyes open, what with the darkening coursing within her draining her of energy.

Everyone is dishevel and sweaty and groggy from being unconscious for hours 

Surrounding them, Gelfling not of Sifa, or any other clan, origin, sneer and smirk at them from every corner of the ship. Some dangle from the large sail mast, others on the railings. A group sit on a cluster of old barrels, while a few stand on the main deck. Every Gelfling had a weapon within his or her hand, ready to brandish them at any sign of struggle.  Scars mar their bodies. At their feet, Fizzgigs and other creates growl with anticipation of a new snack. 

At the very front of the group,  A grotton with a half-shaved head and blue cloak stands with a high-and-mighty energy to him. At his hip, a vapran sword gleams in the light. He whips it out, using the blade to point to each of our heroes. 

He addresses his crew with bravato, walking slowly up to the group “Very good, everyone! A fine catch from the Silver Sea. Now, lets see what treasures we’ve dragged in from the surf...”

Moving swiftly, he digs the blade into Rian’s neck. Rian growls as the blade shines against his face. Amri casts a smirk at him, amusement dancing within the black pools of his eyes.  “A Pretentious Stonewood,”

He points to Kylan, who whimpers as Amri’s sword presses into his cheek. “A cowardly Sprition.... No, wait, a cowardly Half-breed Sprition,” A laugh escapes his chest. “You should really do better to conceal yourself. Your Stonewood ears are showing.”

He barely looks at up as he walks past, not bothering to stop the triplets from their playitme.  “A disgusting Podling,”

He turns to Gurjin, drawing his blade across the drenches large forehead.  “ A flat-footed Drenchen,”. He swipes the blade off Gurjins forehead swiftly, leaving a faint but noticeable red mark. 

“And his flat-footed Sister!” A roar of laughter erupts from the crowd of gelfling. Amri moves closer to Naia, pressing his blade under her chin. Naia’s gills quiver in anger, a soft rattling sound echoing from her neck. Amri’s brows knit in concentration. “Flat-flooted, yes, but... better looking by a considerable margin.”

A rush of heat rushes to Naia’s cheeks. Gurjin squirms against his ropes, muttering under his breath. 

Amri ignores Gurjins insults as he moves to Brea and Seladon. With his blade, he taps Seladon’s new All-Maudra Crown. “The Traitorous All-Maudra,” Then turns to to Brea. “And her transgressor sister.” 

“You stole that Vapran Sword,” Brea notes, her eyes falling to the bejeweled hilt. 

“Oh this? I’d say Stolen is a strong word. I like the term, Generously donated to be a much better alternative.”

Beside them, Aughra huffs and ‘Bahs’ as Amri walks in from of her. “It seems we have Mother Aughra on our vessel. The Deserter of Gelfling kind,” 

Mother Aughra gives a sneer. “Speak for yourself, You half-shaven fizzgig.  Your grotton. Used to live in caves did you? Now you snort sea-salt with these sun-frenzied lot. Quiet the contrast. Come any closer with that stick-- and I’ll fling you into the waves.” Using her walking stick, she taps Amri’s sword with annoyance. 

Amri growls at Aughra’s words, stepping back a bit away from the old crone, the crowed behind him having quieted to whispers. Turning from Aughra, he makes his way to the railing, grabbing hold of the shrouds and pulling himself up to Deet’s cage. Tapping his sword against the bars, Amri laughs as Deet cowers back a bit from the loud noise. The cage swings horribly over the ocean. Her dark veins glow from her agitated emotions.

“Stop!” Rian yells, struggling against the rope. “Don’t do that--You’ll scare her! Dont!”

Amri looks to Rian. Then to Deet. Then back to Rian. A wide smirk crosses the grottons face. “Oh,” He drawls.  He hops down from the railing, making his way over to Rian, drawing his blade to the Stonewoods neck again. “Would you look at that? it seems as though the Stonewood might have affection for the parasite that poisons the mainland,” With one fell swoop, Amri rakes the blade across Rians neck, drawing a very thin small line that trickles down is skin. Taking the ends of his blue cloak, Amri whips the blade clean before twirling it in his hand. “How romantic,” He sneers, his voice laced with amusement. 

The Gelfling behind Amri whoop with excitement as the captives struggle with their bonds as Amri twirled his blade

“No! Stop!” Deet yelps, thrusting her hand through the bars. The purple veins glow with the hideous purple residue of the darkening. 

“Stay back!” Amri screams, thrusting the blade into the cage, just barely striking Deet. “Parasites who drain the land of life don’t get a say in what I do or not.” Amri says, drawing back his blade. “As long as your feet are planted on his ship. You follow my rules--”

“Amri. Enough.” A voice calls, velvety and smooth. “You’re scaring the grotton. The Emperor specifically asked for her not to be harmed--physical or otherwise.”

The Gelfling go quiet as, with a flourish of her flamboyant long-jacket, A Skeksis emerges from the darkness of the ships cabin. With purple, blue and pink down feathers, a large over-jacket and a feathered hat, the Skeksis looks magnificent, towering over her crew. bravado laces her movements as she strides toward the captive. 

Amri backs away, sheathing his sword with a flourish of his hand. His large ears fall flat to his head “My apologies, Captain. I got a bit too... carried away...”

“As he always does,” A gelfling girl sneers, stroking a battle scared fizzgig. She’s younger then Amri, with tight brides weaved among her reddish-brown hair. 

“Amri always wants to be captain,” Her twin sneers. In her own hands, a pluffm chews on a large scroll. Her hair is shorter then her sister. “But all that Bravado will do him nothing if he cant strike his opponents--”

“Enough,” Skeksa snaps. The girls cower back in fright at the aggravated Skeksis. “You sound like childlings! Silence your mouths, or i’ll gladly stitch it shut for you.”

“Yes, Captain,” The girls say in unison. 

Aughra gives a huff as Skeksa strides toward her. “So, Skeksa, this is where you slinked off too. Cant say its an improvement.”

“Mother Aughra,” Skeksa greets, bending low to Aughra’s eye level. “How wonderful it is too see the incarnate of Thra has returned from her cosmic voyage. I hope it was worth the long absence.”

Aughra grumbles as she taps her staff on the walkway of the ship. “Wouldn't have done you any good. Your little brain would have popped half-way through. But i see now that you’ve done something considerable with your time. Not like your brethren. Not essence-dependent.”

 Skeksa laughs, deep throat and pleasant to the ears. Her purple and pink feathers ruffle in the salty sea-breeze. “My brethren were weaklings; too scared to gain a few scars. Too scared of death to face it head on.  I am nothing like them.”

“Bold words to say, considering you’ve answers the Emperors request to capture down Gentle Deet in order to take her back to the castle. You say you are nothing like them-- but just as plainly as the feathers on your wrinkled head, i can see that you are far from being different”

Skeksa sighs as she lifts herself to her full height. Hands behind her back, she walks slowly to Deets cage. “ Mother Aughra, I do what i must-- if not for the mainland gelfling; then to my crew. The mainland dies due to the power that rushes through the grottons veins. It effects everything--even the skeksis who live within the castle. How can i sit back when the dakrneing that leaks from gentle Deets body threatens to poison our world? I am mearly doing what is nessisary for Thra.” 

“Necessary for you. Not to Thra.” Aughra retorts. 

Skeksa chuckles. Moving her hand through the bars and using a claw, she lifts Deets head to look at her. Deets eyes are a deep purple, blurry with Darkned-fever.  Her breathing is labored, and as far as Skeksa can see, the veins are a deeper purple then before. Skeksa flicks the claw away, creating a red line under Deets jaw. “Quiet the contrary, old crone. You left to bring Knowledge to Thra-- tell me again how that turned out?”

Aughra says nothing. 

Skeksa cant help but chuckle again. “That’s what I thought.” With a violent push of her hand, Skeksa batters the cage, sending it swinging back and forth violently. “Gelfling, To Cera-Na!”

“To Cera-Na!” The gelfling echo as every gelfling scrable to their places within the ship. Gelfling climb up ropes and masts, going this way and that as they prepare the ship for departure. Brandishing their knives, Several cut down Rian, Gurjin and Kylan, catching them before they can fully hit the floor.

 Rian struggles violently as he is carted off, his hands bound behind his back.  “Deet! Deet! Let me go! Let! Me! Go! Noo! Deet!”

“Rian!” Deet screams, watching as a hatch is lifed up from the floor and the Stonewood is thrown in, followed by the deep yelp of Gurjin and Kylans whimper. Hup is thrown inside as well, his tiny body hitting the floor harshly before the hatch is closed. “Rian!”

Amri, his sword in hand, beats the cage one more time,silencing Deet. With a smirk, he makes his way to stand at Skeksa’s side. 

Brea, Seladon and Naia are cut from the railings. They’re dragged forcefully into the cabin. Aughra is left to walk herself, no one daring to touch her as she takes a swipe here and there at the Gelfling as she walks to the cabin. 

Skeksa surveys her ship, at the hustle and bustle of Gelfling as the vessel takes off through the silver surf. 

[orangeflavoryawp]

Jonsa - “Wool and Tallow”, Part Three (and final)

Final chapter in this Season 8 AU.  Thanks for the ride, guys.  It’s been grand.

Part 1 | 2 | 3

“Wool and Tallow”

Chapter Three: Be Brave With Me

“Jon swipes a gentle thumb along the inside of her wrist, smoothing along the place his mouth had been, eyes never leaving the motion.  ‘Because if I’m to have you, Sansa, it will be for life.’” -  Jon and Sansa, Season 8 AU.  After the Battle of Winterfell, the mending begins in earnest.

* * *

She gives no indication that his spurning of her affections has wounded her.  In their meetings with the lords, she is all grace and etiquette and fine-tuned manners. A tender smile here, a touch to the wrist there.  Nothing inappropriate, but also nothing telling.  She is his sister again, or his cousin – he can’t be sure which anymore – and they go on as King in the North and Lady of Winterfell as though his bed isn’t burning with her absence even now.

           As though he doesn’t hold his pillow to his nose and inhale her waning scent each morning.  As though he hasn’t already named her Queen in the dark corners of his heart.  As though he doesn’t trail her woolen skirts through the halls, eclipsed in shadows too familiar to be anything but shameful.

           “Was there anything else, Your Grace?” Sansa asks, turning to find him already staring at her.

           She shifts slightly in her chair, glancing at the lords seated before them out of the corner of her eye.  Her mouth thins into a fine line.

           “No,” he bites out, throat flexing with his control.

           But her eyes are cool, and her hand is too far for him to hold, and when she stands, he can do nothing but watch her leave the hall, stiff and brittle and winter-laced once more.

* * *

           Sansa takes to the godswood with Bran whenever she can.  In the presence of his milk-white eyes, she can escape for a few moments, breathe deep the calming cold.

           Bit by bit, the North rebuilds.  And Cersei stays adamantly South.  Their sovereignty has not yet been threatened, and all Sansa can ask for is an endless winter. A harrowing drought of summer to keep the Southron monsters at bay.  Let them wither in the winds.  Let them beat their hearts with frostbitten fists.  Let them perish in their sun-built keeps and their blood-drenched thrones when winter comes harking at their door.

           For she will stay with the North.

           Ghost creeps along the edge of her vision, nosing the snow, padding around the banks of the clearing, never following her in.  She sighs, feels the ache settle on her bones.  He senses her ire and heartache around Jon and does not broach her boundaries.  It makes the sob sudden and unexpected in her throat.  

           “You don’t want to be here,” Bran says abruptly, eyes no longer milk-white, face no longer tipped toward the wind.

           Sansa blinks at his words, hands bunching in her lap when she turns to him. “What?”

           Bran looks at her for a moment, and she can’t be sure what he sees.  What he’s seen.  

           And you were so beautiful – in your white wedding dress.

           Her skin is suddenly prickling, her collar too tight, her furs too warm.

           He is her brother, she reminds herself.  Her brother.  And she is tired of losing brothers.

           “You don’t want to be here, Sansa.  Not really,” he repeats, voice like something she’s never heard before, not like Bran, not like pack.  It’s a raven’s voice – a resonant calls of words more past than present, more wind than woe, more other than his.  “You simply want to be not there.  With him.”

           Sansa’s throat tightens, her words laying slaughtered behind her clenched teeth.

           Bran is looking past her toward a grey-shadowed Winterfell.

           She will not turn.

           (He is her brother, always will be – as much as the one whose throat she severed with her dragonglass dagger.)

           “Bran,” she whispers, closing her eyes to steady the tears at her lids.

           “I will not be your excuse.  I cannot be.”

           Her eyes snap open, and there – amidst the snow and the red shade and the thin film of wetness lining her eyes, she catches sight of familiar eyes – that gaze so like their mother’s, so clear and unbending and willful.

           Some part of him, some part of her, still lingering in the aftermath.  Still clawing back through the dark.

           She dips her head down, ashamed, lost, wounded.

           (She still aches for Jon in the night, but she will not visit his bed, not now, not like this.)

           And Bran.  Lovely, lonely, somber Bran.

           What he’s seen.  Who he’s been.  Who he is no longer.

           Sansa gulps back the bile, rising to her feet.  She looks down at Bran – at the Three-Eyed-Raven – and pulls her shoulders back, nodding her farewell.

           She doesn’t know exactly when they lost him, but she doesn’t think it matters, in the end.

           Sansa turns to leave the godswood.

           (She is just so tired of losing brothers.)

           Ghost picks his head up at her slow trudge through the snow, padding restlessly at the frost-laden ground, still hovering around the edges of the clearing.

           Her chest constricts at the distance between them.  “Here, boy,” she entreats, hand waving him over.  

He comes dutifully, nuzzling against her thigh, red eyes slipping closed with a contented huff.

           She buries a gloved hand in his fur.

           She will stay with the North, yes, because it will always stay with her –

Not like her brothers.

* * *

“You’re not ready yet, Little Crow,” Tormund says, a furrow to his brow, hands hanging limp at his side where he grips his sparring sword.

Jon tightens his fingers around the hilt of his own sparring sword.  “I’m more than ready.”

Tormund huffs his exasperation, flicking his sword in a half-hearted swing toward Jon.

He parries it easily, anger lining his features. “Come on.”

Tormund frowns, shifting his stance.  Another swing, another parry, and just a swift flick of the wildling’s wrist, a quick slap of his blunted sword along Jon’s thigh – his scarred thigh – and Jon buckles at the knees, stumbling back out of reach.

Tormund settles back into a relaxed stance, lowering his sword.  “You’re not ready,” he repeats, more regret than anything.

But all Jon can see is red.  A red dawn.  Red hair along his pillow.  The red inviting warmth of Sansa’s mouth.  Sansa’s mouth – that cutting, dangerous thing.  And it lights his bones, fills him with vehemence. “Come on,” he urges, voice rising, hands curling tight around his sword as he steps toward Tormund once more.

The larger man shakes his head in warning.  “Stubborn cunt.”

But Jon has never taken well to warnings.

He swings at Tormund, arms trembling with the force of the parry.  A half-step forward.  Another swing.  The sharp clack of swords reverberating in the empty courtyard.  “Come on,” he hisses, righteous and furious and lost. So lost he can’t recall her scent anymore.  Can’t feel her warmth in the barren furs of his bed.  Can’t recognize the cold cut of blue she sends his way when he calls her name – softly, tenderly, with an ache of loss he doesn’t think he deserves to voice.

“Come on!” he bellows, roar echoing in the courtyard.

Tormund knocks his sword away, the force of it whipping Jon into a sharp pivot, the angle causing a lance of pain to shoot up his thigh and force him to his knees with a blunted cry, his brow already sweat-lined.  He drops his hands to the stone, holding himself up on all fours, bracing his weight, panting, waiting, burning.

And then Tormund is crouching at his side, hands hanging limply over his knees, sparring sword forgotten.  The older man sighs, rubs a hand down his face and along his beard.  “You can’t rush these things, Little Crow.”

Jon slams a fist into the ground beneath him, never minding the split of skin along his knuckles, the sharp crack of bone along the stone.  “Fuck,” he murmurs, eyes clenched tightly, his head dipping down until his forehead is braced against the stone.  “Fuck!”

“Jon,” Tormund urges, hands still resting unsure over his knees, lips pursed into a tight frown.

Jon doesn’t notice the blood seeping between his knuckles.

In another world, another time, she might have mended it.

But she has done what mending she could, and he has done nothing but rend the seams.

He lets it bleed.  Scars have never been unfamiliar, after all.

* * *

“Sansa doesn’t sing anymore.”

Jon stops his spoon halfway to his mouth, eyeing Arya beside him.

She lifts her chin, raising an expectant brow.

Jon sets his spoon down into his bowl of stew, sighing as he leans back into his chair.  He pinches the bridge of his nose, unable to look at her.

The thing is, he remembers what Sansa’s song used to sound like.  It was summer-warm, always.

“I don’t like it,” Arya says so softly he almost misses it.

Jon blinks his eyes open to look at her, his hand falling to his lap, but she’s staring down at her own bowl now, hands resting uselessly along the table beside it.

Arya’s throat flexes in the quiet following her words, eyes fixed to her bowl.  He wonders, suddenly, what faces she’s worn, what skins she’s donned.  

(How he can see her so clearly now – now when simply ‘a girl’ is everything she is not.)

Jon knows her well enough to recognize longing. He likes to pretend he doesn’t see it when she shares glances with Gendry across the forge or the Hall of Lords or the fucking dinner table even, but here’s the truth:

He knows how longing looks in her Stark grey eyes because he’s seen it in the mirror too often not to, and maybe that’s the kind of truth he should have noticed long ago.

Except truth has never gotten their family anything but severed heads and lonely beds.

(The truth is he’s afraid – but that’s too easy and too hard all at once and he doesn’t know how to form the words in the first place.)

“Hey,” Jon whispers, a hand moving to brace along the back of her neck, rubbing comfortingly.

He pretends not to feel the way her shoulders stiffen in response.

“I don’t like it,” she says again, brows furrowing, voice quaking, and suddenly he’s reminded how very young she is. His little sister.

Arya pushes from the table, standing stiffly.

Jon blinks up at her, his hand falling away.

She turns dark, uncertain eyes on him.  “Do something about it,” she tells him hoarsely, and then she’s stalking from the room, a hand at her eyes, face a blank visage once more, and he thinks he would give anything to have her wail at him, scream at him, anything.

Jon braces his face in his hands and sighs with his whole body.

The truth is he’s afraid.

The truth is –

* * *

“I don’t know how to stop making the wrong choices.”

Sansa whips around at his voice, eyes widening when she realizes she never heard him enter her chambers in the first place. “Jon, you can’t just – ”

“And I’m sorry,” he tells her, stepping further into the room.  “I’m so, so sorry, and I don’t… I don’t know how we got to this point and I don’t know how to get us back and I don’t… I can’t…”  He stops, gulps back the words, shakes his head in a kind of desperation so keen and so desolate that it bleeds into the air around them, whispering into even the shadows, rattling the dust in the corners of her room so that they are each flooded with it, tainted with it, lungs alight with it.

Sansa opens her mouth to speak but nothing comes.

He steps closer, eyes pleading, face a dark reminder of everything they’ve lost (so like her father, so good and forthright and foolish).  She sucks a breath through her teeth at his proximity, a trembling palm rising into the air to stop his advance.

He stills three paces from her, hands bunching into fists at his sides, uncertain.  Curling and uncurling, flexing with that sharp desperation.

“Why are you here, Jon?” she asks quietly, evenly.

He takes a moment to look at her, just to look at her, and she hates that she loves him still, even now – even now when she still wears the bruises around her heart, ribs still aching from the weight.

Jon purses his lips, hesitant, and he is suddenly so brittle in her eyes, so worn and old, and gods what has this world done to them?  What have they done to themselves?

“I brought Daenerys into our home.  Into our home, Sansa.”

She blinks at his words, unsure why he means to start the conversation here of all places.

“A place you were supposed to feel safe, and I let another threat walk right through the gates.”

Sansa swallows tightly, folding her hands behind her back in some small measure of comfort.  “You did it for the war – we’ve been over this.  I… I’ve looked past that.”

Jon shakes his head.  “And if she had survived?  If she had demanded I make good on our deal and ride South with her?”

“She didn’t.”

“If she did,” he demands, heaving a single exasperated breath, eyes forceful even beneath the wet sheen now lining them.

“She didn’t.  And it’s pointless to argue the fact.”

“I gave away what wasn’t mine to give.” He’s still shaking his head, still trying to reign in his breathing.

“You treated with allies for their aid.”

“I bent the knee.”

“You saved us.”

“I slept with her!” he shouts, the breath raking from him with the explosion, mouth clamping shut when the words hit air.

Sansa’s hands stiffen reflexively behind her back, her throat tightening, eyes blinking furiously lest the tears form in earnest. She holds the breath in her lungs, keeps it tight to her chest as she watches him in silence, unable to do more.

(His hands at Daenerys’ thighs and her mouth at his throat and that damn silver hair gracing his furs and she – she can’t – )

Sansa tastes bile at the back of her throat, her muted sob trapped behind her clenched teeth, her skin flushing with the bitter betrayal, the ripe revulsion.

Jon’s eyes hold hers for only a moment longer, before they’re falling to the floor, his mouth opening and closing, the regret stark and bitter on his tongue.  “I slept with her, Sansa,” he croaks out.  “Fucked my way into her favor, traded my affections for armies, bartered myself like some… some – ”  He stops, closes his eyes to the thoughts, shoulders slumping with the weight of it. “And I lied to you about it,” he finally manages, gaze barely lifting to hers.

The abhorrence on his features startles Sansa. A blaring, visceral reminder.

“Did you bend the knee to save the North, or because you love her?”

“And then she died for it,” he murmurs, brows furrowed.  “My own aunt. Family – fucked up as it is, and what I did was… it was dirty and ugly and I… I feel like I should feel more guilty about it all, about how it all ended up, and I do but – but not like I should.  Not when I look at you – alive, gods, fucking alive – and here, with me, and with Arya and Bran and our home – this home that used to mean everything and I’ve just… Sansa, the things I’ve done – ”

“You did what you had to do.  For us.”

“Stop defending it!”

“Jon,” she urges, barely keeping the quake from her voice, hands slipping from behind her as she steps forward before she can stop herself.

And they’re back to this waning space between them, back to breathing each other’s air, and she can trace the curve of his furrowed brow at this distance and catch the flicker of candlelight in his drifting eyes and feel the heat of his breath on her cheeks and – and this is where it ends.

“Look at me,” she demands.

He does, because he could never not look at her.

(Even when she wasn’t his to look at – maybe especially then.)

“Whatever you think you’ve done, whatever you think you’ve had to do – forget it.”

“Sansa – ”

“I said forget it,” she says icily, shoulders straightening.  “I’m done wallowing in the past.  I’m done climbing into your bed to ward off the nightmares.  I’m done punishing myself.  I’m done living for ghosts.”  She lifts her chin, the familiar salt tinge of tears dotting the edges of her eyes, but she blinks it back steadily.  “I can’t do it anymore, Jon.  And I… I don’t know how you still can.”

“Sansa, please,” he mutters, reaching for her, hands cupping her cheeks, stepping into her.  She stumbles back at the motion, pushing his touch away, until she turns to the door, meaning to flee, and when her hand curls around the door handle his palm slams into the wood to keep it closed.

She stands there, breathing heavily, eyes locked on his hand against the door, feeling his hot breath at the back of her neck, his presence so looming and thrilling at her back that she practically feels him pressed up against her.

“Jon,” she breathes warningly.

His other hand slips tentatively around her waist, fingers firm and yet somehow unsure, anchoring at the curve of her hip as he tugs her back toward him gently.  She releases an unexpected sigh at the pressure of his chest along her back, and then she’s biting her lip, shaking her head, pulling back from him.

But he doesn’t let her go, fingers digging into the fabric of her dress, his heavy sigh breaking against the space between her shoulder blades when he presses his forehead to the nape of her neck.  “Sansa,” he breathes against her skin, a rumble rising through his chest.

She licks her lips, wraps her fingers tighter along the door handle.  “Why are you here, Jon?” she asks again, but it’s more a whimper than anything, more a shuddering breath that breaks from her.

He closes his eyes, breathes her in, his fingers flexing along her hip.  “I’ve made so many mistakes, Sansa, so many wrong choices.”

“And is that what I am?  Just another ‘wrong choice’?”

His growl breaks against the collar of her dress, his fingers curling into the wood where they’re braced along the door.  “No, that’s not – you could never be – ”

“I’m tired, Jon.  I’m so… so tired.”  She slumps against the door, eyes squeezing shut.

“I was wrong to bring Daenerys to the North. I was wrong to leave for Dragonstone in the first place.  I was…” He gulps, tries again.  “I was wrong to leave you in the crypts.”

The sound that leaves her is somewhere between a croak and a sob at the dark remembrance of that night.

He shifts his face so that it’s braced alongside hers, his breath at her ear, his beard scratching along her neck.  “I was wrong all those years ago, to think there could be peace between the Watch and the wildlings.  I was wrong to think I could take Winterfell from Ramsay myself. I was wrong not to heed your advice. I was wrong to keep you in the dark. I was wrong to not refuse the crown, to not name you the rightful Queen the moment we had our home back and I was wrong for so, so much more.”

She gasps when she feels the wet press of his lips at her throat, eyes snapping open, his hand winding around her waist to wrap around her stomach, pulling her more firmly against him.

“And with all these… all these wrong choices…” he pants against her neck, breath hot and wet along her skin, his chest rising and falling unsteadily at her back.  “I thought maybe it was also wrong to let you to my bed.  Wrong to… to feel the way I do.”

The whimper breaks from her before she can catch it, her fingers flying to his arm wrapped around her waist.

Something like a moan, pained and delicate, thrums along his throat when he pushes into her, pressing her back against the door, one hand still braced against the wood, the other anchoring her to him.

“Jon,” she whispers, and she doesn’t know what it means anymore – his name, this feeling, this brutal tangle of emotion between them.

But then she remembers the arc of his back in the moonlight gracing his chambers, the way he hadn’t looked at her, the absence of his touch searing as winter when he turned her from his bed.

His lips move against her throat languidly, his tongue peeking out to taste her – hesitant and trembling.

The silence that followed her all the way back to her lonesome, barren chambers when he’d told her to leave.  The way he hadn’t tried to stop her.

“No,” she pants in a single, harsh breath.

Jon stills against her, silent as the grave.

(Sansa doesn’t think she has the strength in her to stitch this one closed.)

“I wanted you, Jon.  More than anything I’ve ever wanted in this world, I wanted you.”

She can feel his sharp intake of breath far more than she hears it.  His fingers uncurl around her hip, hanging loosely onto the folds of her dress.

“But you didn’t want me back.”  It breaks her to say it, but she steadies herself, grips at her collar, reigns in the frantic thundering of her heart – that faltering, staggered thing.

“Sansa, no, that’s not – ”

She whips around to face him, only slightly shaken at his mouth so close to hers, his heat still sinking into her with his proximity.  She fumbles for the door handle behind her, pulling it open as she steps forward to accommodate the motion, Jon stumbling back at her closeness.

“Please leave,” she tells him, voice a tight thread of unease, ready to snap, ready to split right down those terribly thinning seams.

“Sansa.”  His face falls, his hands retreating from her, returning to his sides in limp resignation.

“If you have any affection for me still,” she begins, eyes closing once more, tongue pressing to the roof of her mouth for some semblance of control, “then you will leave.”

He stands there before her for long moments, simply staring at her, and then his gaze falls to the floor, and then to the open door at her back, catching the way her hand trembles along the edge, fingers curled tight against the wood.

But he doesn’t say a word.  Doesn’t do anything but walk from the room like she’d asked him to.

And this scene is too familiar in all the wrong ways.

Sansa stands breathing unsteadily in the empty space of her room, hand slowly pushing the door shut behind her.

She’d asked him to leave.

And he did.

           But Sansa thinks maybe she’s getting too used to shutting doors.

* * *

           Sometimes Jon watches Bran watching Meera.  Sometimes he watches Arya watching Gendry.

           Sansa crosses the courtyard and Jon looks up from his conversation with Tormund and Ser Davos.

           (Sometimes he wonders who’s watching him watch her.)

           But Starks have always been bitterly stubborn.  Even when it hurts.

* * *

Sansa has grown familiar with this scene – Arya sitting across her desk in her solar, cleaning her Valyrian dagger, keeping quiet company while Sansa updates Winterfell’s ledgers.  But Arya is especially sour this evening, swiping the oiled cloth along her blade with a quiet vehemence that doesn’t escape Sansa’s notice.

She sighs and sets her quill down along the parchment, linking her fingers together atop the desk.  “What is it?”

Arya stills her cloth, raising a brow at her sister.

Sansa cocks her head and raises an identical brow.

Arya narrows her eyes, huffing her annoyance and going back to her work.  “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

She stills again, eyes flicking to the far wall.

           Sansa takes the moment to watch her sister, to mark the way she still purses her lips in that familiar tell of frustration, how her brow still quivers just slightly above her dark eyes, how she cocks her head in such an achingly familiar way – how she would know her face anywhere, behind any mask or skin – how she is still her little sister.

           How she has missed her these long years, even when she didn’t want to.

           “Arya.”

           (Even when she dreamed of her.)

           Arya shoots a guarded glance at Sansa, fingers tightening over the blade in her hand.  “He told me I was beautiful.”

           Sansa’s mouth parts as though to speak but she finds only air lighting her tongue.  She furrows her brows in confusion.

           Arya looks down, eyes fixed to the papers lining Sansa’s desk, her face pinched tight.  “Gendry. He told me I was beautiful.”

           Sansa stares at her sister for long moments, long enough to make Arya shift in her seat, attention returning to her work, shoulders pulled back sharply.

           “It’s stupid.  This whole thing’s stupid.  And he’s… just stupid,” she mutters, eyes focused, dark, blinking furiously.

           “It’s not,” Sansa finds herself saying suddenly, her chest constricting at the look her sister sends her – cagey and uncertain and filled with quiet hope. Sansa leans forward and brushes a loose strand of hair behind Arya’s ear, eyes never leaving hers.  “It’s not.  And you are.  Beautiful, that is.”

           Arya purses her lips, throat flexing beneath words she never brings to air, the sheen of wetness over her eyes suddenly apparent.

           Her sister.  Her little sister.  Her darling, bold, brilliant sister.

           Arya opens her mouth, closes it, stares unblinkingly at Sansa, face pinching into a mask of doubt.  “I’m scared,” she whispers, almost too soft for Sansa to hear.  But then she clears her throat, doesn’t wipe at the wetness truly gathering at the corners of her eyes now.  She stares Sansa down, something quiet and frail flooding into her features.

           “I’m scared, Sansa.”

           All at once, Sansa realizes that she is, too.  Scared beyond belief, beyond measure, beyond restraint.

           So filled to the brim with terror that she tastes it on her tongue – bitter and sharp and like copper too familiar to name.

           (Like blood she has never learned to swallow.)

           She remembers Theon’s embrace the night before the battle for Winterfell, and she remembers her mother’s smile at one end of that long, beaten King’s Road, and she remembers the way Jon’s arms had fit so surely and so securely around her that day she rode through the gates of Castle Black and never looked back.

           And she remembers how she had lost them each.

           Yes, Sansa is scared, far more scared than she can ever voice but then here – sitting here before her – with a face full of trepidation and hands gripping tightly to her blade for some kind of familiar security – here before her, like she’d never imagined she’d ever be again – sits her sister.

           She wants to hug her suddenly, desperately, without reservation.

           Instead, she leans forward to wrap a hand over Arya’s clenched one.

           “So am I,” she admits, the words hitting air like a gasp.

           Arya dips her head, eyes wet, lip sucked firmly between her teeth.

           Sansa will not have it.

           She lifts her chin with her other hand.  “Arya.”

           Her sister meets her gaze reluctantly, a tremulous breath escaping her lips.

           Sansa sets her demanding gaze on her.  “Can a man still be brave if he’s afraid?”

           Arya blinks at her, mouth opening, and then closing, her mind reeling behind wide, dark eyes.

           Sansa will take her to lay winter roses at the foot of their father’s ruined stone statue when this is over, when their ghosts have finally laid to rest. She will take her sister by the hand and lead her through the shadows, through the cold stone and ashes of their blood lining the walk.  And she will let her cry into her arms, if that is what she wants, when she is ready. When they are both ready. When the dawn is no longer a blood-drenched promise.

           Arya squares her shoulders, the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes suddenly forgotten.  “That is the only time a man can be brave,” she quotes back, their father’s words thrumming and alive between them.

           She squeezes her sister’s hand beneath hers, doesn’t break her gaze.

           Oh yes, how she has missed her.  But she thinks she may never have to again.

* * *

           She finds him in the godswood, and it hits her like a gasp of air amidst drowning – how so like their father (her father) he looks.  His back is turned slightly to her, head tilted up to watch the wayward sway of the branches in the bitterly cold breeze, the profile of his face a vague glimpse of familiarity in the haze of falling snow.

           She’s seen her father like this, she knows.  Alone in the godswood, eyes fixed to the weirwood, bundled in furs her mother sowed for him herself, and she thinks maybe that means something – that Jon still wears her furs, that she has cloaked him, here beneath the heart tree like her lady mother did her lord father.

           She thinks it has to mean something.  Because she’s too far gone for it not to anymore.

           He sighs at the soft crunch of snow signaling her approach, eyes drifting toward the ground.  She doesn’t see the way he bunches his hands into fists beneath the cover of his cloak.

           “Winter hasn’t left us yet,” he says (and she wildly wonders if he’s speaking in abstracts now, and it’s so jarringly not him, because he’s never been one for words, much less poignancy, and it startles her into stillness just a few paces from him).  He glances at her over his shoulder.  “The wind still bites.”  He shuffles his furs around his shoulders in meaning.  “You should return to the castle.”

           And gods, sometimes she could strangle him.

           Sansa frowns, stealing a single, charged breath through the frigid air before she moves to stand in front of him, purposely signaling her refusal to retreat.  She stares him down.

           He sighs softly, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “Sansa…”

           “Are we not allowed to be happy?”

           Her words still him, his hand hovering over his face a moment before he finally lowers it, eyes drifting up to meet hers.

           It seems so simple suddenly.

           And yes, how like her father he’s always been.  That somberness, that unnerving steadiness to his gaze, that foolhardy way he could never hold his tongue – not for fear or for subservience or even for love. And how like her father he’d always wanted to be.  How duty-bound and honorable and just he’d always strived to be – even when it killed him.

           (Even when it brought a white-haired queen into their home, her presence as chilling as the dead, and just as damning.)

           Even when it took him from her – with his bed lying half-cold beneath the weight of her absence.

           Licking her lips as she steadies herself, Sansa steps closer.

           Jon watches her warily, unable (or unwilling) to move, his body a rigid line of unease, cognizant of her every move.

           (And it seems so simple suddenly.)

           She sighs, her face openly bearing her longing when she meets his gaze.  “Are we not allowed to be happy?  After everything – after… everything.” The breath rakes from her with a vehemence she hadn’t expected.

           Jon’s throat flexes with his silence, eyes unmoving from hers.

           She looks down at his closed fists, watches the flakes of snow settling into his skin, the rush of Winter still blaring and bright between them.  She reaches for his hand, curls her fingers along his knuckles and tries to anchor him there beneath her desperate clutch.

           He sucks in a breath, trembling – absolutely trembling beneath her touch.

           She wants to hold him then, to hold him and hold him and hold him.  To brace him against her chest and feel their heartbeats meld, to wait in thunderous apprehension until they beat in unison, to press her lips to his brow and feel his hands smoothing up her back and the catch of breath he’d release against her throat and the soft tangle of his curls at her fingertips and the easy, reassuring weight of his warmth pressed to her.

           To hold him – to truly hold him – and to never let go.

           She closes her eyes, waiting for his answer, whatever it may be.

           Snow continues to fall.  The leaves rustle in the branches above their heads.  And Jon keeps his silence long enough that Sansa begins to feel the sob bubbling up her throat, unbidden.

           And then his fist shifts in her hold, his palm unfurling, his calloused fingers fumbling for hers.

           Sansa opens her eyes to his.

           “I was happy, Sansa.”  He catches his breath, licks his lips as he flicks his gaze down to their joined hands. “Because nothing has ever made me as happy as having you.”

           She sucks the breath through her teeth, stepping closer unconsciously, the heady anticipation lighting her bones.

           “But we both know it’s not as simple as that.”

           Her brows furrow, fingers loosening around his hand, as though they may pull away entirely.

           And then he’s wrapping both hands around hers, bringing her small fist up to his mouth and planting a kiss to the inside of her wrist, his warm, staggered breath filling her palm, his lips chapped and rough against her pulse point.

           She stills at the sheer fervor of it, at the tender ardor of his lips to her skin, his eyes hooded as he keeps his gaze low.

           “Why…”  She stops, the breath stalling in her chest at the heat of his touch, watching as he slowly pulls his lips from her wrist.  “Why can’t it be that simple?” she croaks out – desperate and vulnerable and demanding all at once.

           Jon swipes a gentle thumb along the inside of her wrist, smoothing along the place his mouth had been, eyes never leaving the motion. “Because if I’m to have you, Sansa, it will be for life.”  

           Her heart falters at the words, catching between her ribs.

Jon flicks his gaze up to hers, dark and exposed. “Do you understand what that means, Sansa?  Do you understand – ” He fumbles, clears his throat, continues.  “Do you understand why I hesitated?  Why I… why I’m still hesitating?  Because I’d rather have you for a sister than not at all and I don’t know what I’d do if I ruined that, too.  And I’m so, so scared, Sansa.  I don’t think I’ve ever been this scared in my life and I don’t know how to fix that.”

           Sansa stares at him, blinking wildly beneath his gaze, mouth parting.

           Such a stupid, foolish boy.  

           The tears hit her eyes sooner that she expects.  

           Jon’s brows scrunch together at the sight, one hand lifting to her cheek to scrub away a tear with the pad of his thumb.  “Sansa.”

           “Then be brave with me, Jon,” she says, pulling her hand free of his to cup his face, leaning into him with an intensity and a need that overtakes her.

           His hands curl around her wrists, holding her to him, his face pinched tight with uncertainty, the faint tremor of fear still blooming beneath his skin and she can’t stop herself suddenly.  She can’t leash the flare of exhilaration, can’t keep her chest steady beneath her raging breath, can’t do anything at all but –

           Kiss him.

           And she does.  With mouth and hands and heart.  She kisses him.

           He sucks in a breath at the motion, eyes closing, stumbling slightly in the snow with her fervency, his hands slipping from her wrists to sink into her hair, tangling in the copper strands as he opens to her, presses his mouth so terribly hard against hers that she thinks they may break beneath the strain, might just fracture right there in the godswood, littering the snow with the broken shards of their yearning, the cut of their hunger.

           When they break away, panting, she rests her forehead to his, flexes her fingers along his jaw, revels in the scratch of his beard along her palms, the warm puff of his breath filling her mouth.  “If you will be brave with me,” she begins, the quake of her voice threatening to splinter her words entirely, “Then I will be brave with you.”

           One of his arms slips around her waist as he yanks her to him, burying his face in her shoulder, his other hand tightening in her hair.  She doesn’t hear the sob that leaves him so much as she feels it, a ragged, body-wracking exhale that rattles all the way down to her bones, her fingers gripping at his furs to keep herself steady.

           And so, she holds him.

           As he holds her.

           As their bravery seeps into their marrow and begins to take root.  

* * *

           “The Northern lords will not be as opposed as you think.”

           Jon looks up at Bran’s words, catches the way the fire from the hearth flickers soft shadows across his face,  Arya shifts in her seat across from them, her oiled cloth stilled over Needle.

           “What do you mean?”  Jon’s brows scrunch together.

           Arya listens nonchalantly, continuing her cleaning of her blade.

           “When you seek Sansa’s hand.”

           Jon nearly splutters, a short coughing sound catching in his throat when he rubs a hand over his mouth and flicks his gaze to Arya.

           She’s still again, eyes narrowed between her brothers.

           Jon looks back to Bran and shakes his head.  “Bran, that’s not… we haven’t – ”

           “But you will.”

           Jon closes his mouth abruptly.

           Arya sighs across from them, shaking her head as she sheaths Needle.  “I can’t believe you two are talking about this.”

           Jon groans, regretting instantly that he ever asked them to his chambers after dinner, that he ever thought they could be the family they once were (even when he’d rather have the family they are now – Sansa included).

           Arya stands swiftly.

           “Arya, sit down, will you?”

           She turns her wary eyes to Jon.  “You’re our brother.”

           “I’m not though.”  The words catch in his throat, heavy and jagged, a crude stone travelling from maw to gut – sinking low in his stomach.  “I’m not.”

           Arya narrows her eyes at him, nostrils flaring.  “You are.”

           “He’s the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, heir to the Ir – ”

           “I know all of that, Bran, I know,” she snaps.  “But he’s…”  She looks back to Jon.  “You’re…”

           He doesn’t do anything but watch her, waiting, hoping.  His hands slide over his knees in keen disquiet.

           Sighing, Arya’s shoulders slump as she tears her gaze away, fixing to a point across the room, to the muted grey stone that used to be a cage to him in his younger years.  In his lost years.  

           Oh, but to be a Stark in Winterfell –

           Sansa has been the closest thing to realizing that dream of his.  Because to be hers –

           He thinks maybe that’s what being a Stark means in the end.  More than blood.  More than titles.  More than duty.

           “You are to me.”

           She makes him a Stark with every demanding gaze and every unflinching word and every heated touch.

           She makes him a Stark because she loves him as a Snow and if he’s learned anything from the North, it’s that nothing matters more than choice.

           And Sansa chose him.

           It isn’t, perhaps, the way he’d always imagined becoming a Stark, but it is, for certain, the only way he’d ever accept now.

           “I don’t understand it,” Arya says softly, hesitantly, eyes still fixed to the wall.  “I don’t… understand, but – ”  She stops, shifts her gaze back to Jon’s.  “But I’ll try – for you.  For you both.”

           Jon releases the breath he’d been holding tight to his chest since the moment she stood.

           Arya looks to the ground a moment, fingers curling around her belt in some small measure of surety.  “Because she’s the bravest person I know and I think I owe her that much.”  She shakes her head, fingers tightening over her belt, and then she’s turning from them, huffing her frustration.  “This is so strange.  This is so… gods, but our brother.”

           “Arya.”

           Her name on his lips stops her with her hand on the door, her back resolutely to him.

           Jon rises from his seat, unsure, standing halfway between the hearth and his sister at the door, Bran still sitting silently behind him, eyes lingering on the fire in the hearth rather than the scene before him.  “I know this isn’t… how you wanted things to happen but – ”

           “Will you be kind?”

           Her question throws him, startles him to stillness, his breath catching in his chest.

           Arya presses a fist to the wood of the door, eyes fixed to the motion.  “Will you be kind to her?” she repeats, voice eerily steady.

           Jon swallows back the trepidation, nodding.  “Yes.”  The answer is easier than he thinks.

           “Will you be faithful?”

           He squares his shoulders.  “Yes.”

           She sighs, her fist unfurling before sliding down the door to rest along the handle. “Will you be constant?”

           “Yes.”

           She looks at him over her shoulder, her face earnest and temperate all at once, her eyes a familiar grey (you may not have my name, but you have my blood).  She takes a breath, holds it but a moment, and then lets it taste air, nodding just the once, a short, adamant tilt of her head.  “Good.  She deserves that, at the very least.”

Jon watches her, mouth parted, a mute nod his only answer.

Arya glances over to Bran, and then back to Jon, sighing with the weight of something Jon is hesitant to name.  “Then there’s nothing else I want,” she explains to him, before pulling the door free and walking from the room.

           Jon slumps back into his chair.

           Bran shrugs the furs from his shoulders and lets them bunch in his lap, his eyes taking in the fire still snapping before them.  “She’s always been a touch dramatic.  They have that in common,” he says lightly, as though in commiseration, but there is no lilt to his voice, no indication of anything nostalgic.

           Jon snaps his gaze to his younger cousin.  “You – ” He stops, catches the chuckle as it lines his throat, wiping a hand down his mouth and shaking his head.

           Bran glances at him out of the corner of his eye.

           Jon settles his face into his hands, letting the laugh overtake him then.  

           If he only looks, he would see Bran’s smile in the firelight, tame and mild as a Northern summer.

* * *

           Jon winds his arm around Sansa’s waist, tugging her into the tight curve of his body as they lay atop his furs, her mouth parting at the sigh he levels at her lips.

           His hand smooths slow circles into the small of her back as he watches her, eyes flicking over the curve of her jaw and the slant of her eyes and the wisps of her copper hair.

           Sansa lifts her hand to brace along the fading scar lining his brow, tracing the edges with tenderness.  “It’s almost gone now,” she whispers into the night.

           Jon hums lowly beneath her touch, closing his eyes beneath her hand.

           “As though it had never been,” she says softly, her hand retreating, sliding down along his jaw, past his throat, and splaying against his chest.

           Except it will always be.  These scars. These marks of war.  These remnants of a long-fought night and a deadly-still dawn. These reminders of why they ever started this tangle of limbs beneath the damning moonlight.

           Jon’s eyes flutter open to watch her.

           When he catches the faint tremor of her smile tugging at her lips, her hand curling into his tunic, her eyes shifting low, he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop wanting her, needing her, finding solace from the scars in her welcoming arms.

           This balm, her salve, the way her breath pools at the base of his throat, is anchor enough.

She pushes a thigh between his legs tentatively, eyes never meeting his, and his hand stops its motion at her back, fisting in the material of her shift, his responding groan breaking against her mouth.

He can feel the rise of her chest against his at the sound, her breath hitching, tongue flicking out to wet her lips.

“Sansa,” he moans, his hips rolling instinctively into hers, his hand braced against her back where he presses her into him.

“Kiss me,” she says, and this time it isn’t a demand. It’s more a fact than anything. More an inevitable truth.

It is easy to be brave now, when he’s pressed this closely to her, when her sighs light something in him that never truly leaves, when she looks him in the eye and doesn’t blink.

Afraid.  And brave all the same.

When he presses his lips to hers he can’t collar the moan that breaks from him, or the way his hand slides over her hip greedily, or the way he pushes her back against the furs and drapes her with his weight, his heat, his eager body curling tight against hers.

He fumbles for her hand, winding his fingers through hers, stitching their palms together with a keening need, an intensity just shy of feverish.

Her woolen dress lays abandoned on the floor ‘til morning, the tallow of his room’s candles burning low, and sometime in the night, when their courage flares bright and long and languid, he whispers his affections into her skin like a promising dawn, silencing their ghosts with a forgotten twilight.

[whentommymetalfie]

Breathe Again -Chapter nine

-Discovery-

prologue//one//two//three//four//five//six//seven//eight

Chapter summary: It’s raining, and Alfie doesn’t want to go out. Tommy decides to go for a walk by himself. 

Pairing: Alfie/Tommy

Warnings: hallucinations, disordered eating

Wordcount: 3700

It’s raining today, pouring down in large droplets that drum against the roof and obscure the view of the sea. Tommy watches the runnels of water travel down the glass door from his place in the armchair. The wind whistles against the windowpane, wants to pull him back to that night on the beach, the feeling of waves crashing against him, the voices in his ears-

He tries to listen to the book instead of the wind. It’s a bit easier now. He doesn’t lose the thread of the story quite as often, at least not if he really focuses. But most of all he’s just waiting for Alfie to close the book and tell him they’re going out now. Because it’s after lunch and they’ve read two chapters, that’s usually when they take a walk. Now, Alfie’s well into the third chapter and he finds himself getting anxious at the disruption in the routine, a crawling restlessness that creeps up his spine and makes his heart tick faster in his chest.

Carefully organising and putting enough words together to form a question, he musters up the courage to take the plunge and asks, “When can we go out?”

Alfie pauses and raises both eyebrows, watching him over the edge of his spectacles.

“Out?” He furrows his brow and looks towards the glass door and then back at him. “Thomas, if you think that I’m setting my fucking foot outside in this weather then you’ve truly just fuckin’ lost it, haven’t you?”

Oh.

He’s said something stupid. His cheeks feel hot, and he fidgets at the fringe of the blanket to keep his fingers occupied. Alfie clears his throat.

“Well, what I mean is, this really is no weather to be out in. Right? Entirely unnecessary to be going out when you don’t have to.”

“I can go by myself.”

Alfie just makes an unintelligible noise at the statement.

He tries again, “I won’t go far.”

“Fuck, Tommy, you’re not going outside in this, alright?” Alfie snaps. “It’s non-fucking-negotiable. Which, really, I can’t believe I have to tell you. Then again you have absolutely no self-preservation, do you?”

And that’s the end of it.

Tommy pulls the blanket up all the way to his nose and looks out at the rain, trying to ignore the unease and the pressure building behind his temples, the threads of a headache gathering up there.

At some point, Alfie falls asleep. He only discovers it when light snores pull him from the fog of his own mind, and he must’ve missed that he stopped reading. The book is resting on his chest and it’s entirely possible he’s told Tommy that a nap was in order. It’s the sort of thing he could’ve missed.

Alfie looks different when he sleeps. Not younger, exactly; the fine lines and wrinkles are still there. Softer, maybe. The way he does when he smiles. And he looks at peace, hands clasped over his stomach and chin tilted forward. But scars are not something that just fades away simply because a person is asleep, and the contrast is stark against his otherwise peaceful features.

“Anyone you touch, Tommy…”

He tears his eyes away and looks out through the glass doors instead. The rain is still pouring down outside. The room feels stuffy in a way it usually doesn’t, like the air has gone stale, or run out. Like the walls are closer.

He wants to wake Alfie up.

“It happens when you stop, Tommy, when everything stops-“

When it’s quiet and he’s alone…

He takes slow breaths in through his nose, trying to will the headache to settle. Presses the palm of his hand against the ridges of the scar.

If he just got some air, things would be easier.

If he just keeps moving.

Alfie is usually adamant about going outside, even when Tommy is tired and just wants to sit in the armchair and listen to him read. “Why should he always get to decide?” a tiny voice whispers. He barely understands it at first. It doesn’t sound like the others. Maybe it’s his own?

Going out in the hallway to put the coat on feels familiar and completely alien at the same time, as if he’s a child sneaking out past their curfew.

“Can’t be going to the stables at all hours, Tom. Nights are for sleeping. The horses will still be there when you wake up.”

“It’s not night,” he mumbles back, slipping for a moment.

It’s not night, and there are no horses. He moves the chestnut from the pocket of his trousers to the coat, focuses on the smooth surface until his mother’s voice fades back to a hum together with the rest of them, and then he opens the door and steps out onto the front steps.

The rain feels like a relief as it patters over his skin in icy drops and he pulls long breaths of the cool air into his lungs as he sets off towards the small path Alfie usually takes him along. The drops fall heavily against his hair, seep down his temples and seem to soothe the ache and the itch there.

Still, the path feels different without Alfie here. Different without the background hum of his voice, without the presence of his sturdy frame there right next to him. But he trudges on along the field until he reaches the chestnut tree, and then the old oak tree with the hole where the crow doesn’t live. Crows lives in nests and Alfie’s crow lives in a closed cabinet now, but that’s because it’s stuffed. He told him so the other day, because he got sick of Tommy asking about it… He tries to remember the things Alfie’s told him on their walks. He can’t remember too many, but it keeps him from slipping back into the abyss of thoughts and memories that lurk just beneath these new ones.

Soon, he reaches a split in the path. Alfie’s never walked further than this with him. He just stand there, gazing out over the fields and the grey clouds. As far as the rain allows him to see, there’s just that, vast, grassy fields, shrouded in rain and mist. The droplets hang around him like a curtain.

The loneliness of it all is suddenly overwhelming

If he disappeared, if the earth opened up beneath his feet and swallowed him up, nothing would change, and no one would notice. It did out there on the field that day, the mud gave away and devoured him and maybe he’s never really existed after that? No one is looking for him. He should be relieved, like Alfie said. Not looking means they can’t take him away, can’t lock him up somewhere. But instead it just opens up a pit in his chest. Seems to split him apart from the inside and the pain makes his knees go weak. He supports himself against the trunk of the tree, head pressed against his forearms where they rest on the rough bark. It’s for the best, it’s for the best, it’s what he wanted, isn’t it? To simply disappear and fade into nothingness…

“But it hurts now that you have, doesn’t it?”

The wetness seeps in through the knees of his trousers as he curls inwards on himself at the bottom of the tree, the weight pressing down on his shoulders finally becoming too much to carry.

But Alfie said-

Alfie said-

They’re not looking.

“Fuck’em, they’re not worth all this.”

A branch above him rustles. Alfie’s crow is there, watching him with curious eyes, head cocked to the side. Maybe it’s gotten out of its cabinet? “It’s stuffed Tommy, see? It’s not real.” It croaks loudly and flaps its wings, if he takes it back home, Alfie will be happy-

His heart is beating quickly in his chest and the cold is creeping in through his coat. It’s all too much. Everything. Getting up, making his legs obey him, moving at all-

“It’s better if you just stay here and rest for a bit.”

“No,” he whispers. Doesn’t want to hear it. “No, I’m- I have to go back.”

“Why?”

Why? Because he wants to go back to Alfie. Alfie will get angry, he was last time, because he did go out looking- But why would he do that? Tommy still can’t wrap his head around it, Esther tells him he cares and she seems to know most things but she must be wrong about that. Sometimes he can trick himself into thinking it’s true. When Alfie came into the bedroom and read to him, even though Tommy had been annoying and difficult. Or when he lets Tommy hold onto his sleeve. Why would he do that if he didn’t care?

“Well, Tommy, you know you’re not right in the head. Just because you don’t understand his reasoning doesn’t mean it’s not there,” Grace explains patiently. “Alright? It’s better if you don’t think for yourself.”

That’s true, but who is he supposed to listen to then? He’s not allowed to  listen to Grace, because she’s not real, not real, not- He wants to listen to Alfie wants Alfie to be here, just be here solid and warm and loud he shouldn’t have gone out by himself- If he just goes back to the house it’ll be okay, he won’t be alone and Alfie will make the voices stop, but he can’t move...

He breathes, just breathes, in and out and the mud isn’t real and the voices aren’t real, he closes trembling fingers around the chestnut, wills all the other voices to stop and tries to hear Alfie’s, imagine his arms, the feeling of being held, grounded…

“Tommy!”

He squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t make them stop on his own.

They keep calling, from far, far away, and he struggles to place them-

“Tommy, fucking hell you impossible, absolute bloody idiot…” Footsteps approach, uneven and heavy on the muddy ground. “Esther, come’ere, I found him!” A hand hooks under his arm and tries to pull him upright. “Go on, up you go… I’m not getting my clothes all muddy.”

But his arms seems to have frozen around his knees and he’s shaking so hard and he can’t focus on anything but breathing-

“Fuck, come on now-” The hand, Alfie’s hand, pulls harder, and another grabs onto the back of his coat and he finds himself hauled to his feet through sheer force. But his legs won’t cooperate. Pitching forward, he buries his face in the thick coat in front of him, wants so badly to be close, held- Alfie seems to momentarily freeze before grabbing onto his shoulders and holding him at an arm’s length. Tommy grabs onto the lapels of his coat. Clings.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Alfie barks, shaking him, eyes wide and piercingly sharp as they bore into his. “Just fucking… wandering off without saying a word to anyone! Making us comb through the entire bloody countryside.” He starts dragging him back along the path and Tommy struggles to keep up, while Alfie continues shouting: “You can’t just disappear whenever you fucking please! Have us all in a state. Bet we’ll all catch our fucking death now. And just look at you, absolutely fucking freezing-“

“Oh, thank God!” The call comes first, and Esther soon thereafter, appearing in the rainy mist as she runs towards them, hands outstretched and the grey hair escaping from it’s neat braid. She cradles Tommy’s face between her hands and smiles. “Oh dear, you gave us quite the scare. But you’re okay, you’re alright-”

“Yeah, well none of us will be for long if we keep standing around in this rain,” Alfie grunts and keeps walking, still with Tommy’s arm in a vice like grip. “Fuck, couldn’t you have at least said something? Can’t close my eyes for a few bloody minutes without you doing something stupid, can I?”

“Mister Solomons, please calm yourself-“ Esther protests and hurries alongside them.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy says because it’s the only thing that comes naturally. Alfie stops in his tracks and blinks at him.

“It’s alright, love, we were just worried,” Esther says and her voice is soft and kind.

Alfie scratches the back of his head with his free hand. Tommy turns his gaze to the ground.  

“I just wanted to go outside.” The hard grip around his arm softens.

“Yeah, well, if I’d known it was that fucking important to you I suppose we could’ve… taken an umbrella or something. No need to be sneaking off all alone to get all wet and miserable…” Alfie trails off.

Tommy stares at the leaves on the ground and for a moment all that’s heard is the pitter patter of rain.

“Let’s go inside,” Esther finally decides and resolutely puts an arm around his waist, before taking the lead back towards the house.

When they get back, Alfie storms off, muttering curses under his breath and saying something about needing a change of clothes. Esther brings Tommy, shaking and soaked through, to the bathroom where she fills up the tub. He protests weakly but she won’t have it, and soon he’s sat in the hot water surrounded by clouds of bubbles, knees pulled up to his chest arms clasped around them.

When there’s a knock on the door, he still hasn’t stopped shaking.

“Tommy, you alive in there or have you managed to drown yourself?”

Before he can figure out which one of the questions to answer, Alfie has opened the door. He’s got a hand covering his eyes, as if he has to make a show of the fact that he’s not looking. For some reason, the sight makes the corner of his mouth twitch and the half smile feels so strange that it immediately dies.

“Well, go on, make a fucking sound alright?”

“I’m fine,” he says. Alfie snorts.

“Yeah, that’s a fucking lie if I ever heard one.” With one hand outstretched in front of himself for guidance he takes a step into the bathroom and closes the door behind him. After colliding with the stool that’s been left there and cursing loudly, he sits down with his back facing the tub, resting his elbows on his knees. He’s in a dry set of clothes now, Tommy notes, and is wearing the velvet waistcoat that looks so soft that it always makes him want to rub his cheek against it.

“You getting any warmer?” Alfie asks after a bit. “Or will I have to deal with you getting fucking pneumonia on top of everything too?”

“I’m warm now,” Tommy mumbles.  

Alfie hums and Tommy rests his head on his arm, curling up a bit on his side in the tub. He can still fit his knees against his chest because it’s a huge thing. Alfie’s back is broad. Always been. But he looks bigger now, as if this life has made him settle more in his own bones, rooted him and made him grow. Then again, Alfie did say he was a God now, it makes sense he’d be larger-

“You didn’t go down to the sea,” Alfie says suddenly. “I thought- Yeah, well, I thought you might. That’s why we went out looking, innit. I don’t particularly enjoy running around in the rain, you see. But, yeah, that’s what I thought.”

The pipes whistling quietly is the only thing filling the bathroom as Tommy struggles to come up with something, anything, to say.

“See, I figured you’d fucking jump at the opportunity,” Alfie finally says. “Would’ve been a good one too. With a storm like this it’d be enough to just go down there and stand in the bloody sand. Waves would’ve done most of the job. So, why didn’t you?”

Why didn’t you? It’s Alfie’s voice, Alfie asking, but it’s Grace and his father and John and all of them-

“I just wanted to go outside,” Tommy repeats his phrase from earlier, hearing the crack in his own voice. A knot of guilt twists in the pit of his stomach. It feels like a selfish impulse, now. As if he’s taken something he wasn’t allowed to. As if his whole existence is just that, taking up space and breath and attention that he doesn’t deserve-

“You know you don’t deserve any of this. But all you do is take and take-“

But right then all he’d wanted was to go outside to feel the rain on his face and look out over the fields.

Now, he wants to crawl out of his own skin.

“Right, right,” Alfie says. “Well, some restlessness is a healthy sign, innit. You weren’t made to be cooped up anywhere, now, where you, Tommy? Not in your blood and all that. But do me a favour and tell Esther next time you go out on your own, alright? If I’m not around.”

“I won’t go again.”

“Nah, not what I said, was it? Just want you to let someone know next time. And tell her where you’re going, if you decide to curl up at the foot of some tree again and we need to come get you. We clear on that?” Alfie asks and turns his head just slightly. Their eyes meet, and then Alfie’s gaze slips, scrutinizing him in a way that makes him sink down a bit further in the tub. He nods, hoping that will get Alfie to stop looking at him like that.

“Oi, Tommy, what have we said about using words, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Alfie gets up with a sigh. “If you’ve thawed slightly I suggest you get out of that bath. Esther has dinner ready.”

Tommy gets out of the tub as soon as Alfie’s left the room. The water feels too tempting, too dangerous. He dries himself off with a soft, large towel Esther put out for him, and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The sight of the gaunt, pale face that meets him behind the glass makes him freeze. The figure staring back at him is barely recognizable. He looks… hollow, cheeks sunken in and skin stretched tautly around his jaw, accentuated by the dark shadow of stubble. His collarbones, ribs, every bony ridge and bump stick out unnaturally. Only his eyes are recognizable. Just barely. Because that dejected weariness was there before. He quickly looks away.

No wonder Alfie keeps staring at him.

No wonder no one can stand being close, or touch him-

But Alfie doesn’t mind…

Grace smiles pityingly at him through the glass of the mirror, standing right behind him. “He puts up with it because it’s the only way to keep you somewhat under control-“  

The urge to drive a fist into the mirror and shatter the reflection bubbles up and he flees the bathroom. He wants to just lay down somewhere, curl up and hide from it all, but the bedroom is terribly empty and cold so he just gets dressed quickly in the dry clothes Esther has laid out to spare himself the sight of his own body. They’re as big as the others, but at least they’re soft and warm. And Alfie’s.

The living room is empty too and he quickly moves on to the kitchen after snatching his blanket from the armchair, and can finally breathe again when he finds Esther there. She smiles at him.

“There you are. A bit warmer, I hope?” She ushers him to the table and sets down a mug with soup in front of him. Right then, Alfie enters the kitchen

“Oh, but would you look at that! Managed to not drown and get yourself dressed in a timely manner, didn’t ya? Incredible.” He grins. He’s got a crooked tooth that Tommy hasn’t noticed before. Maybe it only shows when he smiles like that?

Then, they eat. Or rather, Alfie eats and Tommy tries to.

Swallowing is difficult today. He thinks of that gaunt figure in the mirror and tries, but his throat just closes up. Cold sweat breaks out on the back of his neck and he waits for Alfie to snap at him for-

Someone to pin him down, force him-

But Alfie just keeps talking about the deceptiveness of geese, of all things. And he slowly manages almost half of the soup. Esther wordlessly brings out the jar of honey and hands him a teaspoon. That’s easy. It’s just a taste. No texture and he doesn’t have to really swallow. He licks the spoon first, to avoid having the whole thing in his mouth at once, which is still difficult.

Alfie stops his talking then for a short moment, seems to lose his thread, and looksat him with those unreadable eyes that seems to shift in colour as quickly as his mood. They look green in this light. Tommy quickly turns his attention to the label on the honey jar.

After dinner Alfie simply states they should be getting back to their book, so it’s easy to follow him to the living room where a warm fire crackles. He takes his usual seat and wraps himself tightly in his blanket.  

Alfie begins reading and he tries to pay attention to the words, but that’s difficult too today. As if he’s just all too aware of his own body suddenly, of being in it, feeling all the bony angles jut from his skin, feel how weak and useless all his muscles have become, how he’s just this withered, hollow thing-

No different from his head, then.

The scar itches and he raises a hand to scratch. But another hand grabs it and pulls it back down onto the armrest. He blinks down at the bejewelled fingers holding onto his. Alfie is already looking down into the book again, reading on, but he doesn’t release his hand. The metal of the rings feel cool against his fingers, the warmth of Alfie’s skin contrasting starkly against them. Holding his breath, he waits for the moment when the hand will let go of his, but it doesn’t come. Maybe he should be the one to pull back? But when Alfie’s warm skin meets his, he feels… real and grounded. He doesn’t know why. All he knows is that when Alfie holds onto him like this, he can sink back into the pillows and close his eyes and just be, if only for a moment.

[hismissharley13]

Eight Years

I hadn’t seen Jax in what felt like forever.  He had told me that he didn’t want me coming up to Stockton to visit, I got it. I always panicked when he got hurt and let’s face it, jail time was not about to go smoothly for a member of Samcro.  Hell, even if Jax wasn’t a patch, he’d find trouble.  That guy had a knack for it.

I figured I’d head over to the clubhouse, everyone was going to be heading straight there...Jax wouldn’t live ‘til the next day if he didn’t see Gemma straight away.  Honestly, the woman was a force to be reckoned with.  Past experience taught me that she had no issue with coming to see her son, regardless of what he was doing.  She never batted an eye the time he’d visited me first when he returned from a run, he’d been balls-deep in me and she just walked in like she owned the damn place.

Don’t get me wrong, I liked her.  She was a caring woman with a huge heart, who’d do absolutely anything to save her family.  She just expected to be put first.  I got that, I really did.  So that’s why I resolved to meet him at the club house each time.  It saved me the embarrassment.

The celebration was in full swing by the time I’d arrived, I wanted to make sure that I looked my best.  My long hair swung slightly with each step, tendrils teased wayward by the slight breeze.  The heels of my boots clacked loudly on the sidewalk, then crunched as I reached the gravel by the club.  There were a few people outside, chatting in the cool evening air.  As I approached, Gemma turned and greeted me with a megawatt smile,

“Hey there sweetheart, up for a party?”

“Hi Gem, I’m looking forward to seeing that son of yours,” I hugged her in greeting and she motioned me inside,

I got two steps into the club and the room spun.  Well, I was spun around in a pair of trunk-like arms.  I let out a laugh of half-surprise, half-amusement as Opie set me back on my feet with a grin,

“Welcome home, Ope,” I giggled at him.  Even in the gloom I saw the bruised eye and cut above his brow and frowned.  Leaning up on tip-toes I kissed his whiskery cheek before stepping around him.  There was a lot of people here this evening, as usual it took me an age to even make it as far as the bar.  I tended to stay out of the way when Jax wasn’t about, so everyone took the opportunity to catch up with me, too.

I leaned across the bar to give Chibs a kiss hello, grimacing as my bare forearms stuck to the tacky residue of liquor on the bar-top.  He grinned, the dimples deepening around the scars on his cheeks as he handed me a cloth to wipe my arms,

“Sorry lass, the prospects hav’nae got the hang of pouring the drink intae the glasses instead of over the bar yet,”

“S’ok Chibby, I’ll live.  Can I have a whiskey and coke please?”

I watched as he poured, the golden liquid coating the glass, two finger widths up the side, three cubes of ice and topped with cola.  Chibs always made the perfect mix, he knew exactly how I liked it and always had a smug look on his face when i smacked my lips in approval at the first taste.

“See boys?  Tha’s how tae make a woman smile,” he winked at me roguishly.  I couldn’t help but grin back at him.  Turning my back on the bar, I scanned the room for the one I’d come to see.  I strained to see over the heads of those in the club and failed.  Huffing to myself I climbed up onto the bar to better view the room; Bobby and Juice were at the pool table, looked like they were playing pairs with a couple of crow eaters, there was Lyla talking to Clay and Piney.  Shit.  Lyla being here meant Ima was likely sniffing round the place too.  If she was sniffing round the club she was indubitably sniffing round Jax.  Jax who I couldn’t currently see.  I dropped my gaze and saw two blue eyes looking up at me, crinkled in a grin.  I squatted down onto my haunches and Tig’s hands grabbed my hips, lifting me down to the floor with ease,

“Hiya Tiggy,” I mumbled in his ear as he squeezed me into a hug, “Where’s my guy?”

“Hey baby-doll, I think he went to his bunk.  I’ve not seen him for a little while.  You doin’ ok beautiful?”

“Yeah I’m good thanks, glad to have you all back,”

“Damn good to be back, I tell ya.  Now go find Jax,” he ushered me off with a wicked leer and a smack on the ass.

A few more hugs and hellos got me to the corridor.  I brushed my fingers along the blue tank of JT’s bike fondly as I passed, the sensation of the cool metal comforting.  I took a mouthful of my drink, feeling the warmth slide down my throat and settle in my belly.  As I reached Jax’s room, I noticed the door was shut.  Maybe he just needed some alone time; not something he would have had much of this last eight months.  I stood motionless for a short time outside the door, my eyes tracing the grain of the wood as my mind processed the trains of thought, the anticipation building within me.  I filled my lungs and pushed the air out in a slow stream as I grasped the brass of the door handle.  The metal turned easily in my fingers and the door separating me from Jax swung away.

In times of trauma, most people describe it afterwards like it happened in slow motion, or so fast it was a blur.  That wasn’t what it was like for me.  Everything happened in real time, but I noticed every detail.

The spin of the glass as it left my hand.

The drops of liquid as they formed an arc.

The change of expression on Jax’s face.

The smug smirk on Ima’s.

The scuffle as Jax pulled his jeans up.

The smash of the glass against the wall.

The tone of regret in his voice as he said my name.

The crawling feeling of my skin when he touched me.

“It’s not what it looks like,”

I shrugged my arm roughly out of his hands.  Hands that less than a minute ago had been rocking Ima onto his dick.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot, Jax.” I said coldly.  At that moment, I felt nothing but disgust.

“Please, wait, just-”

“-just what, Jax?  What the hell do you think you’re doing? No, you know what?  I don’t give a shit.  I don’t care what you have to say,” He reached for me again and I held a finger up in warning, “NO, you don’t get to fucking touch me,” 

“Where are you going?” he pleaded in a pained voice as i whirled around and stalked down the corridor,

“It’s really not your business any more.” I replied stonily.  I wasn’t going to give him or Ima the satisfaction of my rage.  I strode into the thick of the party and collided with Tig,

“Whoa where’s the fire?” he grabbed my arms instinctively and caught sight of my face, “Baby what’s wrong?”

I looked up into his concerned face mutely.  His lips drew into a line and he ushered me into the club room.  Once the doors had shut, he thumbed away the tears that had escaped onto my cheeks.  Ducking down slightly he asked me again,

“What’s wrong?”

“I, uh, don’t think Jax and I are gonna work out,” I whispered with a watery smile.  Our attentions were drawn to the sudden lack of music.  Jax’s voice rang through the quiet,

“Where’s Kat?  Has anyone seen her?” 

Tig looked at me and I just shook my head.  I couldn’t bring myself to face Jax.  Not right then.  Not after what he had just done.  He took my cue and slid out into the main room.  I heard Clay’s voice answer first,

“What’s up, son?”

“I need to speak to Kat, where is she?”

“I uh, think she left, brother,” Oh Tig, thank you, “she seemed to be in a hurry, man,”

“Shit,”

A few moments of murmured voices indicated Jax leaving.  Tig sidled back into the room where I remained stood in the dark, trembling.   Clay pushed the door open slowly,

"Wanna tell me what's got you lyin’ to your VP?"

"Look, all I know is Kat is upset and Jax seems to be th-ah shit, you gotta be kidding me," Tig had looked over Clay's shoulder and must have seen Ima emerging from the dorms.  Lyla's shrill demand from the other side of the window confirmed it,

"Really, Ima? Jax?  Are you serious?"

Her smug purr made me want to smack her mouth to the other side of her face as she replied,

“Oh please, Lyla, he was practically begging me for it.  Who am I to deny the Vice Pres?”

Clay's indistinct growl pulled my attention back as he let the door swing shut again.  I wasn’t even aware that I was crying at first.  Tig's arms were suddenly enveloping me as silent sobs racked my body.  I got control of myself and concentrated on the scent of leather and Tig's cologne to ground me again.  He was stroking my hair softly, his chin resting on top of my head as he held me tight to him.  As I made to move, he loosened his grip but kept hold of me.  His eyes searched mine as I sniffled,

"Please tell me he wasn't as stupid as I think he was,"

My nod confirmed Tig's suspicion. He dragged a hand down his face in exasperation,

"Stupid sonofa-" the door opening again interrupted his sneer.  I noticed the music had started again when Clay came back into the room,

"I figured sending him out somewhere would be the best option, I don’t know what happened but I think I have a fair idea,” he looked expectantly at Tig.

“Yeah, good.  I'm gonna take Kat to my room until this is figured out.  Do me a favour boss, get rid of that fucking gash Ima,"

Clay's face twisted into a cruel smile, "I'll get Gemma right on it,"

I had no idea what his plans were, right then I didn't care.  I just wanted time to process what the fuck had happened.  I remained silent as Tig ushered me wordlessly to his bunk, thankfully the opposite end of the corridor to Jax's. He sat me on the bed and left, returning with two glasses and a bottle of Jamiesons.

I watched as Tig poured the whiskey, handing me a glass and sipping his own.

"You gonna talk to me, sweetheart?"

I heaved a sigh and swallowed a mouthful of my drink,

"When I opened the door to his room, I was gonna surprise him.  Seems I was surplus to requirement.  He was fucking her into the bed...

...I know on a run there's sweetbutts and things happen, I accept that.   I don't ask.  I don't want to know.  But he's not on a run, Tig, he's home.  I don't know why, I don't-" a slug of whiskey calmed the sobs threatening to break through, "It hurts.   God it hurts so bad," the tears flowed freely as I acknowledged the pain.   I had no more to say,

"Let it out baby doll,"

I held my head in my hands as I felt myself crumble.  I couldn't believe he'd done that to me.  All the promises, all the ‘I love you’s, it all meant nothing.  Eight long years.  I wondered how long he'd been cheating for?  After all, if he'd done it once...

The mattress sank to my left as Tig sat down next to me.  He topped off my glass first then his own before offering me a cigarette.  I took it and allowed him to light it for me.   He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear as I exhaled the smoke.  When we had finished in silence, he spoke softly,

"You found a level?" He instinctively knew not to ask if I felt better.  Like I could.

"Lil bit," I chewed my lip as I contemplated the liquor swirling in the glass.   I took another mouthful as I considered my request carefully, "I don't wanna be alone tonight,"

"Ok sweetheart, you want me to call someone for you?"

"No, I don't want everyone to know.  Can I stay here?" I instantly felt guilty.  Tig had been just as confined as the rest whilst inside, no doubt he'd be wanting a release, "no, sorry Tig.  Forget I asked.  I'll go back to the apartment, I've no doubt you've got some catching up to do," I shook my head with a smile,

"Like hell you will,"

"But,"

"But nothing, sweetheart.   You're hurting.  I'm here for you.   Anything you need. I'll sleep on the floor, you can take the bed,"

"Tig I'm not kicking you out of your own bed on your first night of freedom, share with me,"

Tig looked at me carefully, studiously, like he was trying to read my thoughts.

"You sure you wanna?"

"Look, the guy I've spent eight years of my life with has hurt me tonight beyond measure.   Even if you screwed me and dropped me tomorrow, I don't think I could feel any worse,"

“Oh baby, no,” I didn’t know how much of Tig’s sigh was sympathy and how much was denial.  I felt his eyes searching within me.  I was suddenly very aware of how close his body was to mine.  He shifted slightly towards me and the mood in the room shifted with him.

The air pressed on every inch of my skin.  I felt as if we were connected by an invisible band, pulling me in closer.  I felt like I was drowning.  Like he was my oxygen.  I needed him.   My eyes moved from his electric blue gaze to his lips, watching his tongue dart out across the length of his lower lip.  I felt myself moving closer to him.  He reciprocated.  I trapped my lip between my teeth, allowing it to pull itself free as my eyes flicked back to his.  His fingers ran the length of my jaw as he grazed the pad of his thumb along my lips.  I felt the cool metal of his jewellery in stark contrast to the heated flush of my cheek.

“Sweet girl,” he shook his head a little from side to side as his fingers edged round the back of my neck, “you deserve so much better,” his gaze grew darker as he moved his face towards mine.

I wanted him to know me.  I needed him to heal me.  I had to feel wanted.  Worth something.  I leaned ever closer, intoxicated by the intertwining aromas of whiskey, smoke and leather mixing with his cologne.  My eyes closed momentarily, an invitation.

The spark ignited the charged atmosphere as our lips met...

@charmingoutlaws

@cole-winchester

@hanaissupergirl

Special thanks to my beta readers @twistedrunes @5sos1dsex @scarnotmufasa and @cole-winchester for your eyes and feedback!

[nancywheelxr]

Kara and Brainy being captured together and realizing they have feelings for each other

Gosh this grew way bigger than I expected. Hope you enjoy it, anon!

Kara punches the glass doors again.

It’s useless, she knows. It didn’t work the first dozen times and it’s not going to work now, but going through the motions, burning through the adrenaline, the ache on her knuckles, it all makes her feel a little better, a little more in control.

“Supergirl?” his voice is cracking, but it’s there, and Kara rushes to the wall between cells, as close as she possibly can. “Where are– oh, no. We were captured.”

It’s not a question, she can see him remembering their fight this afternoon– the Children of Liberty surrounding them, so many of them, faceless with their masks, and she had gotten separated from Brainy, and she couldn’t see him in the sea of people, and then suddenly someone had dragged him forward, unconscious, pressed a gun to his head, and he had been so pale, blood trickling down his temple and disappearing on his black shirt, and his heartbeat had been so faint, so when the man yelled at her to give up, Kara had simply raised her arms behind her head and let them cuff her.

“How’s your head?” She asks gently, fingers itching to reach for him, “they hit you pretty bad there.”

His hands fly to the dry patch of blood, coming up thankfully clean. “It’s healed. But I’m afraid I might be slightly concussed,” he frowns, gingerly touching the back of his head, where Kara remembers he had hit his head on the bench when they carelessly tossed him in the cell. “What about you? Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she shakes her head, glancing at the walls, “but I still can’t get us out of here. I think they’ve got inhibitors like the ones in Shelley Island. Are you sure you’re okay? There was so much blood, I– just, I was so worried, you were out of it for so long, I thought–”

“I’ll be fine,” Brainy reassures her, standing up shakily. He needs a minute to steady himself, before shuffling to sit in front of her, leaning against the back wall. The glass between them is no more than four inches thin, but it feels terribly far from where she’s standing. “I heal faster than humans, the concussion will be gone soon. Do you know where we are?”

“No,” Kara sighs, mirroring his position and leaning back, hugging her knees to her chest. “The van was lined with lead. It’s like– they are scarily good at this.”

“Indeed,” he raises his hand to his forehead, closing his eyes. The crease on his brows deepens, “I cannot connect with anything either. These cells must be blocking any signals from coming in. It’s as if they had been prepared for me as well.”

“I don’t like this,” she shakes her head, “Lockwood is in jail, they should be scattering, not upping their game.”

Before any answer could be given, the door at the end of the hall is thrown open, three men stalking past it. They all look more or less the same– tall, burly, scowly. Their leader, the one with a scar above his right brow, steps closer to their cells, grinning, “now that’s a sight to see,” he crows, “not so super now, are we? But don’t worry, Blondie. We’re not here for you this time. We just wanna test a new toy our sponsor sent us.”

Dread pools on her stomach and Kara is on her feet before Scarface over there can finish pressing a button on a device he brought. She tries to run forward, but a high-pitched noise pierces the room. It seems to be too high for humans to hear, but even as she falls to her knees, Kara sees Brainy stumbling too, his image glitching and shimmering as his image inducer gives out.

And if this is hurting her ears, it looks so much more painful for Brainy, Kara has to– nothing. Like this, barely able to stand on her own, there’s nothing she can do.

“So it does work, uh?” Scarface laughs, turning on his heel to leave, his minions in tow.

She waits just until the ground feels steady under her feet, ignoring the ringing echoing on her head. “Brainy, oh my god, you’re bleeding again–”

“It’s– well, it’s not quite alright, but it does look worse than it is,” he’s breathing heavily, and when he coughs, she can see the blood on his palms. “There are more pressing things to worry about. Did you see the logo, on the device?”

Unfortunately. “Yeah. That’s not good, we need to tell Alex and the others.”

“They talked about a new sponsor, but why would L-Corp– why would Lena do this?”

Kara feels her own face hardening, “no, not L-Corp. Lexcorp.” This is really not good, they have to warn Lena, too. “But Brainy, they don’t seem to care what we hear. And they weren’t wearing masks this time. You know what that means, don’t you?”

He coughs again, wiping the blood from under his nose. “It means they’re planning to kill us.”

*

There’s a tiny window above her head, allowing natural light to spill inside their cells. Kara watches the sunlight move across the room as the hours pass, disappearing into pale moonlight by the end of the day. And then, she watches it again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

The days pass in a blur of awful helplessness. Without her powers and with little to no contact with their captors, Kara isn’t sure what she can do. There’s no one she can try to talk down, there’s no superpower to help her kick down doors. Their food comes only once a day, and the water too, only enough to keep them feebly alive.

One thing is for sure, these people are much better at kidnapping than the last crew.

“How long until Alex finds us, do you think?” She sighs, leaning against the wall between the cells, her legs stretched in front of her.

“No more than a day, I’d say,” Brainy guesses, the same guess he’s been answering her every time she asks. They’re sitting back-to-back, so Kara can’t see his face, but she imagines it must be as despondent as she feels.

“We need to come up with a plan of our own,” Kara suggests, awfully aware their time is running out. “Before they decide it’s not worth it to keep us here anymore.”

“They must need us for something,” he says, voice flat, “or we would not still be alive.”

At the very least, Brainy looks better, she concedes. His concussion did heal itself with time, and so did his cough, and his skin isn’t so pale anymore, but Kara hates to see the strain on his eyes. She absolutely loathes to see him hurting, and she hates even more that there’s nothing she can possibly do. He’s here, so close they would be touching if it weren’t for the glass, and she can feel the warmth radiating from him. Glass is a good heat conductor, she can almost hear him saying.

“That’s a smart one, uh?” Scarface is back, slamming a magazine against the glass door to her cell with a delighted smile and she hates herself for not hearing him approaching. It’s a Catco magazine, and Kara’s heart cracks at the cover. No more Age of Heroes? Supergirl MIA! “I can’t have you popping up dead, now can I? Oh no, then everyone would be crying their heart outs for you. I don’t need a martyr. No, I need you alive and breathing, so at the end of the week, you can tell all those nice people you could have stopped all these terrible, terrible fires. That shootout in City Hall? Shame you didn’t feel like stopping that one, uh? Yeah, wonder how your little fan club will feel after that.”

“Okay, look,” Kara sees the opportunity there, and scrambles up to snag it, “you want to discredit me right? You don’t need him here for that, he’s got nothing to do with this. Just let him go, and I’ll do it. I’ll say whatever you want me to say– just let him go.”

Scarface laughs a full-bodied laugh that echoes all around like nails scratching on a chalkboard. “You ever played poker, Blondie? Oh man, you’d be terrible at it. Rule Number One, never show your hand, man!” He shakes his head fondly, as if he had been dealing out real advice for her. “See, I already know you will do whatever I tell you to. Because pretty boy over here is my insurance. You think I’m gonna part with my insurance? Of course not, especially now that you just told me how much you care! I was banking on your whole self-righteous moral gig before, but boy, oh boy, did I hit the jackpot with this one– it’s personal for you!”

The magazine slides to the floor as he leaves, still chuckling.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Brainy says as soon as the man is out of earshot. He’s standing now too, face scarily blank, and Kara wonders if it’s too late to gather back her cards, hide them back up her sleeve along with her heart. “What if he had accepted your offer? It would have jeopardized your work as Supergirl– my well-being is not worth it. When the time comes, you must promise you will not do as he asks.”

“Brainy, what–”

“Promise me.”

“What? No, I will not,” she shoots back, stalking to the glass wall, “what are you talking about? Brainy, my reputation, Supergirl’s reputation, I can rebuild. With time, the people will trust me again– I did it before, I can do it as many times as I need. You being safe– that’s all that matters right now.”

His eyes are wide, and she can almost see the gears turning behind them, parsing through her words. “I don’t– the man with the scar on his right brow said it was personal for you. What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve been calling him Scarface in my head, actually.”

“Oh, yes, that is a better one!”

Kara’s ticking clock just got a new deadline, and she supposes now that she’s aware of this thing herself, it wouldn’t take long until Brainy figures it out on his own. She never learned how not to wear her heart on her sleeve. And besides, if they don’t make it– she might not get another chance to say this. “Well, first of all, my decision on this would be the same no matter who was here with me. It could be a freaking stranger– any life is worth more than the public opinion,” she swallows, fidgeting with her cape, before taking a deep breath, steeling herself, “that being said. When he says personal, he means I’m in love with you.”

A whole minute goes by in silence. Kara wonders if she broke Brainy. Then, she wonders if he’s wishing he would have been kidnapped with somebody else, someone that isn’t stupidly making him more uncomfortable than those ratty, lumpy mattresses. Then, he speaks, “and is that what you mean?”

She smiles, relieved, “yeah, duh. Even out kidnappers can tell,” her heart is fluttering as she presses a hand to the glass, “it took me a while to realize it, and I kind of hate that I’m saying this for the first time in a prison cell, but Brainy. I’m in love with you.”

He raises his own hand, pressing against hers in answer, just a few inches away from touching. “I wish the circumstances were better,” he says, “I wish I had better words to offer you, but until then. Know this, my heart is yours, Kara Danvers. I love you as well.”

In a perfect world, this would be the moment they would kiss and fireworks would burst in the sky and everything would be alright. But in reality, Kara can only wish fiercely for a happy ending yet.

“Brainy,” she decides, “we are getting out of here. Scarface talked big game about not showing his cards, but he did give us something to work with.”

Brainy raises an eyebrow.

“He can’t kill either of us, not until after the weekend. When they come to move us, that’s when we escape,” a spark of hope is igniting a wildfire on her chest. Now that she has a plan of action, now that she knows this thing between them is real and possible and so, so close– Kara has never been more alive. Right now, she could reach for the stars.

“It will be difficult,” Brainy reminds her, but his voice sounds just as sure as hers, “they’ve defeated us before. But it could work.”

“It will work,” she states, no room for doubt. Then, because it still feels as if she’s melting inside, “but you know, I could really use seeing your smile right now.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head, but his lips curl in the most beautiful smile in the whole wide world if you ask Kara.

“Now I know, everything is going to be okay.”

*

They never make it to the end of the week.

It couldn’t be more than a day when even Kara’s powerless hearing picks up on the commotion outside. She stands to the attention, nods at Brainy who is doing the same in his cell. “Looks like it will be sooner rather than later.”

“Good luck,” she bites her lips, “and be careful.”

The door at the end of the hall swings open and half a dozen agents of liberty fill the room, throwing their cells open. “Change of plans,” one of them says, dragging her out by the arm, “time to sing, roach.”

There are guns pointed at them, and somewhere there’s a dog that just won’t stop barking, and the commotion outside is still raging on, and in the middle of all the chaos, Kara looks away and meets Brainy’s gaze. He nods back. They spring into motion and she has to trust he can handle himself in the fight.

A bullet grazes her shoulder. She punches someone’s face. Her side hurts. A punch to the stomach. It goes by in a flurry of motion, her training kicking in automatically, muscle memory taking over. Kara makes a mental note to thank her sister for all that hand-to-hand in the Kryptonite room.

The agents of liberty might have been better equipped this time, but between the two of them, they still fall down one by one.

“We did it?” her voice echoes in the hall.

“We did it,” his arms wrap around her waist.

And the fireworks might just be an automatic gun emptying its clip somewhere upstairs, and her shoulder is aching where it bleeds, and Brainy has blood on his temple– and none of it matters, because they’re finally, finally, free and he’s kissing her and she’s kissing him and that’s all there is.

Until the cocking of gun, gunshot loud in the silent room.

“Well, well, well, sorry to interrupt,” Scarface says, not smiling for once, gun aimed steadily at them, “but I’m afraid there’s been a change of schedule. Let’s see how well you wear martyrdom, shall we?”

Seriously? is all Kara can think while staring down the barrel of his gun, hasn’t it been enough?

The safety is off. She sees his finger ready on the trigger. Time slows down. And–

“Supergirl,” Alex is suddenly there, throwing something high in the air, and the whole place burst with blinding light. 

Yellow sun grenade.

Kara grins, feeling the rush of power thrumming once again underneath her skin, and god, she puts herself in front of Brainy, the rain of bullets bouncing off harmlessly off her. “What took you guys so long?” She laughs, ridiculously relieved, “this place has the worst room service.”

“What? It’s not my fault, these idiots kept setting buildings on fire,” Alex shrugs, faking nonchalance even as she pulls her into a tight hug, “I was so worried.”

“Hey, it’s fine,” she reassures her sister, “we’re fine.”

“Thank you for the rescue, Director Danvers,” Brainy comes to stand beside them, wheezing when Alex hugs him just as tight, “but there is much that needs to be discussed. We have gathered quite a bit of intel.”

“Well, silver linings, I guess?” Alex makes a face, “I need to check on my team, but you two– stay here. It’ll take me two minutes, don’t you dare move, hear me?” She leaves, grumbling, “god knows I don’t want either of you out of my sight for the next ten years.”

Finally, Kara breathes.

“I think that cut might need stitches,” she says softly, fingers tracing gingerly along the edges, “how do you feel about needles?”

Brainy catches her hand, gently turning it around to kiss her inner wrist, just below her pulse point, and she shivers. “Terribly,” he says, eyes shining mischievously, “I guess you will have to hold my hand until it’s over.”

“Gladly,” she tells him, “and I’ll kiss it better after.”

He smiles.

And Kara thinks, yeah, everything will be okay.