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twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 10 months

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YOU ARE SOMEBODY THAT I WANT TO KEEP ; SATORU GOJO

synopsis; you aren't sure what you have with satoru gojo, but you know that it’s good.

word count; 6.7k

contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, colleagues to friends to something unlabelled, you love each other though!!, fluff, hurt/comfort, very very soft, reader falls first but gojo falls harder, both of u are afraid of intimacy lol, a lil angsty if u squint, satoru gojo cherishing u for ~7k words straight <33

a/n; basically just a collection of moments between you and gojo throughout the years <33 (a significant amount of time has passed between each part!!) hes an emotionally repressed loser but i love him and he is smitten w u.

in the soft luminescence of daybreak, your kitchen looks something like a dream.

tainted with a hazy sunshine, simmering with warm colours and pleasant scents, it almost seems to sparkle in the peripheral of your vision. brimming with that feeling of home, a home you’ve broken your bones building, desperate to shape it into something safe — and you think you’ve done a pretty good job.

it’s soothing, comforting, all of these sensations. bleeding into each other like smudges of paint on a canvas; hyacinths blooming by the windowsill, espresso-flavored steam wafting up to the roof, soft meows stemming from the cats by your feet. absolute bliss.

indulging in a peace yet to be shattered by the strain of the working world, you rub the sleep from beneath your weary eyes. blinking and yawning like a drowsy child.

beyond the translucent glass of your windows, glimmering with the light of a sun soon to rise, the world is painted pink and indigo — save for that one hint of gold, a streak of honey slathered across the surface of the sky. fluffy clouds drift through the chilly air, melting in the wake of a new day, and you think they look a little like tufts of cotton candy. soft enough to sink your teeth into, if only the glass wasn’t in the way. keeping the cold out.

it’s a new day. a pleasant morning, sitting comfortably on the brink of dawn, before the city has a chance to rouse from its slumber.

a kind of solitude you so rarely get to bask in.

a false solitude, really. because, for once, there’s another human being in your home — one you don’t know nearly as well as you’d like, for him to be fast asleep on your couch, cheek smushed against the leather. snoring softly.

satoru gojo.

like this, he looks very… human. vulnerable. hair just slightly tousled, from tossing and turning on your not-so-comfortable couch, blindfold only covering one of his eyes and close to slipping off entirely. his expression has melted into one of something vaguely resembling relaxation, as close to unguarded as you assume he can physically get.

even in his sleep, he looks a little stiff. not entirely at peace; like a stray cat sleeping under the hood of a car.

(you’re curious. fascinated, maybe, by the loneliness that clings to the strongest person in the universe. by the paradoxical innocence of his grin.)

honestly, everything from last night is kind of a blur. you remember accompanying the strongest sorcerer on a mission, one long enough to leave you completely and utterly spent, fatigue nestled deep into your bones. remember gojo getting a sudden migraine, so earth-shattering that you thought he was going to keel over and throw up in the middle of the street.

then you remember bringing him back home with you. very hesitantly, only after he begrudgingly accepted the fact that he didn’t have much of a choice. because you were fucking exhausted, and so was he, and your apartment happened to be conveniently close. you remember him practically passing out on your couch, still somehow managing to crack a bad joke you can’t recall, while you went to collapse into the comfort of your bed.

and now you’re here. dyed in half-transparent sunbeams, caffeine bubbling in your veins, gazing at your sleeping coworker from your spot by the kitchen table. waiting for the world to open its weary eyes.

it’s still early. some part of you expects him to sleep a while longer, but you can’t say you’re particularly surprised when gojo begins to stir.

a splotch of sunshine splatters across your living room window, staining the floorboards, falling over the contours of his pretty face. in the light, he looks positively holy; white lashes, pale skin, plump lips. like a goddess.

when he opens his eyes, it’s even worse. a single iris cracked open, pooling with unbridled brilliance. eyes so blue they seem to cut through the stillness of the air.

(— and the world wakes up.)

a little groan slips from his lips, barely audible. with groggy movements, he brings a hand up to his face, obscuring the grating light of the sun flitting in. you think you can almost see the gears of his mind turn, as he takes notice of his surroundings, remembering what transpired just hours before.

faster than you thought, he regains some semblance of composure. huffing under his breath, as he forces himself into a sitting position.

it feels a little wrong, to see the closest thing this world has to a god act so human. be so human. morning-fatigued, just like you, wearing droopy eyelids and a soft, sleepy pout. a little disheveled. groggy with lost dreams.

when his gaze meets yours, you can’t control the breath that hitches pitifully in the back of your throat. a meek skip of your heartbeat, like you just saw something you shouldn’t have. oops.

gojo cracks a grin.

“.. watchin’ me sleep?” he calls out, cheeky. paired with a drowsy yawn. composed, unbothered, but there’s something almost performative about it, something you’re sure you’d miss if he wasn’t still in the process of collecting himself.

“good morning,” is all you offer him. ignoring his teasing remark. he doesn’t push it, to your surprise. “sleep well?”

a hum. absentminded, jovial. one of his large hands goes to adjust his blindfold, the other to fluff up his hair. kicking off the blanket you just barely had the energy to throw over him last night. your fluffiest one, warm enough to protect him from the chill gnawing at the windows. hopefully.

“like a log,” he quips, stretching idly, muscles straining under his baggy uniform. they must be sore, after that mission. or maybe he’s above such things.

choosing not to comment on his obvious lie, you put your lips against the ceramic of your cup. sipping from the bitter brew, a tinge of hazelnut on your tongue. letting him gather his bearings without you scrutinizing him. a little favor, one liar to another.

“thanks for letting me crash,” he grins, lazy. toothy. stumbling to his feet with a low groan, gaze flitting around the room — looking for the exit. “i’ll get outta your hair,” he mutters, and you raise a brow.

“not staying for breakfast?”

gojo stills. your question rings out, bouncing off the walls of the kitchen, into the living room.

his smile twitches, ever so slightly, in what you think must be surprise. then it’s back to normal; like putting on a mask, not allowing a sliver of weakness to slip through the cracks. he exhales a raspy chuckle, a sound that flows through the air and crawls down your spine.

”generous, aren’t you?” he hums, voice rich with amusement. dappling sunlight licking at the white locks of his hair.

you shrug. “i wouldn’t mind the company.”

the words climb up the walls of your throat, a little reckless, eager to catch a glimpse of the miracle before you. satoru gojo, framed by the simplicity of your home — somewhat hard to let go of. sunkissed skin, restless hands. a little out of tune. shifting from foot to foot, eager to get away.

(a little like a frightened fawn, you amuse yourself by thinking. he’s really more like the fox who scared it.)

you think he must be bit uncomfortable. forced to spend the night in a coworker’s apartment, one he doesn't even know that well, one he probably doesn’t have any intention of getting to know. still trying to politely excuse himself. persistent, stubborn.

maybe he didn’t expect this. maybe he was convinced he could sneak away, before you had a chance to wake up. maybe he thought you’d be all too eager to let him leave, and never speak of this again. maybe he’s not used to being wanted.

“ha… i’m flattered, believe me, but —“

“what do you usually eat?” you ask. cutting him off, gently, tapping your fingertips against the edge of the table. “for breakfast, i mean. i’ll whip something up.”

a chuckle slips from his lips. you can’t put your finger on it, but something about it bothers you. “really, there’s —“

“if you’re worried about inconveniencing me, don’t be.” you pause, unsure of what to say. but the words end up spilling out of your throat, oddly honest. ”it’s been a while since i had the chance to make breakfast for someone else.”

it’s strange, really, how intent you are on seeing this through. how much effort you’re putting into making him stay. you barely even know him. actually, you don’t know him at all — all you know is that his smile makes you happy and his strength makes you envious. that you aren’t afraid of him, even though you probably should be.

something about him just feels safe.

“i’m pretty good at making pancakes,” you hum, a small smile playing at your lips. polite, jovial. pale light flits in through the window and slips into its curve. ”do you want some? before we go to work.”

(something in his fingers twitch, when you say that tiny word; pancakes. a little tell. you just barely catch it, before it sputters out. before he reels it back in.)

a moment passes. slow, drawn out, a rubber band bound to snap.

gojo stands there, a very subtle contemplation etched into his features. behind him, your cats begin to scratch at the couch, but you don’t scold them. just waiting for something to happen. beyond the glass of your windows, the sun unfurls in the sky, stretching its arms to envelop the world.

he grins, suddenly. soft light reflecting off the white of his teeth. cocky, composed, not quite performative — just a little more natural.

“well, if you insist.”

he strolls over to your side, just a tiny bit sluggish, lazy steps and comically long limbs. he must still be tired. but he takes a seat, right across from you, plopping down on the chair with an effortless air of confidence. lighthearted, leaning his elbows on the table, crossing his legs under it. comfortable. settling into his role.

you’re pleasantly surprised.

“how would you like them?” you ask, and you think some of your excitement may have spilled out with the question. if it did, gojo doesn’t comment on it. ”your pancakes.”

“with chocolate chips, please!” he shoots you a sweet smile. “and whipped cream on top.”

so demanding. for some reason, it makes the corners of your lips quirk up. kinda like a bratty younger brother.

“got it.”

the smell of dark chocolate hangs heavy in the air as you get to work, shuffling around the open space. all while gojo waits, patiently, tapping his foot under the table and staring out the window. leaning his jaw on the heel of his palm. listening to the humming of nightingales on the branches of the apple tree down on the ground, and the buzz of your old radio.

the kitchen fills with motion, sounds, smells. life. splotches of sunlight, crinkled cartons of orange juice. the clinking of plates. two tired adults, seated at the same table, indulging in a fleeting peace and the promise of something new. something almost concrete.

a small, precious moment. enough to make your fascination shift into something you know must be fondness. or close to it.

gojo grins at you, mouth full of pancakes, eagerly telling you about something the kids did last week. wolfing them down, chocolate smeared over his bottom lip. you laugh, and suddenly the world feels a little safer than it should. a little more intact.

you wonder what it means. where it’s going to lead. this feeling of something wonderful beginning, something you couldn’t stop if you wanted to.

a budding connection.

the city lays blanketed beneath a layer of thick snow. blurry pale dots dancing in the wind, obscuring the sky, frost engulfing every building in a bone chilling hug.

with a slight shiver, you dig your hands into the comfort of your pockets, seeking the fleeting warmth you find. admiring the frozen landscape before you, the hustle and bustle of people going about their day. the saffron light of the lamp posts, the glittering snow by your feet, the skeletal apricot trees and their bare branches. this monochrome city you find yourself in.

gojo exhales. strolling cheerily down the street, in tandem with you, a frosty breath to your left that scatters and melts into the open air. it smells minty.

today, he’s wearing black shades — like he usually is when you meet outside of work. it’s kind of nice. when you angle your face a certain way, you can almost see the blue pooling in his eyes, the white of his eyelashes.

he’s beautiful. he always has been. but like this, you think his beauty is simply unfair, highlighted by the winter wonderland you find yourselves in. mesmerizing, the red flush of his cheeks, how he hums along to some jolly tune playing from a little corner store further down the street. all bundled up, in a stylish overcoat and a nice scarf, untouched by the snowflakes fluttering about.

protected by his infinity, always. the silly god you call a friend.

he looks content, despite the cold that keeps nipping at your bare skin, smiling widely. blabbing on about the movie you’re about to watch, how he saw it back in high school but never thought it’d get a remake. how his friend thought it sucked but that friend always had bad taste so his opinion is irrelevant. how he has faith that you’ll like it.

(cute.)

distracted by the pretty man so close by, close enough to touch, you don’t look ahead. maybe just a little bit entranced. which would be fine, if you didn’t happen to be walking on the right side of the street —

crashing straight into a lamp post.

”owch!”

it’s sudden. and it’s a harsh collision, enough to leave your nose stinging, an ache that makes you whine. cursing under your breath as you take a couple steps back, hands reaching for the part of your face that took the brunt of the hit.

and gosh, is this embarrassing. you dance on the edge of death for a living, and here you are — whining over walking into a fucking lamp post. because you were too enamored by the beauty of your own coworker to pay attention to your surroundings.

a coworker who is currently looking at you, silently. having failed to warn you in time, stuck in his own memories, caught up in his in-depth, spoiler-filled review of a movie he’s been waiting to watch all week.

for a moment, all he does is blink. long eyelashes fluttering, like a dove flapping its wings.

then he starts laughing.

scratch that — gojo is downright cackling, thoroughly amused by your clumsy mishap, like he just saw the funniest thing in the world. laughter ringing out into the cold air, white breaths to compliment the red of your burning ears.

asshole.

with a harsh furrow of your brows, you attempt to look angry; but before long, your lips are curling up. infected by his joy. a soft punch to his shoulder is all you manage, biting back a little puff of laughter. you’re embarrassed.

(so embarrassed you don’t even notice how he puts his infinity down.)

”don’t laugh, you piece of shit!” you hiss, grinning even still, flushing and trying to ignore the curious glances you get from passersby. ”it really hurt!”

but gojo doesn’t stop. doesn’t even attempt to. you think he just grew even more amused, if anything, practically bending over from how hard he’s laughing — clutching his stomach.

”sorry, sorry — ’m just…” he tries to speak, taking deep breaths in between bursts of giggles. ”how the hell — how’d you —”

he stops trying. laughing, again.

and it’s a genuine laugh. a little wolfish, spilling out from his pretty parted lips, showing off his sharp teeth. from the very bottom of his gut, clear and bright, deep and infectious. melodic. shades close to slipping off the bridge of his nose, eyes tearing up behind them. trying to collect himself, muffled giggles turning to soft vapour in the cold air. dimples visible on his rosy cheeks.

and suddenly you can't think, can't speak, can only look at him and wonder how a human can be so very beautiful. how it’s metaphysically possible. like a crushed cluster of stars was given human form, a body of celestial light.

he looks so young, like this. a millenia younger, no weight on those broad shoulders, no immovable wall to separate you both. he looks like one of the guys you used to hang out with in middle school, running through corridors and play fighting and holding back shared laughter in the library. before the bite of the world left a mark in your skin.

he looks like himself. like someone pulled the mask off, and all that’s left is the human. none of the godhood he was saddled with at birth.

while you’re busy staring, gojo finally finds his composure again. wiping at his glassy eyes, a chuckle slipping out here and there. distracted by the breathtaking sight, you begin to forget the sting of your collision — until you feel something warm trickle down your chilled skin.

searching for it with the pads of your fingers, you feel a trail of wetness beneath your nose. and when you bring them down, to get a look, all you see is red.

”ah.”

gojo moves closer. maybe just a little alarmed, by the blood dripping from your nose, staining the white of the snow beneath your feet. a chilling contrast, one you’re frighteningly used to. it’s almost comforting. blood on your skin, that sting of pain clogging up your nose, enough for you to get lost in. colours melting together, memories rising to the surface —

when suddenly, something touches your cheek.

one large hand goes to keep your jaw in place, gentle. smooth leather, sneaking under your chin, lifting your face up ever so slightly. warmth trickles from his fingertips through the fabric, and you can smell a hint of his perfume. strawberries and vanilla.

gojo looks at you fondly. wiping the blood from your nose, smudging his expensive gloves. from this angle, you can see his eyes, a blue shimmer in an evening painted white and gray — the sole flicker of colour in this monochrome city. they’re crinkled at the edges.

he looks awfully amused.

(you stay still, not breathing, like any slight motion could have him pulling away.)

”careful,” he croons. so low you barely hear it, almost a purr. the word has a soft underbelly, something you don’t need to dissect to feel.

a sentiment that seems to simmer in the air around you, drifting past the little corner store, a dog tied to a lamp post, your reddened cheeks. past the blue of his eyes, a peripheral that stretches to cover the city before you. words too heavy to speak aloud.

stay safe for me, silly.

then he’s letting go. sudden, the bite of the air replacing his hand. it lingers on your skin, like a memory, like the ghost of a memory. but it’s there. strawberries and vanilla, leather and warmth. something kind. warm.

and it stays there, even as gojo takes a step forward, no longer facing you. walking confidently, the wind bending around his tall stature. long legs and large steps, leaving an imprint in the snow for you to follow. a northern star.

he turns his head, and grins. hair tousled by the breeze, white locks glittering with snowflakes. ”you coming? it’s starting soon.”

a moment passes.

”or do you need me to call shoko?”

you puff out a breathy laugh, at that, stumbling forward. reaching up to wipe more of the blood sticking to your skin. sniffling, but smiling, teeth peeking out between your lips.

”yeah, yeah,” a roll of your eyes. ”’m right behind you.”

gojo’s eyes crinkle, disappearing behind his shades when he straightens his back and raises his head. moving forward, while you follow; his back turned to you, snowy hair melting into the white all around you. like something out of a painting.

with a pep in step, you catch up to him. eager to hear more of his voice, his memories. still basking in the warmth of his hand on your jaw.

a touch from the untouchable.

gojo’s lying on your couch.

he usually is, to be fair, so it shouldn’t be surprising. kicking his legs up, watching tv — or sleeping, snoring loudly, like the couch belongs to him. like your home belongs to him. like he pays rent, and doesn’t just laze around and devour all the sweets in your kitchen cabinets.

(he’s there so often that you’re starting to wonder if you should give him a copy of your keys, or something. but you have a feeling that’d be just a smidge too intimate for him to ever accept.)

this time, however, gojo is doing neither of those things.

he’s on your couch, but he isn’t manspreading, or draping himself over the leather with a lazy grin. he doesn’t have that air of effortless confidence. and it’s palpable, in the air, the open space, enough that you can feel it. an itch on your skin, a lump in your throat. you could practically feel it as soon as you walked through the door.

he isn’t wearing his blindfold, or his shades. he isn’t even smiling. and gojo is always, always smiling.

you think he might be having a rough day.

even the cats are noticing that something’s off. jumping up in his lap, trying to comfort him, brushing against his legs. purring, when he cradles them close — always so gentle with them. hands petting down their backs, softly, the same hands he uses to rip out the throats of curses and curse users alike.

then they mewl and run away. and for once you wish they wouldn’t, wish they could keep clinging to him like they always do. just to make him feel better. right now, in the state he’s in, you wouldn’t even mind gojo’s usual smug declarations of how does it feel to know they like their papa best?

you can’t help but feel unsure of yourself. gojo isn’t doing anything, and he isn’t saying anything. he’s just lying there, on his back, eyes closed. letting the darkness of the room engulf him. drowning in his own thoughts.

he must know that you’re there. he must have heard you come in. but he isn’t saying anything, and you wonder if that means he wants you to leave him alone.

you’re reminded of that one morning. when he woke up on your couch, and looked more human than you’d ever seen him. how you wanted to avert your eyes, how wrong it felt to see a god rouse from its slumber.

(but you know better now.)

hesitantly, you begin to inch closer, step by step. quiet, floorboards barely creaking beneath your weight. tentative, as you settle down on the couch. brushing against the infinity between you.

gojo’s eyes flicker open. like an old tape beginning to play. they still shine with that same brilliance, they always do, but now you think they look just a little dull. a little red.

a moment passes. agonizingly slow.

before you can properly think it through, you’ve done it. almost on instinct, jumping the gun before he has the chance to cover everything up with jokes and laughter. opening your arms; a silent invitation.

gojo only stares.

his gaze moves down to your outstretched arms, and then up to your face. your pursed lips, nervous eyes, worried crease between your brows. one second passes. two, five. you stop counting.

for a moment, you’re almost certain that he’s about to get up and leave. that he’ll flash you a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, walk out the door and then never return. like you flew too close to the sun, just another icarus too mesmerized by the glow of his grin to notice your melting wings. like you stepped over the fragile line that separates his bones from yours, his heartbeat from your greedy hands.

— but then he sluggishly gets into a sitting position, and doesn't look at you.

when gojo collapses into your embrace, you’re so surprised that you almost forget how to breathe. almost forget your own name, forget whose home you’re in, why your arms are wrapped around a pale man. all you can think of is how warm he feels, how he’s like a weighted blanket against you. how he trusts you enough to come so very close.

cheek pressed against your chest, arms loose around your waist. no infinity, no barriers. just a single touch shared between two damaged human beings.

a brief inhale gives you the composure that you need. air flowing into your lungs, your brain, as you settle into a comfortable position. no words leave your lips; you just continue to hold him, one hand on his back, testing the waters. letting him hear the echo of your heartbeat. unsure, the both of you, but something about this feels right. close to right. almost there.

gojo is stiff. when you strain your ears, you hear a sharp intake of breath, and a full body shiver courses through him. a tremble of his spine. like he’s itching to run, like he doesn’t quite know where to put his hands. so painfully unused to a proper embrace.

(a little like a frightened fawn.)

a tender something unfurls within your chest, and you feel almost devoured by the fondness rooting itself into your beating heart. delicate, as you begin to brush away his tousled bangs, leaning close. pressing a kiss to his forehead, glistening with sweat. letting your lips linger on his skin.

he’s pale, shining in the bleak moonlight cast from the translucent curtains of your living room windows. pale like a ghost. and there are dark crescents beneath his dull eyes.

nightmares, you surmise. they haunt him too, don’t they? of course they do.

eyes brimming with emotion, you gaze at him; quiet as a mouse, closing his eyes. leaning into your touch, ever so slightly, breathing out a sigh tinged with pure exhaustion. and a certain realization washes over you, akin to a tidal wave, sudden and inevitable. so obvious it’s funny.

you’re not a god at all, are you?

a coo slips from your lips. barely a sound, more like a soothing breath. warm against his cold skin.

you’re just like everyone else. just as fragile.

one of your thumbs goes to smooth over the puffy skin beneath his eyes. so, so gentle. like one wrong touch could have him crumbling into little grains of stardust, spilling out over the worn leather of your couch.

there are so many things you wish you could say to him. so many things you’ll never be able to say, because you’re afraid that if you give him too much it’ll scare him off. like love could burn him if it were to leak out too fervently. like it’s burned him before.

so you don’t say anything. but you think it, you repeat it inside your mind like a prayer, and some part of you thinks that’s enough. i’ve got you — a whisper that you don't dare to voice.

one gojo still manages to hear, somehow, if the way he tugs you closer and snuggles into your neck is anything to go by. a shaky exhale brushing against your collarbone.

(if you feel something wet touch the skin of your shoulder, you don’t mention it.)

you simply hold him, and don’t even think the thought of letting go. even though it takes him hours just to fall asleep, hours you spend anxiously wondering if he’ll change his mind and pull away. but he doesn't leave, even though his body may want him to, and that's enough, and you don’t let go. not even once. he stays cradled to your chest the same way you’d hold a tiny puppy, something fragile. something you need to handle with care.

and when his heartbeat finally mellows out, when you hear little barely audible snores flow from his lips, you finally begin to relax. melting into the couch beneath you, watching him get the rest he deserves. praying that any nightmares of his will be given to you instead.

sleep comes, eventually, to the both of you. tangled up on the couch, him on top of you, comforted by the flutter of each other’s heartbeat. by the warmth of another human being. safe in each other’s arms.

(the next morning, through hazy sunshine and the clinking of coffee cups, he teasingly tells you that just satoru is fine.)

it’s barely daybreak when satoru wakes you up.

a rude awakening, to say the least. he pulls out all the stops, intent on not letting you sleep even a second longer; poking at your cheek, pinching them when that doesn’t work. tickling you, blowing cold air into your ear, flopping down on top of you like a big dog. anything to rouse you from your deep slumber.

and he just will not give it up. no matter how hard you try to ignore him, no matter how many times you swat him away with your duvet pillow or turn to bury your face into the sheets. that’s how satoru always is, how he’s always been, how he hopefully always will be — an absolute pain. one you wouldn’t trade for anything else in the world.

so, when he starts whining for you to just wake up already, voice tinged with a sadness that tugs at your heartstrings, you find yourself opening your tired eyes. all while he murmurs on and on about something unintelligible, still trying to bribe you.

”i’ll make you coffee, okay? just get up. c’moooon.”

”… what time is it, satoru?” is all you mutter, voice leaving your lips in a raspy, disgruntled fashion. stirring a little at the promise of coffee.

he cracks a grin. ”don’t worry about it! just come with me.”

despite your grumpy attitude, and the ungodly hour at which satoru shakes you awake, you find yourself letting him scoop you up and set you down on the kitchen counter. placing a hot cup of coffee in your hands, made just the way you like it, before grinning mischievously in a way that has you feeling ill at ease.

and ten minutes later, you find yourself on top of a hill. overlooking the woods, and a big lake below you, no city lights visible no matter where you turn — god knows where he’s taken you, but it’s pretty.

breathtaking, even. all frost and wildlife and peace, sweet solitude, tiny flowers blooming on the patches of grass around you. a murder of crows takes flight in the distance, scattering into the indigo of the sky.

gojo grins, boyish and bright, excited breaths turning into vapour as he speaks. awfully proud of himself.

”i can’t take you on vacation, but —”

he drags you with him, arm looped around your own, plopping down on the ground. not before taking off his jacket, to cover the ground beneath you. grass tickles the skin of your palms, as you comfortably spread your legs, making sure to sit as close to him as possible.

and your heart softens a little.

because he’s mentioned it, before; how it’d be nice to go on a road trip, someday, just the two of you. all around the world, wherever the wind takes you. basking in that feeling of freedom. it’s no more than a fever dream, though, with how busy satoru is, the responsibilities you both shoulder.

so this’ll have to do. that’s probably what he’s thinking.

”the sun’ll rise soon. it’ll be pretty, i promise,” he beams, so close that you feel his warm breath on your skin. that you can see the dimples on his cheeks, his barely visible freckles.

”oh, so that’s why you woke me up so early.”

his smile widens. ”nice, right? i wanted to surprise you. d’you like it?”

a smile blooms on your lips, in tandem with his, honeyed and content. indulgent. gojo looks at it, and immediately knows your answer.

”yeah. it’s really pretty out here,” you face forward, taking a deep breath, fresh morning air entering your lungs. cool and crisp, stirring your sleepy mind. ”kinda nostalgic.”

satoru hums, and follows your lead. looking ahead, admiring the beauty of an empty world.

the big lake looks like a mirror, from here, glittering in the peripheral of your vision. the sun licks at the frozen sky, not quite breaking through, not entirely ready to rise — but it paints everything a rusty gold and you can almost feel spring shining through, taste it on your tongue, that promise of something better, something more concrete. a warmth you don’t have to question.

a warmth that’ll stay with you for a long time to come.

it takes about ten seconds for the man by your side to start speaking, again, shattering the peaceful silence. but you don’t mind. his voice is nice, a mellow melody to your morning-fatigued brain.

side by side, you wait for the sun to rise. sharing hushed whispers and laughter, like two kids having a sleepover. like nothing exists but the space that cocoons you, wraps you up in a nostalgia so palpable the entire world feels like a fond memory.

(it makes you feel a millenia younger.)

satoru giggles like a child, telling you about something shoko said, or something megumi did, and you don’t miss a single word that spills from his glossy lips. hanging on to every word he’s willing to give to you.

he looks so unbothered, like this. eyes crinkling, humming some tune you don’t recognize, like a little nightingale ready to take flight into the skies.

you part your lips, admiring his features. every patch of skin you can see. words making themselves manifest, hungry to see inside his brain, to know more about him. a fascination that’s never quite left you — though now you think it may be better described as love. ”hey, satoru?”

at the sound of his name, he turns to you. the weight of his eyes feels so light, like this. those blessed eyes staring into yours. he tilts his head, a smile playing at his lips. ”mm?”

”if you could go anywhere you wanted, where would you be right now?”

satoru blinks.

he looks at you, a mild surprise flitting through the lines of his face, as he takes you in. measures the weight of your words.

then he smiles, again. lopsided, almost a smirk, rich with amusement. a hum buzzes in his throat, like a butterfly itching to break out.

”.. you teasing me?”

a huff fills the air. ”it’s a genuine question!” you insist, moving your leg to nudge his own. ”c’mon. anywhere in the world. i’m just curious.”

another hum. he narrows his eyes, playfully, biting at the inside of his cheek to hold back a chuckle when that makes you grumble. pouting softly, tilting your head. he’s amused, you can tell.

but he closes his eyes, lashes fluttering, glimmering with morning dew. and you can tell he’s taking you seriously. tasting the question on his tongue.

something shines in his eyes, when he opens them again; crinkling at the corners, soft lines of crows’ feet. you can almost see that burst of aquamarine, breaking through the black glass of his shades. like the laws of physics can’t contain it. and he smiles, as always, a smile so beautiful you wish you could live on the curve of his lips. flimsy, no teeth peeking out, no dimples to admire. but sweet. slathered with honey, as sincere as can be.

his voice comes out a little raspy, tainted with a tinge of fatigue, a smokey residue that sticks to the walls of his throat. but it's genuine, like he just woke up, like he's too sleepy to be dishonest. like every word he says can be no more or less than the absolute truth.

and when he turns to face you, tilting his head enough for you to see that shade of blue you love so dearly, his eyes shine with an honestly so palpable you feel like you’re being devoured.

satoru parts his lips.

”right next to you.”

a moment passes. silent, endless, no sound to be heard but the beating of your own heart.

at last, the sun breaks through that layer of frost, peeking up from the boundary of the world — and the morning begins to thaw. streaks of sunlight cascade down the contours of his handsome face, painting him a mellow gold, and it’s almost enough to distract you from the warmth of his hand finding yours.

for a moment, satoru looks unsure. smile shifting in the light, into something slightly stiff, and you know that means he's nervous. silent, as he wets his glossy lips. pink tongue tasting strawberry chapstick.

then he’s leaning forward.

it’s chaste, the kiss he plants on your forehead, soft as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings. but it lingers, even after he’s pulled back — a warmth on your skin. a silent declaration.

he doesn't have to say anything. when you look up at him you can see the red flush of his ears, and when you strain your ears you can hear all those unspoken whispers. the sentiment neither of you will ever have to say out loud, because you know. it’s there. and it means everything.

and you know that for as long as you live, you’ll both have this. one single thread of normalcy, in your unorthodox existences, one single glimmer of something almost entirely good. something that heals, something that isn’t a blessing and a curse all in one. something soft to the touch.

there’s no need to find the right words for it. there never was.

”kinda looks like melted ice cream.”

the words pull you out of your stupor. satoru’s looking at the sky, and you follow his gaze, watching the sunrise in tandem with him.

it’s beautiful. soft clouds melting into pinks and oranges, dappling sunbeams lapping at the trees, a saffron shade washing over the empty world in front of you. a world that may not be so empty, after all, because you hear crows in the distance, and someone’s fishing by the lake, and you think you spot a squirrel in the tree closest to you.

and you have someone, right next to you, right by your side. someone who won’t ever leave.

sometimes, loving satoru gojo feels a little like strolling on the edge of a cliff. like one wrong step could have you tumbling down, a mess of broken bones and unspoken words. but if you do stumble and fall — you know he’ll be waiting at the bottom of the precipice. arms outstretched, wearing that same innocent grin, ready to hoist you both back up.

so you know it’ll be fine.

swallowing down a bout of fresh laughter, like a flower unfurling in your chest, petals brushing against your ribcage, you give in. opting to bask in the moment, in his presence.

”yeah,” you puff out a chuckle, head slumping against satoru’s shoulder. he makes a little noise of approval, and your grin grows. ”it does.”

he doesn’t say anything. smiling, wordlessly, admiring the way the sun kisses up your collarbone. lighting up your face. and you bask in his warmth, how right it feels to be tucked into his side. how safe he feels, even now. how safe you make him feel.

you look at the man to your left, and he looks back at you, and that wonderful unnamed something unfurls inside your chest again. and, without having to speak it aloud, you know it will continue to do so.

many, many years later, he’ll still be satoru, and you’ll still be you. the distance between you will be what it always was; breachable.

and that will be enough.

#someone sedate me i giggled while writing this. im so in love w this stupid weasel #this is rly just my attempt at writing a more canon-aligned gojo and the kinda-sorta relationship i could see him having in canon #i firmly believe that he’d feel most at peace w a love that sits somewhere right between platonic n romantic !!#”me n the bestie <3” (selfie of u wearing matching rings)#its the kinda love that u dont need to label bc its just There. its just love !! a love that comes easy #im happy w how this particular gojo turned out i think!! :'3 hes my lil baby #in other news hes so bambi coded ☹️ i need to nurse him back to health #listen to capable of love by pinkpantheress btw its so gojo to me #jjk x reader #jjk #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #jjk fluff #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #jjk x gender neutral reader #gojo fluff #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #jujutsu kaisen x reader

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dandelionflower · 3 years

Note

I saw on one of your post that said to send you prompts sooo... can I request A childhood friend AU either Felix or Marinette moves away and then reuniting in college in France at age 14 in Felix's school with the Quantic Kids.

It was a pretty normal day, which probably meant something was going to happen. If it wasn’t a normal day, something was bound to happen as well; life in Paris hadn’t been normal in months. It being a normal day meant that Marinette was late. Super late. Way, way, so very late she might as well be early for the next thing kind of late. So late that- (oh, she’s beginning to catch onto why she’s so late.)

She knew even as she was shoving toothpaste into her bag for Tikki and brushing her teeth with frosting (wait, switch that) that she would be late, and her erratic movements were enough to convince her parents to write her an excuse. Not that anyone could blame her; she had to deal with three akumas in one night. Three akumas. Who could blame her, or anyone for that matter, for being late when there were three emotionally-stunted teens each wreaking havoc upon the city? It was a wonder that anyone else got to class on time, except for Alya, who Marinette was pretty sure didn’t sleep.

Marinette kissed both parents goodbye, thanking them again for the excuse note. They shoved a box of pastries into her hands, as was their habit whenever she didn’t leave school fast enough.

They had done it since her first day at her new school, when she was tiny and frightened of new people; having the same best friend since birth would do that. Her father had shoved a box of macaroons in her arms and her mother placed a bracing arm on her back. They told her what to do and she tried her hardest to follow their instructions, standing up straight at the front of the class, introducing herself, and offering cookies. Unfortunately, that was the same day Chloe Bourgeois was joining public school, and compared to cookies, her offer of money to ten year-olds wasn’t all that effective. And Chloe was excellent at holding a grudge.

Of course, she ended up with friends: Alya, Nino, Adrien, and everyone in art class, but it was hard to go about her first couple years of school without anyone in her corner. Becoming Ladybug really gave her the boost of confidence she needed to break out of her shell and make new friends, and now she had a whole class full.

She stopped in the classroom to put her stuff away, pausing for a second to breathe. How was she out of shape? She’s Ladybug, for heavens’ sakes! Those three akumas really took it out of her. Luckily enough, she had gym class up next. (Can you hear the sarcasm?)

“Girl! Where have you been?” Alya smiled up at her from where she was stretching her hamstrings.

“Sorry Alya, slept in too much.” She fell into place beside her, choosing one of the more advanced stretches to accomplish instead. “Three akumas yesterday; couldn’t get much sleep.”

“You need to get over yourself, Mari. Ladybug and Chat Noir always win against the akumas, this fear of yours is ridiculous.” Alya glanced at her with an incredulous look, but when she saw her intense yoga pose, the look shifted and she yelled over her shoulder. “Adrien! Get over here! Marinette’s doing her physics-defying stuff again!”

Adrien joined them, laughing at Alya’s exaggerated despair. “It’s really not that hard. You just have to-” He fell into the position easily and began matching her movements. “There.”

“How on EARTH?” Alya shrieked and threw herself to the right, toppling into Nino, who was in a shaky warrior two. They ended up in a heap on the floor, Alya staring in horror at the two still upright and Nino staring bewildered at his girlfriend. “How are you two doing that?”

“Well, I don’t know about Marinette,” Adrien moved into an upward dog, “but father insisted that I be physically active in some way and my mother used to do yoga. So I picked it up.”

Nino leaned close to Alya’s ear. “I’m not sure whether to add this to the ‘reasons Gabriel sucks’ list or be happy he has this thing with his mom.”

“Both I guess?”

“What about you Marinette?” He moved into a handstand-like position. “Why do you know all this stuff?”

My superhero moonlighting requires me to be as stretchy as a rubber band, so my partner, who is also a furry, taught me yoga. “My first best friend and I learned tai chi, and this just felt like the next step.” Not a lie, just not why she chose yoga.

“Okay, you’re fine.” Alya pointed a finger between them both. “But next time you do something weird, I’m starting a cryptid blog about you.”

“You don’t have the guts.” Marinette leaned in and Adrien flipped down to join her. It felt familiar, like deja vu; not her crush, she killed that with fire once he started dating Kagami.

“Heey!” Nino opened his arms in front of them. “Let’s change the subject, what about that new student?”

“There’s a new student?” Marinette turned to the rest of the class, who were all stretching dutifully. No new faces whatsoever. “Where are they?”

“Not here, he went to the office over a scheduling conflict. Seems like a jerk.” Alya pulled an arm behind her head, glaring with derision in the direction of the office.

“Alya, don’t.” Adrien nudged her with a foot. “First impressions don’t mean anything, right Marinette?” He shot her a playful glance.

“Don’t remind me.”

“That one was a misunderstanding. Mister Ice Cold over there doesn’t even say a word, just nods and walks into the back of the class. At least Adrien did something and he asked for forgiveness afterwards. Frosty doesn’t even look at us.” With that final comment, Alya joined the rest of the class in dodgeball.

“Is she alright?” Adrien side-eyed her.

“Yeah, she just really hates people acting superior to her. Let’s go.” Marinette shrugged it off and joined her in picking teams.

Dodgeball was a mess; it always was. The entirety of the class had been akumatized at one point, and some of the strategic prowess remained. Marinette’s team always won, which everyone attributed to her agility, but it was really that Ladybug had more practice in strategy. The only way the teams could be considered even was if Adrien was against her.

She still won; she always won. When it was all over, each team, sweating and exhausted, gravitated to the center line to shake hands and congratulate one another on a game well played. Adrien met her in the middle with a weary smirk. His hair was disheveled, but there was a spark in his eyes that made him seem more familiar than he already was.

“I almost got you that time.” He gripped her hand tight.

“All that training with Kagami is really upping your game.” She quipped, shaking his hand. “Better luck next time.”

With that promise of another match, everyone vacated the gym to the locker rooms, where Alya continued to warn Marinette against the new student.

“Even Chloe doesn’t like him and he seems like the kind of rich boy that would be right up her alley.”

“Alya, I get it. You aren’t the new guy’s biggest fan.”

“And the feeling’s mutual too.” She griped.

“So just don’t talk to him; it works with Chloe. Why not this guy too?” She wrapped an arm around her shoulder and led her to their desk.

“Fine, but I don’t have to like it.”

“You don’t have to like him either.” She pulled out her notebook and began writing down the date.

Before Alya could make another passive aggressive comment about the mystery new boy, Miss Bustier walked in, the usual skip in her step. “Class, I know I already introduced you to our new student but since some of us weren’t here for the first period,” Marinette ducked her head with a sheepish smile, “I’ve decided there’s nothing better than a redo. So, here’s Mister Culpa, introducing himself again.”

Culpa?

A boy with pale blond hair and paler skin strode into the room. He wore what could only be called business-casual, all monochrome. His eyes were a one-in-a-million breathtaking ice blue.

Culpa?

“Hello.” His eyes scanned the room emotionlessly. “As I previously said, my name is Felix Culpa and I am from-” He stopped when he reached her. “Nette?”

“Felix.” She breathed, barely even daring to say it louder, lest he disappear.

He was a blur, climbing the steps and reaching her in the time it took her to stand. There were no words when they hugged, other than the other’s name. She was on the tips of her toes, pressing her forehead to his collarbone. Felix got tall.

“I missed you.” He whispered, squeezing just a little tighter.

“I missed you too.” She laughed, pulling back to see his face. He was crying. She was crying.

“What in Ladybug’s name is happening?” Alya’s shout broke them from whatever pocket dimension they were inhabiting together. “You two know each other?”

“Alya, this is Felix.” She turned to look at her, hand still on Felix’s shoulder. “He was my best friend from birth to ten.”

“Was?” He bumped her hip with his. “Didn’t know I’ve been replaced, Netta.”

“I couldn’t contact you after I moved! I was ten and your mom never told us what her new number was.” She punched his elbow. “What are you doing here?”

“My family moved. I didn’t know you were in this area too; imagine my surprise when I see what the current events in Paris are and find out that there are superheroes and my best friend is now a borderline celebrity.” He chuckled, running a hand through his hair.

“We have to catch up some time.” She grabbed his arm.

“Certainly, maybe not here and now, though.” He gestures to the class around them, avidly watching the exchange.

“Right.” She released his arm and rubbed the back of her head awkwardly. “Coffee and macarons later then? My place?”

“I would like nothing more.” He quirked a smile that would seem tiny to anyone else, but to Marinette was as bright as the sun. “Until then.” Felix squeezed her hand and moved to the back of the class with a little wave.

She returned it, a goofy smile definitely on her face as she sat back down.

“Well,” Miss Bustier coughed, “since Felix has been so thoroughly introduced to everyone else, I suppose I should start the lesson.” And she dove into a spiel about the first World War.

“Dang, girl. Is it just me, or do you have a date after class?” Alya whispered to her from behind her textbook.

“It’s not a date! We’re just catching up.”

“Sure.”

She spared a quick glance at Felix, who was nose-deep in his book, just like when they were kids. He had such sharp features, and upon reconsideration, his eyes looked even more beautiful than she remembered. Felix grew up just fine without her. Really fine, in fact.

It took Marinette a couple seconds to realize she was staring, and when she did, her head turned back to the front of the room so fast she swore she heard a snap.

This was... going to be complicated.

#felinette #ml felix #felix agreste #felix culpa #marinette dupain cheng #ml marinette #ml alya #alya cesaire #ml nino #nino lahiffe #ml adrien #adrien agreste

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slightlycrunchy · 3 years

Note

Dadmight, ♖ or ♗ please

Hair washing it is! Send me dad prompts

read on ao3

This got so soft: hair washing, caretaking, bnha manga spoilers, post hospital injuries, 1.4k words

It is only after they’re home, standing in the foyer of Toshinori’s borrowed dorm room at UA, that Toshinori asks.

“Can I wash your hair, my boy?”

Midoriya looks up at him with dazed eyes, hooded from the strong painkillers running through him and the bone-deep exhaustion that lingers from his body trying to mend itself. Toshinori pointedly doesn’t look down to the two casts that lay limp at the boy’s sides. For a moment Toshinori isn’t sure if Midoriya has registered what he has said.

Soon however, a small, lazy smile crooks up the boy’s mouth. “Is it that bad?”

Toshinori looks at the ragged mess on top of Midoriya’s head with a soft expression. Flattened in places from days on end spent lying down, tussled in others from the sheer force of lingering dirt and sweat that rags and spit washes alone couldn’t quite care for, Toshinori shrugs.

“It could do with a scrub.”

Too many times over the last number of weeks in that horrid hospital room did Toshinori want to reach out and run his hands through that hair, soothe the nightmares and fix the mornings that his boy would disappear into, eyes staring at nothing as he shuttered away into his own head. On those days, Toshinori would talk about absolutely everything and absolutely nothing in equal measure. Sometimes it helped, he thinks, Midoriya slowly returning to the present, blinking his eyes as if he had only been asleep for a while.

Toshinori always greeted him with a smile when he came back.

“This way, my boy,” Toshinori gestures, leading them down the hall into the spacious bathroom Nezu had had the foresight to install. The principal had also been generous with Toshinori’s shower arrangements, installing a deep tub with a shower attachment and built-in seating. He has never felt more grateful for it than now.

With a little help, Midoriya dresses down into just his shorts, torso bare to the cool air of the bathroom. The bruises have mostly healed, fading into pale yellows and greens, deeper wounds knitting together nicely under dissolvable stitches that will still remain for a few weeks more. The hospital had sent the boy home with cast guards—glorified plastic bags that fit snugly around white plaster, which Toshinori carefully applies in case the water goes places he doesn’t intend.

For a while, there are no sounds other than the rhythm of their breathing mixed with the crinkling of plastic, the soft running of water cocooning the room in a thin haze of steam as it’s left to warm, and Toshinori takes advantage of the calm to observe Midoriya.

The boy’s gaze is still softened, as if he isn’t quite sure what’s going on, but by the way he responds to Toshinori’s guiding touch and hums an affirmation when Toshinori asks him a question, he isn’t worried too much.

The boy looks beaten.

Emotionally as well as physically, he looks like he has taken on the weight of the world, and after it had slipped from his shoulders, he mourned the loss of it.

The doctors said his arms would heal given time, and Toshinori will never be able to forget the relief that had brightened the boy’s skin for the first time since he had woken up in the hospital, hooked up to too many machines and bound under too many wires. But soon enough the grey had returned when Midoriya was faced with just how much of an uphill battle his recovery would be, dark freckles fading into the dullness of his skin.

Today had been a good day, the boy brighter than ever that he could go home, something he had talked about incessantly for days, and even now with just the two of them, the boy still looks better than Toshinori thought he would.

His boy has always been resilient.

“In you get, Midoriya,” Toshinori says when they’re done, helping the boy through his clumsy steps that suggest his legs aren’t entirely under his control right now. Once Midoriya is seated comfortably, arms held stiffly in front of him, Toshinori grabs the detachable showerhead and brings it around to the boy’s back, letting the warm water begin to run down his bare skin.

“Mmm…” he hums, his eyes closing slowly. Toshinori huffs a laugh.

“If that feels good, just wait until we actually get started, my boy.” Warm water like this must feel close to heavenly after so long without a proper shower. Without another moment wasted, Toshinori begins.

He discovers that Midoriya’s hair is surprisingly long as he runs the water over the boy’s scalp, drenching the strands until they are dark and hanging heavily just past his shoulders. Grabbing the shampoo, he places the showerhead aside, working a generous dollop into his hands before applying the product first at the scalp, working it to the ends.

Midoriya simply comes undone.

More hums of contentment make their way from the boy, his body swaying with every push and pull from Toshinori’s long fingers. He uses them to massage Midoriya’s head, taking every moment to not just clean his hair, but to make him feel good; Toshinori can’t bear for this to be purely utilitarian.

If anyone deserves a gentle touch right now, it’s his boy.

As he works, Midoriya’s posture slackens, his spine bending forward in small increments until Toshinori is nearly bending over to reach him, hands covered in so many bubbles they’ve all but disappeared.

“Alright, Midoriya, time to rinse.”

When the boy doesn’t so much as nod his head, Toshinori finds he isn’t surprised.

Midoriya stays upright even as Toshinori lets go, and this suggests the boy hasn’t actually fallen asleep even though he would probably like nothing more than to do so. Looking down on him and his relaxed posture, Toshinori has an idea.

His hands are still covered in suds, but he reaches around anyway, pushing gently at the boy’s chest to straighten him enough for his body to lean back into Toshinori’s other waiting hand. When Midoriya’s head falls back, neck fitting snugly into Toshinori’s open palm, and the older man finally gets a good look at Midoriya’s face, his heart feels unbearably warm in his chest.

Midoriya’s face is slack, mouth open slightly with eyes closed, his face the utmost picture of comfort. Toshinori’s insides twist in a form of glee that he keeps carefully quiet, not wanting to disturb the peace that has fallen over a boy who after fighting for so long deserves any rest he can find.

With his free hand, Toshinori continues, grabbing the showerhead once more and letting the water run as white rivers through Midoriya’s hair, taking all the evidence of the boy’s battles with it. Dark green strands weave in and out of Toshinori’s fingers as he moves the boy’s head back and forth, encountering no resistance from the tired body in his palm, Midoriya’s lax mouth only widening a little more with each turn of his head.

It strikes Toshinori, as the last of the shampoo is washed from the boy’s head, just what this is.

Pure trust.

This boy has taken on the world, winning in some ways and losing heartily in others, and yet when things go quiet and the darkness recedes and they come together again, two parts of a whole (and isn’t that even truer now, Toshinori thinks, peering down at the shattered remains of this child’s limbs that rest just below him), this boy does not shrink. No, his heart remains open and kind, seeing the good around him that remains, and he still places himself into another’s care; one that isn’t quite sure if he deserves such unwavering confidence.

He may be unsure, but if Midoriya deems him worthy, he will strive not to disappoint.

“Midoriya, my boy...we’re done. Time to wake up.”

The boy’s head is still slack in his hand as weary eyes blink open, a small, dopey smile lighting the boy’s face as he stirs awake.

“All Migh’? Done?”

With a nod, Toshinori helps the boy sit upright, twisting his hair to remove the last of the water. Already his curls have begun to spring upward into relaxed ringlets, and Toshinori can’t help but wrap one around his finger before letting it slip away. He has a small smile he can’t seem to get rid of as he helps the boy out of the tub, drying him off and helping him dress with as much modesty retained as possible, a task that will be difficult for Midoriya to accomplish on his own for a while.

Midoriya looks ready to collapse by the time they’re done.

“Sleep now, my boy?” Midoriya nods.

His head hardly has time to hit the pillow before he’s out like a light.

#dad might #dadmight #my writing #bnha #my hero academia #hurt/comfort #fic #prompts

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tenthgrove · 3 years

Note

Can I request la squadra discovering their Fem!Teammate (who's like in her early 30s) is actually a mother, who joined Passione to pay for her 5 y.o daughter's hospital expenses, and she sometimes secretly goes to visit her and spend time with her.

Mother Mother

La Squadra x Reader, Platonic, SFW

Risotto has always kept an eye on his squadmates. It’s not that he would ever entertain the thought of one of them betraying him, even a relatively new member such as yourself. It’s just that with La Squadra’s status in Passione, he’s always feared one of you being used against him against your will.

It’s for this reason that Risotto became concerned by your twice monthly trips away from the base. Risotto doesn’t usually police his underlings’ activities, but the solemn look on your face each time you leave is cause for deep concern. Perhaps if you weren’t so secretive about your reasons, he wouldn’t have to go to the lengths of spying on you.

Risotto catches sight of your car as you pull into the hospital parking lot. There’s a definite weariness about you as you cross quickly towards the entrance. Risotto activates his invisibility and follows.

As you speak with the receptionist, Risotto is fixed on which department you will turn to. Are you sick and hiding it? Pregnant? But then, you surprise him. You turn to the children’s ward.

Risotto follows you past white corridors and waiting rooms. The nurses address you by name, he notices. It seems you’re a regular visitor. Finally, you arrive in a large ward of lonely pods. In each one lies a sick or injured child. He cannot ignore the fact that the one you head towards looks exactly like you.

As you caress the little girl’s cheek, Risotto comes to realise what’s been happening with you all these months. These trips, this sorrow, it was all for your child. A child Risotto didn’t even know you had.

Risotto leaves you be as you talk with your daughter. He feels guilty, undeserving of being present in this conversation. He’d always wondered how someone like you ended up in such a foul business as his, but if it’s really all for the sake of your daughter he doesn’t know if he can bare to keep ordering you on such dangerous tasks.

He can’t cut you out either, that could be detrimental for your sick offspring.

::::::::::::

Risotto goes home and seeks out Melone. It really ought to show the desperation of the situation he’s in that he’d fall on Melone for advice, but the strange man is the only person he can think of who might possibly guide his conscience on such a matter.

“Melone, a word please,” Risotto demands, swinging open the door of the other man’s bedroom. Melone hums and sits up from his nap, pulling off his night-mask to rub his eyes.

“If this is about the vibrator, I swear I didn’t mean to have it delivered here.”

“I- what- no. It isn’t about anything like that. I need your advice,” Risotto explains. Melone taps his fingers excitedly and crosses his legs.

“Oh, by all means go on then!”

“If, hypothetically, a person like us were to have… unavoidable other commitments, how would you say it should be tackled?” Risotto asks.

“Clarify.”

“Family commitments. Children, to be precise,” Risotto elaborates. Melone tilts his head.

“Capo, did you knock someone up?”

“No! Don’t be ridiculous. I haven’t done anything of the sort!” Risotto insists. “Alright I’ll clarify some more. How do you think I, as this team’s leader, should support such a person?”

“…Oh, I understand,” Melone assures him. “It’s (y/n) who’s pregnant, isn’t it?”

“I… forget it. (Y/n) isn’t pregnant you fool. I don’t know why I bothered with you,” Risotto laments, shutting the door.

Melone, meanwhile, is unconvinced. Risotto’s defensive behaviour suggests to him his theory regarding your pregnancy may be right after all. This isn’t something he can leave alone.

Melone’s foremost concern is your wellbeing. You’re his friend, and he wants to make sure that your parenthood (should you choose to go through with it) is as easy for you as possible. There’s one person in particular who comes to mind when it comes to raising children in the mob.

::::::::::::

“Prosciutto!” Melone calls, entering the second-in-command’s bedroom as he enjoys a cigarette out his open window.

“What do you want, and what did I tell you about barging in?”

“Please Prosciutto? This is important,” Melone begs. Prosciutto turns around.

“Alright, get it over with.”

“Didn’t you say once that you raised Pesci? I’m curious how it was,” Melone enquires.

“I hardly raised him,” Prosciutto rolls his eyes. “His mother was a good woman, and perfectly capable of raising him herself, money aside. My role was mostly as a financial supporter and an occasional babysitter when my step-mother needed a day off.”

“Oh, I see. But how was it with Passione? How did you balance your commitments between them and family?”

“I’m not a fan of this line of questioning, Melone, but I’ll indulge you. It was hard, very hard. They made me join when Pesci was 6 and back even then they constantly held his life over my head. I couldn’t spend too much time with him for fear of seeming disloyal, but at the same time I feared what would happen if I turned my back too long.”

“Christ,” Melone exclaims. “That’s rough. I never knew it was that bad for you.”

“Are you going to tell me what this is all for now?” Prosciutto asks, cocking an eyebrow. Melone swallows.

“Well… I think (y/n) might be pregnant.”

“…What?!”

::::::::::::

“So that’s why we’re suspicious,” Prosciutto finishes. Formaggio stares at them wide-eyed.

“Fucking hell. I knew something was up, but pregnancy?” he exclaims.

“It’s serious, we know,” Melone affirms. “Risotto isn’t letting up so we need you to help us be certain. I’ve got all your DNA on record-”

“Creepy.”

“Regardless, I’ve got hers up on the tracker now, and I need you to take Baby Face and follow the dot until you find its location. Baby Face doesn’t show place names. If you’re spotted, you can shrink down, so it’s better you go than us. Got it?”

“Yeah sure, I’ll go,” Formaggio agrees, picking up the laptop and standing. “I’ll ring if I find anything.”

::::::::::::

Sure enough, 30 minutes later, Formaggio finds something. A hospital to be precise. He looks down at his screen, and back at the hospital. Nope, everything still checks out. There is no possible way the dot could be anywhere other than inside that building when it’s that close. You’re in there. You are in the hospital. Pregnant, near certainly.

Formaggio’s had enough shocks for one day.

Turning tail, Formaggio half-runs back down the pavement towards the base. He fumbles for his phone and calls Prosciutto. No answer. Thinking fast (but not well) he hits the next number in the list. Illuso’s.

“Illuso hi. It’s Formaggio! She’s definitely at the hospital like we thought!”

“…Are you high?”

“Oh fuck, did you not know? (Y/n)’s pregnant and Mel just found out!” Formaggio fills him in. There’s a long pause.

“Holy fucking shit! Get back here now and tell me more!”

::::::::::::

Shortly after this, the sitting room of the La Squadra base finds itself crowded with Melone, Prosciutto, Formaggio and Illuso all in frenzied discussion.

“This is insane. We can’t have a baby! In the hitman squad!” Illuso decries.

“We’re not recruiting the kid!” Melone reminds him.

“That’s not the point!” Prosciutto protests. Formaggio puts his hands up in a show of peace

“Okay okay can everyone please-”

“I AM CALM!”

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU GUYS SHOUTING ABOUT?!” A voice calls. It’s Ghiaccio, standing in the hallway with Pesci at his side. The four men in the lounge look between each other nervously. Formaggio steps forwards.

“Ghiaccio, Pesci… let me fill you in on some things.”

::::::::::::

“RISOTTO WHY THE HELL DIDN’T YOU TELL US ABOUT THIS SOONER!”

Risotto Nero has seen a lot in his days, but never before has he had his office door kicked down by one of his own teammates, while in mid-conversation with two others.

“…Ghiaccio I beg your pardon.”

“(Y/n) was pregnant and you didn’t tell us about it?” Pesci says. “I was on a mission with her just last night! I could have done more to protect her if I’d known!”

“Risotto, I know you like to respect our privacy, but this is serious! If (y/n) is going to have this child then we need to have discussions about how it’s going to be feasible now. As a team,” Prosciutto argues. Risotto blinks.

“Capo, what on earth is going on?” Sorbet asks from by the window. Gelato, having clung onto him since the door fell, continues to look at the crowd in the doorway like… well, like they just busted the office door down.

Risotto takes a sip of his coffee, and sighs.

“I think you all may be under a severe misapprehension.”

::::::::::::

You get back to the base around 4pm, severely exhausted both emotionally and physically. Your daughter is stable, you’re assured, and clearly in better spirits than your last visit. With continued treatment, the doctor sees her out of the hospital and living comfortably with only minor supports within the year. But the bill to get her to that point will not be cheap. You honestly don’t know how you’ll manage it.

As you hang up your coat you are met with visitors. Sorbet and Gelato would like to speak with you, it seems.

“We’re glad to see you’re back. Could you follow us please? It won’t take a minute,” Gelato requests.

“Okay?” you agree, following them into the sitting room. Your entire team is present in dead silence, with Risotto at the helm in his usual chair. He is looking grave. This can’t be good.

Risotto gestures for you to sit down. You comply.

“(Y/n),” he begins. “We know about your daughter.”

Everything seems to go still. You cannot help it as tears well in your eyes. Before you know, you are crying in front of your teammates.

“We are willing to give some help,” Risotto announces. You look up from your tears. Did he just…

“We did some maths and we calculated that if we all pool together, we can pay half your daughter’s monthly bill every month for the immediate future, without any major changes to our lifestyle,” Sorbet announces. “We’re all happy to do that,” he adds, to a chorus of nods around the room.

“Additionally, we can look into getting her case transferred to a doctor on Passione’s payroll. It will be the same quality care or higher, and at a significant discount,” Melone suggests. Oh fuck, why didn’t you ever think of that?

“You would… you would all really do that for me?” you sob.

“And if it still isn’t enough, we’ll find a way. You can rely on us to help you, I swear it,” Risotto promises.

“Thank you… thank you all so much!”

#la squadra #la squadra x reader #la squadra di esecuzione #formaggio #formaggio x reader #illuso #illuso x reader #prosciutto #prosciutto x reader #pesci #pesci x reader #melone #melone x reader #ghiaccio #ghiaccio x reader #risotto nero #risotto nero x reader #sorbet and gelato #sorbet and gelato x reader

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lemony-snickers · 2 years

Text

the last week and a half has been an incessant black hole. i feel like i am finally crawling out of it a little bit, but not fast enough to avoid semi-blowing up a few actually very nice friendships in true Lem is a Depressed Mess fashion.

idk why i’m sharing this except to say that if you are feeling this way, too, i am sending you so much love today & every day. because holy shit the supreme isolation i have felt recently and the pervasive self-destruction that comes with it is suffocating. it’s like being waterboarded by my own brain; the fierce panic, the deep sadness, the ultimate sensation that no one could ever care for me or miss me or want me around...

like goddamn, i am exhausted. i have done nothing all week, but emotionally i am so weary i haven’t exercised in days because i just cannot pull together the energy necessary to do so, even though i know it helps and makes me feel better.

anyway. i just. i hope you all are doing okay. i am sending you a very warm, very loving hug if you are not. pls take care of yourselves. i know i am being super hypocritical when i say this next part, buuuuutttt: reach out to folks if you are feeling this way, let them be there for you. i love you. <3

#lemony crumbles

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morganofthewildfire · 3 years

Text

Ivy - Chapter 23

Masterlist

So this is it. The last one, apart from the epilogue. It’s been a long road, and I want to thank you all for staying on this journey with me. I know I’ve put through a lot, but I really appreciate all of the notes and the likes and the comments and the reblogs. You motivated me to write every chapter, to get out every word even when I didn’t feel like writing, just so I could get it posted for you. This story has been a lot emotionally for me, and it’s made me cry a few times that’s it’s coming to a close. I promise to make the epilogue as fluffy as possible though, to try and make up for some angst! And I don’t think this fic will ever be completely over, I’d love to write more oneshots from this world. But enough rambling, here’s the chapter. It’s a beast.

CW: mentions of miscarriage, mentions of violence and implied mentions of sexual assault, graphic violence

- 10,200 words

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Orynth, 1886

Rowan was exhausted. Weary to his very bones. His face was pounding, blood dripping down his face and down his neck from the split lip and broken nose. He felt like he’d been awake for thousands of years and all he wanted to do was lay down and sleep.

But he couldn’t. Because it wasn’t over yet.

He was staring at Arobynn’s body. Staring at the stab wounds, the blood, the emptiness in his face. It was clear he was dead. As dead as the other body laying on the same carpet a few yards over.

Rowan panted, catching his breath from the fight. And from everything. He was bracing himself on his hands, keeping himself seated on the carpet while bringing himself back to real life. There was a ringing in his ears, but it was slowly fading as the room settled.

And then he heard a laugh.

It shocked him so much he turned his head, his gaze landing on Aelin, who was laying on her back, blood soaked, with the letter opener still clutched tightly in her hands. She was chuckling, her eyes closed, the sound bordering on hysteric.

If not for the noise, and for the shaking of her chest, she could’ve passed for another body strewn across the carpet. And that struck a nervous chord in his mind, making him need to see her eyes again.

“Aelin,” he whispered reverently, as if a prayer. She paused, breathing deeply and turning her head where it rested against the floor. Her eyes opened slowly, the blue and gold meeting his green. And then she smiled faintly, the expression tinging the edges of her lips, not reaching her eyes.

She looked exhausted too, if a little dazed. No wonder, considering what she’d just done and been through.

Rowan opened his mouth to say something, anything, to address what just happened, to figure out where to go from here, to comfort her. And to distract himself from the deaths they’d just incurred. Arobynn was one thing, he deserved to die, and Aelin deserved to be the one to do it. But Tern. He’d just been a lackey, a sidekick, paid to be there. And now he was dead on the floor, murdered by Rowan’s own hand. He didn’t know how to feel.

But he’d also killed him to get to Aelin, which would always be worth it. Even if she ended up saving herself, he’d rather stain his soul a thousand times than let her go through that alone.

A knock sounded at the door, seizing his attention. He froze, darting his gaze to the door. Aelin did too, albeit a little more slowly.

“Aelin?” A soft voice called through the wood. Aelin’s eyes widened in alarm. “I heard some noises, are you in here? I wanted to talk.”

Rowan squinted, trying to place the voice through his headache. But Aelin apparently did, because she pushed herself up weakly onto her hands, that horrid word bleeding down her back as she looked at the door.

She opened her mouth to say something when the door cracked open. And his face paled even more when Evalin Galathynius appeared from around the frame.

“Oh!” She exclaimed, her face paling too as she took in the scene. “Shit.” The word sounded strange coming from the woman’s mouth, but he didn’t have enough energy to be too shocked. She looked about ready to scamper when she froze, looking at her daughter’s condition. And then she slipped inside, closing the door behind her. Rowan watched as she darted her gaze to the bodies quickly before kneeling down next to Aelin, who was watching her with wary eyes, hand still clutching the knife.

“Are you okay?” Evalin asked Aelin, obviously concerned by the blood coating her.

“What are you doing here?” She croaked, turning to face her, hiding her back from her mother’s gaze. “The party’s downstairs.” Her tone was tired but sharp, and her words were nonchalant, like there weren’t two dead bodies lying next to them.

Evalin glanced toward Tern, passing over him without much care and landing on Arobynn. Her mouth tightened and she looked up at him, staring at him with the eyes so similar to the ones he loved.

“Did you do this?” She asked, with a clear hint of tension, like she thought he was a danger. Rowan shook his head.

“Your daughter is the one holding the knife,” he said simply. Aelin’s grip tightened, as if she couldn’t let it go.

“I have to go back downstairs,” Aelin murmured to herself, not looking at either of them. It filled him with relief to hear her voice, but he froze at her words. She looked up then, making eye contact with him and avoiding her mother. “I shouldn’t’ve been gone this long.”

“Aelin -”

“If anyone finds us, with this mess, we’ll both be fucked.” Evalin rose her brows at the harsh language coming from her daughter. “I said I was coming up to check on him, people will be confused if I never come back down, and it’ll just be suspicious when he’s then found de-” she stuttered on the word, taking a breath, “dead.”

“Why is he dead?” Evalin asked sharply. And then she soothed her expression. “What happened?” She looked over the scene again, eyes landing on Aelin’s state of dress, and then flickering to him. “Did he… find you doing something regrettable?”

Finally, Aelin’s eyes flashed with something besides emptiness, a flicker of rage passing. “If he did, then he’d be a two faced hypocritical bastard for it. He cheats on me often enough.” She closed her eyes. “Cheated,” she corrected, before sighing. Evalin reached out a hand hesitantly, but Aelin jerked away, darting her eyes open with an almost feral expression of defense.

“Well,” Evalin said with a resigned huff, “we should get this cleaned up.”

“What?” Aelin asked, furrowing her brows. The way she was angled away from her mother allowed Rowan to see her back, the nasty red lines and the still spilling blood making him nauseous. He couldn’t even move, frozen at the sight and stuck with the shame rolling through him. He didn’t stop that from happening. He didn’t help. He didn’t do anything.

“We can’t leave the room like this.” Evalin raised her brows and Aelin frowned, a sort of conflicted confusion filling her features. She looked like she didn’t understand, like she just wanted to fall asleep and avoid the consequences of what had just happened. He felt the same way.

It had been the scariest moment of his life when she wasn’t waking up after being thrown against the dresser. When she stayed unmoving, her eyes shut and her breaths so godsdamned slow, Rowan felt like he was shattering, like it wouldn’t be worth it to continue fighting if there was nothing for him to fight for. And he almost hadn’t continued, he’d almost lost. But it was Aelin who saved him, like she always did.

“We can’t do anything,” Aelin argued, “you aren’t a part of this.” Her hands shook as she lifted one and wiped it down her face, trails of blood following her fingertips and creating an eerie image on her cheek. The sight moved him to action. Rowan reached into his ripped jacket, pulling out a plain handkerchief. It had been protected from the blood wrapped in his inside pocket.

He managed to scoot over, every part of his body aching with hurt, until he was next to her. She looked up at him with once again empty eyes, watching as he stretched out the handkerchief for her to take. Instead, Aelin just tilted her head toward him, as if asking him to do it for her.

So he obliged, wiping the fabric gently down her face, cupping her cheek with his other hand while he softly cleaned her skin. She closed her eyes, letting her head rest in his hand, and Rowan’s heart swelled at the trust she put in him. Especially with everything that had just happened.

He brushed his thumb softly along her cheekbone, looking up at Evalin, who was still kneeling there, obviously confused at the scene in front of her.

“We had a plan,” he said quietly, and Aelin let out a sigh, “And we thought it would work, but it… didn’t.” Evalin stayed still, waiting to hear as Rowan gave her a very abridged version. “Aelin came up here to see if it worked, and when she didn’t come back down, I followed. I found them up here, and got angry with what was going on.” Aelin ducked her head into his arm, avoiding her mother’s gaze. “Things got heated, and here we are.” He looked at Evalin, conviction in his tone. “I promise you, I would never hurt your daughter. I only ever want to protect her the best I can.”

“Does Aedion know about this?” She asked, gesturing between the two of them. That made Aelin look up.

“I think we have bigger things to worry about,” she delivered with a bit of snap.

“Right,” Evalin sighed, looking around as if cataloguing every spot of blood in the room. “We have to get you cleaned up, and figure out what to do about this mess.” She stood up, and Aelin kept her eyes on her, her expression wary.

“Why are you helping?” She asked, and Rowan moved the hand on her cheek to rub down her arm, slowly traveling down to grab the blade from her hand. Aelin hesitated, but let him take it from her and set it down on the ground. She winced slightly at the movement, pain likely shooting to her back. But she covered it quickly, masking her face back into one of stone.

Evalin hesitated, chewing on her lip in a way similar to her daughter, and chose her words carefully. “I - don’t want to lose you. No matter what you think, I do love you, and when you said that to me earlier, it made me think about the choices I was actually making, the mistakes I was actually making.” Rowan didn’t know what conversation she was referencing, but knew it must’ve been important if Aelin had made her change her mind like that. “I can explain more later, but for now, will you let me help you?”

Aelin blinked back a tear, only noticed by him because of how well he knew her, and nodded slowly.

“Okay,” Evalin breathed in relief, nodding too. “Rowan,” she addressed him, turning to face his way. “Do you have your mask?” He nodded. “Good. That can be used to hide some of the swelling around your eyes.” Smart. She turned to Aelin, who was significantly more blood soaked. “Do you have any other undergarments available? We don’t want the blood soaking through your dress. Speaking of, where is it?” She looked around, noticeably avoiding looking at the dead bodies, until she spotted it splayed out on the ground by the door, very much looking like it had been ripped off. “Ah,” she said, her voice dropping, and she went over to pick it up.

Aelin shifted again to avoid her seeing her back, and Rowan gently traced up and down her spine with his free hand, relishing in how she leaned into him for comfort.

Evalin walked over to place the golden fabric gently on the bed, and then made her way back to the door.

“I’ll get you some new clothes, Aelin,” she said, “I’m assuming they’re in your room?” Aelin nodded and then her mother slipped back out of the room quickly, shutting the door discreetly behind her. Once it was closed, Aelin sighed, dropping her eyes to the ground. Rowan pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“How are you feeling?” He asked, tucking loose hair behind her ear. She looked up at him, trying to smile.

“Tired,” she managed to say. “But I know we have a lot to do.”

“You’re more important,” he said, but she shook her head.

“If anyone else found us, Rowan, you’d likely be blamed for this, and I’d really rather you not go to jail.” Aelin began pushing herself to a stand weakly. He stood up with her, walking carefully across the floor to the pitcher of water resting on the dresser. The dresser she had been thrown against. He picked it up gently, pouring a bit on his already dirty handkerchief.

“Okay,” he conceded with a nod, because it was true. Everyone would assume he was the murderer, when really it was a shared job. Even though he would take the blame for her any day. “You’re right. So let’s get you cleaned up.”

She snorted slightly at his matter of fact tone of voice, but obliged, stepping over Arobynn’s body to get to him. Her hair was a mess, her skin splattered with red, her movements heavy, but there was a spark of determination in her eyes. When Aelin reached him, Rowan grabbed her arm lightly, dragging the damp fabric down her skin to remove the blood. He scrubbed gently, successfully cleaning off the skin. He switched to the other arm, letting a comfortable silence overtake the room. She let him wipe her neck and upper chest off too, as gently as possible, and to return the favor, Aelin grabbed the cloth from him, dabbing at his lip.

He grabbed her shaking hand carefully, pressing a light kiss to her palm. “We did it, Fireheart,” he whispered, “he’s gone. You’re free.” She nodded, the heaviness leaving her face for a split moment, returning when he gestured for her to turn around. He had to attend to her back before she could do anything, especially putting rough fabric on over it and being forced to pretend like nothing was wrong. It would bleed through if there wasn’t a bandage covering it, and it would likely get infected if it wasn’t cleaned out.

But as she slowly turned around, her teeth chewing on her bottom lip, Rowan was hit with the awfulness of the wound again. He wanted to bring Arobynn back to life and then murder him again, if only for the way he’d marked her. It was then he realized that Aelin probably didn’t even know what it said. Didn’t know that he’d carved the word whore into her skin. Obviously she knew he’d done something, but she hadn’t really gotten a chance to see it due to its location.

A tear slipped out of his eye as he lifted the handkerchief to dab at the blood surrounding it, trying to avoid irritating the hurt as much as possible. The cuts were red and angry, the mar in her beautiful skin echoing the mar in his heart. She lifted her hand to grab his free one, squeezing it to comfort him when he should be comforting her.

A sharp gasp sounded behind him, and he turned around quickly to meet the shocked face of Evalin Galathynius, having returned to the room, carrying a set of undergarments with a new corset in her arms. Rowan hadn’t realized that when they’d moved over to the dresser, they’d turned so that her back was to the door, leaving it open for view, the opposite of what he knew Aelin wanted. But it was too late.

Aelin whipped around, blood draining from her face as her mother’s paled too.

“Who did that to you?” She whispered, utter devastation in her eyes. Aelin’s eyes dropped to Arobynn’s body before rising back to hers, looking at her with the most strength she’d displayed since the murder.

“Who do you think?” She said sternly. “The person that I’ve told you time and time again was not a man I’d ever want to be alone in a room with.” She shook her head and walked over, grabbing the clothes roughly from her mother without bothering to say anything.

“I didn’t know,” Evalin breathed, and Aelin just scoffed.

“You didn’t believe me is more accurate.” Her lip trembled, likely against her will. Rowan could tell she was close to breaking, and as much as he wanted to give her a chance to grieve, they couldn’t yet. They still had to tie up all the loose ends.

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

Aelin was running on spite, anger, frustration, nerves, fear, and a good dose of exhilaration as she stood in that damned room, watching as her mother looked at her with fear in her eyes. Her heart was racing, like it was going to beat out of her chest as she fought to ground herself in everything. She squeezed Rowan’s hand to help, grounding herself in him.

Her back felt like a brand more than anything now, making her tremble at the white hot pain, and at the overwhelming knowledge that Evalin saw it. That someone else besides Rowan had seen it. She hadn’t even seen it.

But she had to put that aside for now. What she’d said was true, she didn’t want Rowan to go to jail. So they had to hurry.

Without wasting another moment, Aelin snatched the clothes from her mother’s hands, dumping them on the bed and yanking at the corset she still had on. It loosened easily, and she slid it off and threw it to the side quickly.

“Aelin - “ her mother said hesitantly, conflict brewing in the eyes that were so similar to her own. She probably was concerned by the fact that Aelin was about to strip in front of a man who was not her husband, even if her husband was dead and she’d already been with the other man. Not that her mother knew that.

So Aelin just ignored her and yanked off her chemise, leaving her whole chest and stomach bare. Rowan obviously didn’t care, he was just turned around, pulling off a sheet from the bed. She grabbed the fresh pair of drawers, non blood stained ones, and exchanged them with her own, changing efficiently. She left her shirt off though, because Rowan started ripping the sheet into strips of fabric, making a bandage for her to wear underneath the new chemise and dress. It was fine, she’d lost all modesty over the past year, but her mother was frozen for a second before she darted into action.

Evalin had brought a brush over from her room too, and came up behind Aelin to brush her hair, smoothing out the blood with a little bit of water from the pitcher. Her hair hadn’t been too fancy that evening, her maids wanting to highlight her dress, so Evalin was able to quickly pull it back into the loose low bun, making it almost identical to the style it had been.

“I can go distract people downstairs,” she murmured, “so people lose focus on where you are.”

“Okay,” Aelin whispered, a bit of hesitant gratefulness rising in her.

“How are you planning on cleaning this up?” She addressed Rowan, raising her brows, trusting in him only due to the situation.

“I don’t know if we can,” he said honestly, and Aelin could practically see the gears turning in his head as he thought through a plan. “It might be better just to burn it.”

They all paused, Evalin with shock, Rowan with hesitancy, and Aelin with a whole mix of emotions. Burning it. Burning the house that she’d gone through all of this in. The house she’d been manipulated in, attacked in, belittled in. The house she’d lost her baby in. It was a bold move, but she felt a sick sort of relief at the thought of this house being gone forever. And it would get rid of another problem that she had been trying to work through.

So she nodded.

“I think that would be smart,” she told him. “It would get rid of any evidence and save us the trouble of dealing with these bodies.” She avoided looking at them. “It could be framed as an accident, a lamp either I or him left burning when he ‘fell asleep’ and I went back downstairs.”

Rowan nodded and grabbed a makeshift bandage from his pile, and she turned to face away from him so he could wrap it around her so it covered the cuts. “It wouldn’t be noticed until we could both be safely away. But it would still be noticed soon enough that everyone could safely get out.”

“And any suspicion would be lost in the chaos,” she agreed.

“And the house?” Evalin added, looking at them from a few feet away.

Aelin’s expression cooled, her stomach turning to ash as she said vindictively, “let it burn.” But wait. “Shit. My ring.” She turned to Rowan with a look of panic. “I can’t leave that.”

“You have your ring,” Evalin tried to clarify, nodding at her hand. But Aelin just ripped it off, throwing it across the room.

“Not that piece of vile garbage,” she spit before looking back at Rowan. “It’s in my closet, under a loose floorboard. Can you grab it for me?”

He nodded with a soft smile and disappeared, slipping out the door and down the hallway, leaving Aelin alone with Evalin.

“How long has that been going on?” Her mother asked good naturedly as she helped Aelin into her chemise and dress. She was hesitant to engage in the conversation, given the nature of it, but she decided to be honest.

“A little less than three years,” she spoke softly. Evalin paused in the middle of buttoning up her dress.

“Three years?!” She asked with shock. “And you never told us about it?”

“What was I supposed to say?” She shrugged. “I would’ve been ignored.”

Evalin had no defense against the truth, so they fell into silence as she finished buttoning up her dress, handing her her mask from where it had fallen on the floor, and grabbing her shoes. Aelin slid into all of it quickly, piecing herself back up to the image of the woman she’d been before she first entered the room. Everything was different now. Especially when she could still see Arobynn’s body on the floor, could see all of the stab wounds she’d made in his chest, in the fury and rage and haze of destruction. Tern’s body was there too, and though she didn’t care as much about him, he should have known better than to get involved with a man like Arobynn, the sight of his open and empty eyes were a bit disturbing. He wasn’t brutalized. Instead, he looked like he could get up right now and go kill Rowan for daring to kill him. She shuddered.

“Okay,” Evalin said, “I have to go now. I’ll keep everyone’s attention away from you until they all have to leave anyway.” Aelin nodded in thanks, conflicting feelings rising in her stomach at the situation.

“Thank you,” she murmured quietly, having to force the words out.

“Of course,” Evalin said, smiling at her. “You’re my daughter.” And then she was leaving, her chin up and her hands clasped together as she made her way back down to go charm the entirety of the upper class of Orynth.

Aelin watched as she left, taking deep breaths to center herself. She’d be following her any minute now. Rowan came back into the room, carrying the emerald ring he’d given her. He walked up to her, and grabbed her hand, pressing the ring into it and closing her fingers around the metal, wrapping his hand around hers. He then pressed a kiss to their joined skin.

“To whatever end,” he whispered, love in his green eyes as he stared at her.

“To whatever end,” she confirmed, leaning up to meet him as he laid a delicate kiss on her lips. And then she pulled her hand back, sliding the ring into the hidden pocket of her dress, where it clanged against the empty vial of poison. She released the ring, feeling it sit against the charm Elide had made for her, and grabbed the bottle instead, pulling it out of the skirt. Understanding what she was doing, Rowan dropped a kiss to her forehead and darted out the door, to where she couldn’t see him, and came in with the spilled glass of champagne. The poisoned one.

With a sort of air of reverence, he set it on the table between the armchairs, next to Arobynn’s last cigar, and she set the bottle inside the glass.

Aelin buried her head in his chest, feeling his arms wrap around her. She let herself bask in the comforting scent, the scent of home. Rowan placed a kiss to her hair, murmuring “Go. I’ll handle the rest here.”

She nodded into his shirt, sighing and closing her eyes and not listening to him. He brushed a hand over her hair, before sliding it down and caressing her back carefully. Her back still hurt like a bitch, but she was trying to ignore the pain until she could finally have a chance to breathe.

“I love you,” he murmured, pulling back. He smiled at her softly and she smiled weakly back.

“I love you too.” And then it was her turn to leave. But she needed her old ring first. If she didn’t have it when she went downstairs, she’d be calling suspicion to herself. And when the house was burnt, and she didn’t have it, she’d be really screwed. She needed it as visible proof of her connection to him, even if she was legally married to him, for the next part of her plan. So she walked over and grabbed it from where she had thrown it on the floor, tensing as she pushed it on to her finger. She could do this.

With her head held high, Aelin walked out the door, delicately stepping over Arobynn’s body on her way. She barely registered the passing hallway, the doors, the carpet, the normalcy of it all that didn’t match the storm inside of her.

She stepped down the stairs slowly but deliberately, fighting a battle with herself mentally. She could do this. She could do this. She could do this.

She took a deep breath as she made her way back into the ballroom, forcing a soft smile on her face as she watched couples on the floor spin around, as she heard laughter and watched as people drunk on the alcohol and drunk on life pranced around the room. Who should she talk to?

She scanned the room, glancing across Lorcan and Elide standing on the other side. They both made eye contact with her and smiled with relief as she nodded at them, confirming she was okay when she really was anything but. Aelin loosed a breath and moved on, finding the group of women she had been around last time. Georgiana Havilliard was still talking to Clarisse DuVency, walking around with glasses of champagne as they laughed and probably gossipped about other attendants, and the fabulous wedding party that they were sure to be invited to, supposed to be thrown by Aelin herself. Too bad that wouldn’t happen.

So Aelin changed her walking path to make sure she ran into them, letting out a fake “oh!” when she did.

“Oh hello, Lady Hamel!” Mrs. Havilliard crooned. “I just talked to your mother, but I wasn’t sure when you were coming back down! Is everything okay with your husband?”

“Oh yes,” Aelin lied, smiling and nodding. “I think he’s catching a bit of a cold, but he’s sleeping it off now. I had to practically force him to go to bed, he wanted to come back down and spend time with all of you, but I told him that he has to get better! I can’t stand when he’s not feeling well.” She was lying. Lying through her teeth with a sugary sweet tone that made her want to gag, but she was managing.

“Well he has to get better before the wedding!” Clarisse said with a false cheer, trying to casually insert herself into the top social tier. “We can’t have our host out of commission.”

“Of course not,” Aelin agreed, tossing a hand. “He’ll be fine by then. I’ll make sure to take good care of him. I’m going to go check on him in a little bit. I left the lamp lit up there, so I’ll go back and see how he’s feeling before I go to bed.”

“You’re so sweet,” Mrs. Havilliard said, lifting a hand to her chest. “I wish Mr. Havilliard took care of me the same way.”

“Well,” Aelin shrugged, a bashful smile and a blush on her face. Think of Rowan. Think of Rowan. She could survive this if she thought of him. “Newlyweds you know. We may be different in a few years.”

They laughed and cooed and then she was off, spouting the same bullshit to group after group, person after person, all the while waiting for Rowan to reappear.

She even danced a few times, with Lorcan, with her father, with Dorian, keeping one eye on the door the whole time. Every second that passed by where Rowan wasn’t back was filling her body with more stress than it could handle. It made her back ache, her arms and legs tremble, her heart race with steady nerves that weren’t going away.

“FIRE!” A frantic voice yelled. “FIRE UPSTAIRS!”

Panic immediately broke out, the music cutting out in a shrill squeak as people registered what was said, the room filling with noise as people started shouting and running, desperate to get away. The young servant who’d spotted the flames got caught up in the chaos as people rushed both exits, no one stopping to think of the best plan of action.

Aelin knew she was supposed to run, to get out of the house that was about to burn down, but she was frozen. Because of Rowan. Where was he?

“Is anyone up there?” “What’s happening?” “Is everyone safe?”

The voices rushed around her as she got caught up in the crowd. She couldn’t leave yet. She couldn’t leave him. She almost got knocked to the floor as someone rammed into her shoulder as they passed, all respect forgotten in the panic, but she still didn’t move, even as she saw the glow of the fire against the wood upstairs as it spread through the hallway up there. Arobynn’s body, Tern’s body, his room, her room, all her stuff. It was gone.

A strangled sob left her as someone grabbed her arm, yanking her through the bustling crowd as she fought to get to the stairs. Even amidst her fear for Rowan though, she knew she had to play this up. Lady Aelin Hamel’s husband was upstairs, her room was upstairs, all of her precious clothes and jewels were upstairs. She would be expected to be upset. Mrs. Aelin Whitethorn on the other hand, was just concerned about Rowan. And he was up there too. But no one cared about her.

So she forced herself to shout Arobynn’s name as she threw herself against Lorcan’s grip. “Arobynn!” Rowan. “Arobynn!” Rowan.

She sobbed more as she was hauled away, letting people think she was crying over the loss of everything she cared about, because technically it was true.

Aelin barely felt the outside air as she was pulled out into the night, joining all the other guests and servants as they huddled in the street in front of her home. She darted her gaze up and down the house, around the sides and into the yard as she waited for Rowan to appear.

“Where is he?” She choked on a sob as fire burst one of the windows, the heat spreading downstairs. Fire marshals were already on the scene, trying to control it the best they could, but it was clear to everyone that the house was gone.

“Where is he?” She said desperately again, looking up at Lorcan for the answer. He just shook his head with a sad expression on his face.

“I don’t know,” he murmured, voice full of regret.

“Where is he?!” Aelin practically shouted, pushing away from his grip as she darted around, fighting through the crowd as she cried out desperately. A few more people tried to grab her, trying to comfort her and keep her from running back into the house. Tears were streaming down her face as she fought to get to him.

To Rowan.

Rowan, who’d seen every single broken piece of her and vowed to put her back together, who was doing just that with every touch, every word, every reminder of his love. She didn’t want that love to be gone.

A cooler hand wrapped around hers, pulling her back as her heart beat so fast she couldn’t breathe. Tears burned her eyes and blurred her vision, so she barely made out the sight of her mother before she was collapsing into her arms, hugging her tight. Everything else was too much, she just wanted her mother.

“Is he gone, mama?” She whispered, sniffing back tears. Evalin ran a hand down her hair, trying to soothe her.

“Everything will turn out fine,” she said, deflecting the question. It just made Aelin start crying again, ignoring everything else around her until she heard some familiar sounding footsteps a few yards to her right. She looked up hesitantly, crying harder as she saw Rowan, watching as he approached Lorcan and a few others gathered around.

“Sorry,” he said, “I was looking for the bathroom and got stuck as the fire was spreading. I had to jump out through a window.” He looked over and smiled slightly at her, and she nearly laughed at his words, at the excuse he came up with for the wounds on his face. It worked, but the mischief in his eyes brought a little lightness to her heart.

She was still crying, but she was smiling at him too as the rest of her life burned to ashes.

————

It took two more days for things to finally calm down enough to where Aelin could breathe. After the fire had been extinguished, leaving her house burnt to a crisp but saving the surrounding ones, the crowd had begun tapering off, and she had gone with her mother back to her family home.

So now she was staying in her childhood bedroom, back in the place that she’d never thought she’d be in again. It was peaceful there, the willow tree outside her window the same as it had been her whole life, the light pink curtains and blankets exactly as she remembered. Birds were chirping, and Aelin thought it was a nice place to relax.

She was laying on her bed, tucked under the blanket with a hand brushing over Fleetfoot’s fur. Elide had dropped her off the day before. Aelin would’ve gone to get her herself, but she was on strict bed rest, being told her “emotional trauma” was too much for her.

She would never admit she was affected by what happened, choosing to believe she was being shut up for no good reason other than appearances. Or maybe for her back, which was scarring over slowly. She hadn’t garnered the courage to look at it yet, despite the mirror in her room. She just kept the bandage wrapped on it tight. A proper bandage this time, not one salvaged from the sheets she’d been violated on.

Aelin smiled as Fleetfoot leaned up and licked her face, joyous to be reunited. It was a small step, but a momentous one, same as moving back into this room. It was a move toward reclaiming her life, taking it back under her control. Now that she was free.

A knock on her door sounded, and she glanced up to see her mother hesitantly opening the door. “Can I come in?” She asked cautiously. Aelin nodded, looking down at her bed as Evalin came and perched on the edge, shutting the door behind her. “How are you feeling?” She continued, furrowing her brows. Aelin sat up slightly, slowly leaning against the headboard to make sure it didn’t irritate her back before relaxing all the way.

“Overwhelmed,” she said honestly, chuckling to bring some lightness to the dark answer. She didn’t mention that she’d cried herself to sleep the past two nights, and then had woken up in the middle of the night both times from nightmares that Arobynn wasn’t dead, that he was going to walk in her room, that he was going to be angry at her and decide to act. Or from nightmares of him cutting into her skin, the helplessness she’d felt as she was shoved onto that bed. She hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep after that.

“Well that’s understandable,” Evalin said diplomatically, nodding. “A lot happened. A lot of which I don’t know. I hope you’ll trust me enough one day to tell me.” Her voice tapered off, a hint of sadness overtaking it. Aelin’s mouth tightened.

“I hope so too.” She looked at her mother, before leaning forward and grabbing her hand. Evalin looked at it, and then smiled softly up at her. “And I hope you can fill me in on your side of the story too, so that we can work toward that.”

Evalin squeezed her hand, leaning in to pet Fleetfoot too, running her hand through her soft fur. “To be honest, I don’t really know when it all started. When my views got warped I stopped seeing my daughter as a person.” She sighed. “Maybe it was when I was told I couldn’t have another child, and I threw my grief into trying to make you have the best life possible, ignoring that I was making everything worse.” She looked up, furrowing her brows as if contemplating. “That kind of hurt - it doesn’t go away.”

Aelin’s lip trembled, focusing her gaze on Fleetfoot. “Yes, I know.” And she did know, the sting of her loss still hurting all these months later.

“But that’s not an excuse, and I’m sorry.” Evalin looked at her, the sorrow in her eyes adamant. “I know I wrecked everything, and I’m so sorry for my role in it.” Now. Now was the time. She could tell her about what she’d learned, about how it wasn’t really her fault at all.

Aelin shook her head. “He caused it all,” she clarified, “I found that out. He manipulated father into taking that investment so we’d lose all of our money and you’d be forced to give me to him. It was never you two, it was him all along.”

Her mother’s eyes filled with horror and devastation, her mouth dropping open before she snapped it closed, anger taking over.

“Well,” she stuttered, “then fuck him.” The curse sounded unnatural from her lips and Aelin couldn’t help but laugh, a tear slipping out at the sentiment of the words.

“Thank you,” Aelin whispered, tears blurring her vision. Evalin just shook her head.

“Don’t thank me for doing something I should’ve done a long time ago.” Her tone was filled with disgust for herself, before she took a deep breath, looking back up at her. “It was your words at the ball that made me snap out of it, when you threatened to cut ties with me. I turned the words over and over in my mind, wondering where it went wrong, and then I realized it was me. So I went and found Aedion after you left, and I talked to him.” Aelin froze. “I apologized for my behavior, and said I would love to meet Miss Ennar, and would be happy to bless the marriage. It was a few months later than it should’ve been, but I’m trying to make amends.”

Evalin’s eyes were filled with tears too. “I only wish I’d been able to find that clarity long ago. And I know this doesn’t make up for everything I’ve done, everything I’ve contributed to, but I’d like to start again. I love you so so much, Aelin. You’re the pride and joy of my life. The only thing that really matters. And I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure you’re happy. I just hope I can do enough to deserve your forgiveness.” Her voice trailed off after the declaration, tears spilling over her cheeks. And in that moment, Aelin truly saw her mother for the first time. And saw a person not too different from herself. Maybe she veered off the path along the way, but they both had that same heart of fire.

“I forgive you already,” Aelin managed to say, smiling a watery smile at her. “You’re my mother, of course I do.” She sniffed, trying to quell her tears as she looked down at Fleetfoot, considering. Her mother had explained, it was her turn to tell her story if she wished. And she did.

She took a deep breath and looked back up, meeting Evalin’s blue eyes with a soft smile as she thought about the words she was going to say. “Do you remember all those years ago, when we went out to the Florine River because the weather was so nice? And we met that other family there?” Evalin nodded, furrowing her brows in confusion. “That’s when I first met Rowan.”

“That long ago?” Her mother’s voice was incredulous. “You’ve known him since then?”

Aelin chuckled. “Not quite. I didn’t meet him again for many years after that.” She sighed and leaned back against the headboard more, smiling as Fleetfoot shifted to lay her head on her leg. “But when I did, I couldn’t say goodbye.”

And so she spilled the story of their secret love, telling their tale of joy and woe, every moment where he made her feel like the most important thing in the world, and every moment where she thought she was going to die from the ache of not being able to have him. From the decisions they both made, to their painful separation and the letters she wrote. She told her about the tragedy that struck them both, the joy turning sour too damn quickly. And then about when he came back, and they reunited, and how the passion between them had never really gone away, just growing over the years.

By the end, both of them were crying. Evalin, from hearing all of this for the first time, the pain her daughter had gone through. Aelin, for reliving it all, but also feeling the simple joy of being loved. Not just by Rowan, but by her too.

“You’re strong, Aelin,” Evalin whispered, standing up and leaning forward to press a kiss to her forehead. “Your spirit is strong, don’t ever forget that.” And with that, she left, telling her to get some rest.

Aelin nodded, smiling at her as she left, and then sighed, dropping her head to look at her dog.

“Am I strong, Fleetfoot? What do you think?” She didn’t answer of course, but she chuckled at herself anyway. The lightness in her heart faded though as the movement sent a shot of pain to her back. Could she call herself strong if she couldn’t even face that? She didn’t think so. But she wanted to be able to.

So with a heavy feeling, Aelin pushed herself slowly to a stand, every nerve on edge as she walked across her rug, every brush of the fibers on her skin lighting up as she trembled. She could do this. She could come to terms with this. His last mark on her. It was the first step to forgetting him.

She breathed deeply, trying to expel her nerves as she turned in front of her mirror, pulling down the straps of her old nightgown so she could get to the bandage. She reached to the tie on the side, unwrapping it the best she could with her shaking hands. Slowly, her heart racing, Aelin pulled off the bandage, squeezing her eyes shut as air brushed the skin before slowly, ever so slowly, she peeled open her eyes. And there it was.

WHORE

She let out a shuddering sigh, a rush of emotions pouring through her as a piece of her heart cracked. The word was angry against her pale skin, the red lines thick and stark from the brutality of the knife. She shouldn’t’ve been surprised, he used to call her that all the time. But... still.

She blinked back a tear and looked away, unable to stare at it any longer. It was one thing to hear the word thrown at you when you were already in a state of defense, but to see it etched into your skin - a burning rose in her throat and she barely made it to the bathroom before she was vomiting.

Aelin sobbed as she laid her head back against the wall, giving herself one minute to break down. She tucked her legs into herself, wrapping her arms around them as she dropped her head to her knees. One minute to grieve, one minute to let it all go, one minute to collapse.

And then when that minute passed, she straightened up, wiping at her eyes as she methodically walked back into her room, the rug barely making an impression as she numbly walked back to the mirror. And she turned and stared that ugly word in the face, clenching her jaw. She was better than that. She wouldn’t let it defeat her. She wouldn’t let his final attempt at staining her be the thing that she couldn’t recover from. No.

She was strong.

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

Rowan took a breath as he knocked on the front door, stepping back and putting his hands in his pockets as he waited for someone to answer. Anticipation was rolling in his stomach, his hands shaking slightly as he waited and waited and waited. He hadn’t seen Aelin since the day everything happened, three days ago now, and every single second of those felt like too many.

He hadn’t been at the Galathynius house in ages, but the sight was familiar to him, a staple in Orynth. He was glad Aelin was back here, was glad she was offered that little bit of comfort.

The whole city had been buzzing for days, the news passing from person to person as quick as a sharp gust of wind. The fire was common knowledge, as it wasn’t every day that a giant house in the middle of town burnt down while hosting one of the biggest balls of the year. But now the other piece was confirmed.

Lord Arobynn Hamel had died in the fire. Leaving his poor wife, Lady Aelin Hamel, a widow.

Tern was confirmed dead too, but no one cared about him. Rowan was just glad that there seemed to be no suspicion surrounding the deaths, as everyone just accepted that the fire was the reason, started by a lamp left lit in the room, left too close to a handkerchief and a very flammable wooden desk. Ignoring the fact that Rowan himself had doused the handkerchief and desk in oil from the lamp and had taken a flame from the lamp to set it on fire, spreading it more artificially than the accident that people were proposing.

It just made it easier for him.

It helped that everyone was sympathetic toward Aelin, and her devastating loss. First her baby, and now her husband, who she’d only been married to for a little over a year. So no one wanted to break her heart further by theorizing it was murder. Despite the fact that she was the one who’d murdered him.

But because of the appearances of it, no one was allowed to come visit her right now, for an indefinite amount of time, while she grieved. Rowan knew she wouldn’t agree with it, but he thought it was smart, as she didn’t need to be forced to deal with people’s fake apologies and sorrow. They were only sorry for themselves.

He was taking a chance by coming today, but he couldn’t bear not seeing her any longer. He hoped Evalin would let him in.

After a few minutes, where Rowan had considered leaving, the door opened, revealing Evalin Galathynius herself, who was already smiling at him.

“I don’t want to intrude -” he began, but she was already waving him inside.

“She’s in the library,” she said, gesturing to a hallway heading to the back. Rowan nodded in thanks and walked in, passing her as she disappeared back into the parlor.

He took another deep breath as he walked down the hallway, barely taking in the expensive art and decor that made up the Galathynius home. All he could think about was Aelin. Aelin.

He grasped the handle of the door, opening it slowly, revealing the large library. Huge bookshelves spanned the walls, comfy chairs and couches lining the middle. It was exactly a type of room she would love, and he knew she would want a room similar to it in their future home. The thought made him smile.

Aelin was sitting curled up in a comfy looking armchair, with a book in her arms that she seemingly just started, given the way she had it open to the first page. There was no ring in sight. Rowan couldn’t help but stand and watch her for a second, leaning against the doorframe and reveling in the peacefulness on her features. He knew it was likely a facade, but it had been so long since he’d seen her look so untroubled, and it soothed his heart.

She stayed on that page for a while before flipping to the next, and when she moved her head, she caught on his figure and looked up, smiling.

“Rowan,” she breathed before jumping up and running to him. She leapt into his arms laughing, and he spun her around, his arms tight around hers as he dropped his head to her neck and breathed her in.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her skin with each iteration, making her giggle. He set her down, and she buried her face in his chest, smiling into him.

“I love you too,” she said, looking up and resting her chin on his shirt.

“How’ve you been?” He asked, caressing a hand gently down her back.

“You know,” she said softly, “Everyone keeps asking me that.”

“And what’s your answer?” He replied softly too, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I don’t really know,” she said honestly, before huffing. “There’s a lot to - process.” She shook her head, looking to the side, away from him. “I looked at my back yesterday,” she said, almost guiltily, even though she had no reason to be. His heart ached for how small she sounded.

“And how do you feel about it?” He asked carefully, trying to prompt her into sharing her feelings without overwhelming or pushing her. He brushed one hand gently over the bandage. Her eyes darkened.

“I’d rather just pretend it’s not there at all,” she sighed, “and it helps that I can’t really see it, but I’m dealing with it. I will deal with it. I’m just not right now.” She shook her head, still looking away. Rowan decided not to press more, just leaning forward and placing a small kiss on her forehead.

“Well, whenever you decide you’re ready, I’ll be here to help you. Just like I always am.” He was glad the words were true. Aelin smiled and looked up at him, pursing her lips, asking for a kiss. He obliged. But there was a flicker of worry in the back of his mind, a little nag of a doubt that was wondering if she still wanted this, still wanted him. He figured he should address it. “Aelin - “ he began, and he could see her eyes shutter at his hard tone, could see her mental barriers go up, like it was a natural defense. “I know we promised things, and I still stand by my promise, but I know things have changed. And I don’t want to rush you into anything, or if maybe your feelings have changed, or if you just want space after all of this, I understand.” His words were rushed, his heart already breaking at the thought of having to stay away from her. But he would, if that’s what she wanted.

But Aelin’s eyes warmed and she laughed, a bright musical sound.

“For someone so smart, you really are a dumbass.” She shook her head again, a brilliant smile on her face. She lifted her hand to cup his cheek. “Yes, things have changed, and I know I’ve changed and I know I have issues and things to work through, but I’d love it if you were there by my side.”

“Thank the gods,” he muttered, before sweeping her in for a deeper kiss. She laughed into it until they had to break it because they were both smiling too much. There were still shadows in her eyes, flickers of things she was pushing away, but it meant everything to him that she could still go through all of that and smile. They settled into a hug, his arms holding her in tight, before she stepped back.

“Can I take you somewhere?” She asked carefully, and he nodded hesitantly. “There’s something I want to show you.”

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

The air was a bit colder than he expected, but the birds were still singing and the sun was still bright as they made their way to their destination. Aelin’s hand was clasped in his, her knuckles almost white with how hard she was gripping. Rowan was gripping just as hard back, needing her support as much as he was offering hers.

Because he knew where they were going. He knew the moment they got into the carriage and she asked the driver to take them to the Florine River.

There could only be one thing she wanted to show him there.

Her hand started shaking as they approached, the sounds of the gently flowing river getting louder, and he just squeezed her hand tighter. But his own heart was beating faster, if only to keep itself from splintering.

The tree was up ahead, with the swing that he’d carved To Whatever End in, and the words were never more fitting than now, when he saw the new addition. Because there was a gravestone now, right in front of the trunk of the tree, the river behind it and the birds overhead.

He let out a shuddering breath as Aelin broke from him to go ahead and kneel in front of it, brushing her hand over the simple carving. All it said was Eliott. No other adornment, no other name. Just that one was enough. Rowan’s heart clenched as he knelt next to her, staying silent as he breathed in the moment.

“Hi baby,” Aelin murmured, letting her hand drop as she started talking. “I know I haven’t been here in a while. A lot’s been going on, but I’m sorry to have stayed away.” Her voice was soft, a sad smile on her face as she talked to their daughter. “Maybe one day I’ll tell you about it, about everything that led us here, but not today. Because today I brought your father with me, for the first time.” Rowan sniffed back a tear as Aelin gestured to him slightly, still looking at the stone. “And he loves you just as much as I do, with all of his heart, just like he loves me.”

She sighed, her voice shaky with emotion as she continued. “And I know we never got the chance to meet you, but he would’ve been the best father in the world, and you would’ve been the most cared for and adored little girl.” Rowan reached for her hand quickly as her voice broke, holding it in his lap as she held back a sob. “Life is complicated, and messy, and I’m so sorry that it’s kept us apart from you. But I hope that one day, we’ll all be reunited, and I’ll finally get to see your face.” She shuddered then, a tear spilling down her cheek, but she closed her eyes, composing herself as she finished her speech.

Rowan’s heart was breaking, a tear slipping down his own face as his throat felt too tight to even breathe. But he did. He breathed in and out, matching them with the incredible woman sitting next to him. They returned to silence, letting the birds chirp as they sat there, keeping each other strong.

“He never cared about her,” she finally said, her voice quiet as she referenced Arobynn. “Never for one moment when he knew she was yours did he care about what happened. He wanted me to forget, when that was the opposite of what I could do.” She was reiterating what she’d said in the letters, but he let her talk, wanting her to share whatever she was feeling. “That’s when I truly knew he was soulless.”

She took a deep breath. “He was spiteful about it too, throwing it at me whenever he could, calling me a failure, a waste, a useless wife.” His heart squeezed, remembering that time at dinner when he’d brought it up and she’d left to go get some air. “It was the one thing that I never could avoid. I was always affected by it. And he knew it.” Her voice shook. “He even put a provision in his will saying I couldn't inherit his money unless we had an heir, knowing that I likely wouldn’t be able to.”

Rowan looked at her, horror and anger filling up inside him at the words. But she just sighed and rested her head on his shoulder, a small triumphant smile curling on her face. “But I survived him, and I beat him too. Not just because he’s dead, but because of that will.” He furrowed his brows in confusion, but didn’t interrupt. “I can thank you for that actually. He was so egotistical he only had one copy of it, hidden in his office desk.” She actually chuckled slightly, a humorless one. “And now that desk is burnt to the ground, leaving him without a will.” His eyes widened, that meant… “and now, according to Orynth law, his next of kin can come collect his wealth from the bank within the next seven years before it’s taken by the government.”

“And his next of kin is you,” he breathed, and she squeezed his hand.

“I now own everything he owned, his money, his assets, his company,” she said, smiling. “I can get us a house, I can make sure my parents’ company is set, I can give Vaughan that job he was denied, I can do whatever we want.”

Rowan laughed incredulously, reveling in her brilliance. They’d factored in his wealth in their plan, and he’d been the one to come up with the solution for Vaughan in the first place, but she’d made it reality.

“You’re amazing, Fireheart,” he said, kissing the top of her head.

“It’s all part of my charm.” She smiled again. He breathed another laugh and shook his head, before looking back out at the grave and the water behind it. It felt right, for her to be out here, with nature, at the place where he and Aelin had first met. Where they’d said goodbye. Where they now took those next steps together, finally ready for the future they’d only been able to dream about.

They sat there in the quiet, enjoying the peacefulness, and soon, Aelin was closing her eyes, resting against his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her, holding her close as he began to talk himself, saying the words held inside him.

“Hi Eliott,” he said quietly, trying not to disturb Aelin. “I’m your father, Rowan. I’m sure your mother’s mentioned me at least once, and I’m sorry I haven’t been here before now.” He sighed. “Like she said earlier, there’s been a lot happening, a lot of turmoil and a lot of stress. But I’m glad I got to come now, glad I got to see you. You and your mother are the most important people in my life.” He trailed off, his throat tight as a tear slipped out. “Your mother has been through a lot recently, more than anyone should ever have to go through. And I wish I’d been able to protect her from it, been able to protect you both. But life doesn’t always work that way.” He couldn’t stop the tears now. “But I promise to keep her safe from now on, until we can finally meet you.” He reached a hand out, feeling the cool stone just like she had. “I love you.”

He knew Aelin wasn’t sleeping when he saw the tear stream down her rosy cheek, when he saw her sniff and open her eyes, deep emotion filling them as she looked at him. Love, and sorrow, and compassion… and hope.

And in that moment, Rowan knew they would be okay. Maybe they weren’t yet, and it would take a while for them to get there, but they were together now, they were safe. And he wouldn’t let anything separate them ever again.

“To whatever end,” he whispered, looking down at her. Aelin linked their fingers, her eyes misty as she smiled a beautifully bittersweet smile.

“To whatever end.”

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#throne of glass fanfiction #rowaelin au #rowaelin fanfiction #rowaelin #throne of glass #rowan x aelin #ivy

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writingwhimsey · 3 years

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My Pirate Lord and Our Life Ch. 40

Chapter 40

I wrapped up another wounded soldier and glanced over at Misa. She was helping with stitching wounds. I wasn't surprised at how well she was able to treat the soldiers. She'd been learning the medicine of the times from Ieyasu as well as had her own medical training. There were plenty of things she knew that the healers of this time did not. What had me surprised was how well she was holding up mentally and emotionally. She'd never been in war before. I remember how scared I had been at my first battle.

"I'm not gonna fall over from fright or anything." She told me. "You do remember that I'm a nurse as well as a midwife. I had to train in the emergency room too you know."

"Hey, I'm still going to worry about you." I replied.

"Well stop and worry about yourself." Misa countered.

We both continued to look after the wounded soldiers that came in and still looking out for each other. She was very adamant about me taking frequent breaks. I followed her instructions, but didn't take very long breaks. There was too much to be done and when paused my work, my mind began to wander, wondering where Motonari was and if he was alright.

I was bandaging up another soldier. "You just rest and take it easy. Can't have you reopening that wound." I told him, giving him a reassuring smile.

"Thank you, Princess." He told me. "Though you shouldn't worry much about me. You make sure you're getting plenty of rest, too."

"Yes, you better take care of yourself, Princess." Another of the soldiers I had helped spoke up.

"I know my sister would box my ears if she knew I were letting a pregnant woman tend to me." Another said.

"I'm fine." I assured them.

"Don't you guys worry, I'll make sure she doesn't work herself too hard." Misa said, coming over to me.

I rolled my eyes. "I promise, I am fine. I'm used to this kind of work now, you know."

A messenger came with news from the front for us just then. "The battle is over with our victory!" The messenger declared. "Lord Motonari defeated and captured Kicho."

I felt like a huge weight had been lifted off of my shoulders to hear this news. "That's the best news." I declared.

"More wounded will be arriving shortly and then after they finish wrapping things up on the field, everyone should be returning shortly." The messenger said.

We prepared to take in the last of the wounded and then got to work as they were brought in. I was beginning to feel the fatigue, but was pushing through. I couldn't let the soldiers see me weary. Misa was coming over to me. "Ava, come on you need to rest." She said. "You've been working all night."

"But there's still more to do." I countered.

One of the healers was coming over to me. "Lady Ava, you should listen to your midwife. Besides, we only have those with less serious injuries left. We can handle things from here. We do not wish to see you collapse from exhaustion."

I sighed. "Alright, if you're all in agreement, but just for a bit. Then I'll come back in to check on everyone."

I was then exiting the tent, Misa coming with me practically pushing me out. I lifted my arm and wiped the sweat from my brow. Just as I brought my arm down, I could hear the sound of hoofbeats approaching. I turned my head. I saw Motonari on horseback looking ever so much like the hero of a romance novel.

He smiled at me as he brought his horse to a stop and was vaulting off the back. Seeing my love after so long apart erased the weariness that had been beginning to take over. My feet were already moving and I was soon racing towards him and if it wasn't my imagination, he was racing towards me.

He caught me in his arms as we met in the middle. I threw my arms around him. "Motonari." I spoke his name as if it were the only word in the world, the only thing to matter. Then before he could even think of saying anything back to me, I was crushing my lips to his.

He responded, his lips moving with mine as his arms tightened around me. I could have cried for the joy I felt at being reunited with him. Feeling his arms around me once again and his lips on mine. It didn't even matter to me that we were in the middle of camp and that there were others around...at seeing him again, I was only vaguely aware of everyone else's presence.

We broke our kiss, both of us breathless, but we still held on to each other. Motonari gave me a grin. "Ya miss me that much, flower girl?" He asked the teasing in his voice softened by the tender look in his eyes.

"What kind of question is that? Of course, silly pirate boy." I answered.

Motonari smiled at me and gave me a gentle peck on the lips. Then he pulled back slightly to look at me, his eyes travelling down my body. "Yer lookin' awfully sweet." He said, bringing a gloved hand to rest on the gentle swell of my belly.

I placed my hand over his, my cheeks reddening. "I've been wondering what you were going to think when you saw me again."

"Never seen anything more beautiful, m'lady." He told me.

"Did you suffer a hit to the head?" I asked, teasingly. "You're not always this sweet."

His eyes narrowed playfully. "My head's just fine. You tryin' ta tell me I can't be sweet to my girl after bein' apart for so long?" He was then wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me closer and nuzzling my neck.

His hair tickled my neck and brought forth some giggles. "M-Moto-nari..." I got out between my giggles as I playfully swatted at him.

"Ugh, this is a sickeningly sweet display." Came a familiar prickly voice.

"You guys do realize you're not alone right?" Misa asked.

"Come on guys, the lass hasn't laughed or smiled this big in the last several weeks." Masamune said.

I felt my cheeks reddening at the realization we had gotten so caught up, but I wasn't about to leave my husband's arms.

"It is good to see that happy smile on your face once again, Fireball." Nobunaga said.

"Even Hideyoshi is keeping quiet right now because he's glad to see Ava so happy again." Mitsuhide said.

Hideyoshi sighed. "I mean...I could have gone without witnessing that, but...yeah it is good to see you this happy again."

Motonari was laughing and man if I hadn't missed that sound. "What's this, Hideyoshi? Ya thank me and compliment me on my plan...and now ya don't gripe at me for showin' my girl some love?"

"You must be an imposter." Mitsuhide added, that teasing smile on his face as he looked at Hideyoshi. "The Hideyoshi I know could never hold his tongue like that."

Hideyoshi gave Mitsuhide an exasperated glare. "One of these days I am going to punch that smug smile off of your face."

"We have a victory to celebrate." Nobunaga declared.

"Yes, victory sake tastes the best." Kenshin agreed.

"While that's all well and good, Ava really needs to get off of her feet and rest." Misa said, looking pointedly at me.

"I'm fine." I said.

"You been workin' with the healers all night?" Motonari asked, looking at me.

"Well...I mean...I couldn't just not help." I replied, sheepishly.

"I had to force her to take as many breaks as I could, but she wouldn't rest for long." Misa said.

Without warning, Motonari scooped me up into his arms, sweeping me off of my feet. I looked up at him, surprised. "W-what are you doing?" I asked.

"Gettin' you off yer feet and takin' ya to get some rest." He answered. "Now where's yer tent?"

"Back that way." I answered, pointing to the back of the camp.

"Make sure she actually rests." Misa said. "And I've got one word for the two of you, gentle."

My face began to glow, but Motonari was grinning. "I don't need anyone tellin' me how to take care of my girl...besides, there's some things I ain't gonna do in the middle of a camp. Wanna save that fer when no one else can hear." He said before walking off, still carrying me in his arms.

With my face still glowing, I directed him to my tent, he walked inside and then sat down on the bedroll and settled me on his lap, his arms wrapping around me. I smiled at him. "I'm glad you're back and that this is finally over." I said, leaning in to give him a kiss.

When we broke the kiss, I felt Motonari move his arms, and then he was lifting his now naked hand to cup my cheek. "I missed you, too." He said. "And I ain't leavin' yer side fer a second now that I'm back."

I smiled as I leaned into his touch. God, it feels so good to feel his touch again! I thought. "Good because I'm not going to let you. I'm staying stuck to you like glue."

Motonari was grinning at me. "I can think of a few other ways fer ya to be stuck to me."

"You're terrible." I said with a blush and giggle.

"Yeah, and ya wouldn't have me any other way."

"No, no I wouldn't." I agreed.

Motonari's thumb gently traced under my eye. "Ya look exhausted." He said.

"Just a little tired." I replied.

He gave me a look before gently pulling my head towards him until I was resting on his shoulder. I didn't fight him, as I relaxed against him, just happy to be in his arms. I felt his lips brush the top of my head. "Rest on me." He said.

"I...don't wanna go to sleep though." I said. "I've missed you, you know."

"I know...'cuz I missed you, too. Worried about ya. Wonderin' if you were eatin' enough. Gettin' enough rest. Or if you were overworking yerself like ya tend to do when yer trying to avoid thinkin' about somethin'."

"I doubt you worried nearly as much as I did about you." I replied. "I mean the last time I saw you, you were wounded." I pulled back to look at him. "And Hideyoshi told me you two planned on wounding each other. That was really stupid and dangerous, you know."

Motonari chuckled. "Are ya lecturin' me now?" He asked.

"Yes. There had to be another way to convince Kicho...I think you just wanted to have an excuse to shoot him...or now you can hold that he's stabbed you over his head for forever now."

Motonari laughed. "That ain't a bad idea."

I gently smacked his chest. "It's not funny. I was really worried about you...and...I couldn't see you know you were okay...and then it was weeks before I finally heard anything from you again..." The tears were stinging at my eyes.

Motonari's face took on a gentle look. He opened his shirt, baring his chest for me. He then took my hand in his and placed it over the scar that stretched over his chest and abdomen. "I'm alright, Ava. This was nothin'. Didn't even hurt that bad."

My eyes traced over the scar even as my fingers traveled its length. "It didn't? You looked like you were in a lot of pain though."

"That...wasn't to do with this." He confessed. "No wound could hurt as much as havin' ta leave you did...as much as even pretendin' to betray ya hurt."

My breath caught in my throat at his confession. Of course it had to have been hard on him. Pretending he was betraying me to learn Kicho's plans. "I never doubted you, you know." I told him. "I hated being away from you, but I never once doubted you would succeed."

"I know...and that's what kept me goin'...knowin' you believed in me." He said. He was then reaching into the inner pocket on the front of his now open shirt and pulling out a folded piece of paper.

I recognized it as the letter I had written for him and placed beneath his pillow the last morning we had been together. "You carried that with you this whole time?"

"Yeah. Kept it right here next ta my heart...like I was sayin' yer love is in my heart...like you did with the chatelaine I gave you." He replied, his cheeks taking on a bit of a pink tint.

I smiled at him. I was then reaching into the folds of my kimono and pulling out the letter he had sent with Shingen's spy. "Well, it would appear we think alike."

Motonari grinned at me before leaning in for another kiss. "I love ya, Ava."

"I love you, too Motonari."

We were then drawing in to share more kisses, both of us not able to get enough. Motonari stopped the kisses but then laid us both down on the bedroll. "Come on, you need to get some rest." He said.

Laying down really let me feel how tired I was. I snuggled closer to Motonari. "I still...don't...want to sleep...just yet." I said around a yawn.

Motonari chuckled and kissed my forehead. "Get some sleep, flower girl. Ya need it...not just now, but so yer nice and rested up fer when we get home, because once we get home ain't neither of us gettin' much rest. We got a lotta lovin' to make up for."

"Hmmm...yes we do." I agreed. "When you put it like that...I'll make sure to get nice and rested up."

"Good."

We snuggled closer still. Motonari began to run his fingers through my hair as he held me close. The weariness seemed to catch up to me and I was quickly falling into a peaceful sleep wrapped in the arms of my love, finally reunited.

Chapter 41 below!

https://writingwhimsey.tumblr.com/post/672292022595518464/my-pirate-lord-and-our-life-ch-41

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smaidjor · 3 years

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and i pay for my place by the ring (Chapter 1)

Hey guys! Welcome to another angsty fic by yours truly, provider of flower husbands pain.

Some things you should know before you jump into this:

1. This is a companion fic to my fic "i know they're losing". You can understand it without having read the other one, since it's the same story from two different POVs but I think the overall experience is better with both!

2. The overall title of each fic is from the mitski song I bet on losing dogs. Chapter titles are from the Last Goodbye from the Hobbit films.

3. There is a lot of lord of the rings lore in both fics, and I mean a lot. You may be kinda confused if you've never read tolkien's works. It will all be explained eventually, though!

4. With the fact that it's a companion fic and a lot of people came here from Jimmy's POV in mind- this is a lot heavier of a fic. The content warnings are heavier and the angst is more intense. You have been warned.

(Obligatory disclaimer that this is about characters, not ccs, and do not ship real people, as always!)

Chapter Title: to these memories i will hold

Chapter Wordcount: 4000

Content warnings: suicidal thoughts, self-esteem issues, panic attacks, past death, very frank discussion of death. (In general, if suicide or death are triggering topics for you, this is probably not the fic for you. Stay safe and take care of yourself!)

AO3

Actual fic under the cut:

Scott didn’t expect to survive 3rd life. No one did, he thinks, but especially not him. Clever, clever Scott, who knew his fate too well for his own good. He could have chosen his allies carefully, he knows, could have played on their emotions to make them think he was loyal until the moment he turned on them to win. He knew who the strongest factions and warriors were, the most cunning and intelligent participants in this death game they were forced into. Instead, he chose Jimmy. Sweet, dopey Jimmy, who had the personality of a golden retriever and only a handful of braincells at any given time. Jimmy, who was worth more than all the stars in the sky to him. Who made him feel alive . No, Scott didn’t expect to win. Not when it was Jimmy by his side- when it was Jimmy by his side, winning didn’t matter. All that mattered was Jimmy’s blush when Scott pressed a kiss to his cheek, the way his hair looked like gold in the sunlight and his smile lit up Scott’s whole world.

After Jimmy died, Scott stopped wanting to survive 3rd life. What was the point? The stars can shine on without the sun, but all life on Earth would wither and die. The same happened to Scott’s broken, bitter heart, he found. Jimmy was the first person in years to love him truly, wholly, with no strings attached; it was terrifying how quickly Scott fell for the first person to look at him and not expect him to be anything but what he was. Scott’s world, which used to be mountain peaks and endless blue sky, narrowed to warm brown eyes and a grin like sunshine quicker than he could comprehend. Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, it all came back to him. What was Scott without Jimmy? The unwanted twin, the unloved child, the un-elven elf. Because who cared if he was a good shot with a bow or good at organizing teams or building pretty little houses? He would always be second-born, second-best.

It was fitting, really, that when Scott died, he died alone. Some might find it ironic that the man who knew enough people to fill the roster of a championship held by a god every month died without a single person to witness it save his enemies, but in the end, it was always going to be like this, Scott knew. He hadn’t been there to see Jimmy die, he hadn’t been able to hold him in his final moments and soothe the agony of death. Maybe this was his punishment. He wouldn’t be surprised; the gods of this world did not smile on him and never would. Why should they, when he had failed the only person who had ever found him good enough?

When he woke up in Rivendell, he was almost disappointed. Almost. He considered ditching the rest of the elves, up and leaving to somewhere that didn’t make it feel like the noose of immortality was slowly tightening around his neck. If nothing else, Noxite would let him crash at the MCC server for a bit until he found somewhere to go. And yet, in the end, Scott’s stubborn sense of duty won out. The elves needed a ruler. Xornoth had disappeared to god knows where, and though they had been braver, wiser, better in every way, Scott was the one who had stayed. Who was willing to take up the crown that weighed so heavily on its bearers. So Scott, who no one ever expected to rule, took up the burden of leadership.

Now, he tries and fails to get out of bed and wonders what the point of that even was. He’s fading, and worse than that, he’s fading over a human. His ancestors are probably rolling in their graves. Rivendell will be leaderless within a decade, and this time there are no heirs to take control. Not even a ‘spare’ like Scott used to be. What a mess.

There are footsteps on the stairs. They’re unfamiliar, meaning they could be a threat, but he’s too tired to bother sitting up. If he dies, well- it’s inevitable, really, in the same way watching the mortals he loves dies is.

The person comes around the corner, and Scott realizes with no joy that he won’t be dying today after all. Katherine looks both curious and concerned, but her voice tilts towards the latter when she asks “Scott?” and then, more hesitantly “Lord Smajor?”

He blinks at her, exhausted. “Hi, Katherine.”

“I came to talk to you about some empires stuff, but, I mean, if this is a bad time, I can come back later…?” She sounds so thrown off by his state that Scott almost feels bad.

Whatever it is, it must be important if she’s come all the way here, though, so he gestures her to a chair. “No, no, stay. I can muster the energy for a meeting, just don’t ask me to get up.”

Katherine takes the seat. “I came to talk about the corruption on the server, but- are you okay? Are you sick?”

Nothing about the question is funny in any way, but Scott laughs regardless. “In a way, yes.”

“What do you mean?”

“Take my hand.” He offers it out, knowing the unnatural cold is unsettling no matter if you’re elven or not. Katherine does as he asks, the concern on her face only growing as she grips his icy hand.

“Elves don’t get sick like mortals do,” Scott explains. “Nor do we die of old age. But we get...heartsickness, you might call it. We call it fading in our tongue- the cold hands are a symptom of that. Our souls are fragile, and the grief of the mortal plane can be overwhelming. If an elf is too struck by it, they fade away and die.” The words taste bitter on his tongue, a frank reminder of the slow and painful death that awaits him.

Katherine gasps, and Scott knows he’s alarmed her.

He goes on, though. “It usually happens to old elves, world-weary.” Ironic, it’s ironic that he’s saying that as a young elf explaining his own death. “Those who are tired of existence. But any elf who has experienced enough grief is at risk.”

Her face is nothing short of horrified. “You’re- fading? But doesn’t it usually happen to old elves? Wait, are you old?”

“I’m fifty-five.”

“Is that old?”

He has to laugh. “Fifty is the elven equivalent of eighteen for humans, the age of maturity.” Though he feels so much older than that, both in elven terms and in human.

“Oh.”

There’s a moment of silence, then, “How can you be so calm if you’re dying?”

“I’m tired, Katherine. The world tore me away from the people I loved, and..I’m tired of fighting it.” He’s so, so exhausted. So sick of having to claw and scrape and struggle for the barest scraps of happiness.

“Is there a way to reverse fading- to fix it?” Katherine sounds so hopeful that the question seems almost naive even though she’s far more capable of a ruler than he is. Naive in the affairs of elves, maybe, much as she’s intelligent in so many other ways.

Scott tries not to flinch at the innocent inquiry, thinking about the deaths from fading that he’s watched. “Technically, yes. If an elf recovers enough emotionally, it’s reversible. But whatever caused them to fade the first time can- and often does- cause it again.” And again, and again, until there’s nothing to be done but let them die , he finishes in his head.

Katherine nods, a look of determination overtaking the hope. “We’ll just have to reverse it, then.”

“That’s sweet, Katherine, but I’m dying.”

“No. You’re not going to die. Now come on, you can show me your empire while I fill you in on what’s happening on the rest of the continent.” She sounds so firm that he doesn’t dare disobey, though his exhaustion makes a fair effort at convincing him to. Will this really fix anything? Unlikely. But it’s worth it to try, if only to humor Katherine. At least this way she’ll have the comfort of having tried to save him when he inevitably fades away into nothing

Scott takes her hand, though it brings him little warmth, cold from her trek here. “Alright.” He swallows the bitter grief in his throat before it can seep into his words. “We can try.”

He leads Katherine around Rivendell, taking some pride in the way she oohs over the decor. If there’s one thing he can do right, it’s building. While some elven rulers might see it as below themselves to help build houses for their citizens, Scott finds building soothing. It’s one of the few skills he picked up during his time away that people really appreciate; no one wants to live in a shitty house.

As they walk, she also tells Scott about the demon, Xornoth. “The demon’s already visited a lot of people, I think. Gem and Shubble for sure, and Fwhip and Sausage. That’s not even mentioning the corruption that’s been spreading.”

If Scott said that the name Xornoth didn’t make him flinch, he would be lying to himself. It’s not your sibling , he tells himself. It’s just a coincidence .

It’s through the virtue of years of lying that his voice comes out steady. “There’s corruption in Rivendell too. Likely Xornoth’s work. And given that Jimmy still has Vilya-” his heart doesn’t ache when he says Jimmy’s name, it doesn’t- “well, I haven’t been able to do much.”

“Vilya?” Katherine asks.

“A ring of power. My inheritance from the Noldor.”

“Why does Jimmy have it?”

He doesn’t answer. He won’t- can’t talk about Jimmy, not without remembering how he looked with an arrow through his throat, bright smile gone and face frozen in fear. How does he explain how much Jimmy meant to him? How much he’s now giving up, knowing he’ll have to lose it one way or another?

Katherine drops the topic, seemingly sensing that she’s stumbled on something sensitive. When she has to go home, she leaves with a friendly goodbye and a promise to visit, and Scott believes neither. Who would put the effort into visiting him? He’s not a good friend, he’s not a good king, and god knows he’s not a good husband. In fact, he’s actively avoiding his husband. He may have kept the pufferfish Jimmy gave him, but that doesn’t mean anything. He can’t fall in love with Jimmy again. Loving Jimmy will kill him. (Scott ignores the small voice at the back of his head that whispers that he’s still in love with Jimmy and it’s already killing him just as he always knew it would.)

To his surprise, Katherine does come back next week, and the week after that. He’s ashamed to admit it, but there’s some part of him that’s pathetically grateful when she shows up at his doorstep. It’s a chance to not be alone . Much as he dreads the day when she finally gives up on him, it’s nice that someone cares enough to try and save him from himself.

The third week, Katherine doesn’t show up. Instead, the footsteps on the stairs are familiar in a way that makes Scott’s heart twist painfully.

He takes a deep breath. “Hello, Jimmy.”

“How’d you know it was me?” Jimmy asks. Scott can tell he’s startled by the way his voice goes up, almost frightened.

Scott steels himself, taking a deep breath before rolling over to face his ex-husband. “Do you think I could ever forget the sound of your footsteps?” He forces himself to not get distracted staring at Jimmy, instead going on before Jimmy can open his mouth. “What are you doing here?”

“Katherine asked me to visit, I’m not sure why, but...here I am. Say, why is she visiting every week?” Jimmy’s so curious. So naive, as always.

Scott laughs, bitter. “Katherine thinks she can save me.”

“Save you from what?”

Scott hears the concern in Jimmy’s words, and he can’t bring himself to break the news. It’s not as if it matters. It’s not as if Jimmy would care; he came here because of Katherine. Maybe he cared at the start of Empires, but Scott’s been nothing but rude to him since. There’s no reason for him to care. (He cares. Scott’s lying, like always. Jimmy cares and Scott knows it.)

“Save you from what?” Jimmy asks again, more insistently.

He refuses to say it. He needs Jimmy out, out of his room and out of his life before he does something he’ll regret. “You should go.” To prove his point, he tries to stand, finding himself too dizzy to quite pull it off. Jimmy rushes to catch him, and Scott hates himself just a little for how that still gives him a warm feeling.

“Scott, what is going on?”

He brushes Jimmy off, letting go of his arm and hurrying for the stairs. He can’t let Jimmy work his way into his heart again; Scott won’t be strong enough to let him go this time.

“Scott, seriously! Answer me, are you okay? What’s happening?” Jimmy sounds almost angry, but Scott can hear the distress under it and that’s what breaks him.

“I’m fading, alright?” His voice nearly breaks at the concern on Jimmy’s face when he whirls to face him. “I’m dying, now leave me alone!”

Jimmy sputters, seemingly caught off guard. “You- what- but elves don’t die, right?”

“We do. From poison, from swords-” Scott thinks back to third life- “from arrows through the throat, from grief.” The words come out more raw than he intends, leaving him scrambling to recover his composure. He takes a deep breath in and out, forcing his voice to steady again. “Come on. If you’re not going to leave, I might as well show you around.”

“You can’t just drop something like that on a man, you know!” Jimmy calls after him, although Scott can hear his footsteps following as well.

“You did ask, to be fair.” Scott replies. His voice is calm. He’s fine.

“I guess so, but- but still, dude.”

Scott pushes open the side door, holding it for Jimmy. “Here.”

Jimmy nods and slips through the door. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Scott starts towards the bridges, intending to show Jimmy the enchanting tower and then the door. He doesn’t care about how fast he’s walking, Jimmy can keep up. He’s taller than Scott and probably has better balance at the moment too. Scott’s struggling not to fall, honestly, but his pride won’t let him go slower.

Jimmy breaks the awkward silence with the question Scott least wants to hear. “So, uh..are we going to talk about 3rd life?”

“No,” Scott says firmly.

“Why not? We need to talk about it some time-”

“I said no .” He can’t talk about it.

“It’s literally killing you to not talk about it!”

The words strike right at the raw wound of Jimmy’s death, and Scott freezes. Inhales. Exhales. Tries to keep calm.

“Tell me I’m wrong, Scott!” Jimmy cries. He sounds so upset, Scott’s heart aches. “I dare you, tell me I’m wrong! Tell me you never cared about me, tell me you didn’t bother to bury me, tell me it didn’t hurt even a little when I died! Tell me I was just stupid little Jimmy, a toy for an elf who’d live far beyond my lifespan! Tell me whatever, just tell me the truth! ”

Scott takes a deep breath. “Fine. You want to know what happened after you died?” He can’t think straight through the rage clouding his head, the desperate need to prove that Jimmy’s wrong , that Scott loved him so much it’s killing him. “You want to hear about me screaming until my throat went raw? You want to know that I kissed your face and sobbed and begged you to wake up, over and over until I couldn’t speak at all? You want to live with the knowledge that Grian had to physically pull me away from your body? Is that what you want to hear, Jimmy? ” His voice damn near breaks on his husband’s name, and Scott thanks the gods he stopped believing in a long time ago that it doesn’t.

“No,” Jimmy says. His voice is soft, gentle, almost as if Scott is a wounded animal that needs a delicate touch. “That’s not what I want to hear, not at all. I’d rather you be happy than love me.”

The words punch the air from Scott’s lungs, raw and soft and real. Scott is an excellent liar. Jimmy isn’t. Scott knows that Jimmy is telling the truth. What he doesn’t know is how to handle that level of devotion. He wonders again how Jimmy- sweet, genuine Jimmy who wears his heart on his sleeve and is hopelessly devoted to an elf who can’t be fully his- chose Scott of all people. Scott, who’s as bitter as Jimmy is sweet, who’s sarcastic and snarky and hasn’t been good enough for just about anything in his life. He certainly wasn’t good enough to save Jimmy, Scott thinks bitterly.

He shakes off the thought. “I buried you on the hill above our houses. I planted a poppy over your grave.”

“Oh.”

“Grian came over the next day. I didn’t want to see anyone who wasn’t you, but I let him in because I had to. He helped me do the straps on my armor and asked me if he could do anything else to make things easier. I told him to bury me next to you.”

“Did he?”

Scott almost laughs at the innocent question. “How would I know? Grian was honorable enough, though, loyal to his allies. I like to think he did.”

“He was a good guy,” Jimmy agrees. “A little bit bloodthirsty, I guess, but good. I don’t suppose he survived any better than the rest of us, though maybe being bloodthirsty helped.”

“Maybe.”

“Can I- can I ask you why you hate me so much now?” Jimmy’s tone is uncertain, hesitant and it hurts . “I mean, if you mourned me in third life and all.”

Scott looks away from his earnest gaze, but he can’t stop the truth slipping out. “I don’t hate you.”

“You don’t?” Jimmy asks, seemingly bewildered. “But you burned the pufferfish-”

“I didn’t. I kept it.” Scott doesn’t want to think about this, wants to say it even less. “I never hated you. I don’t think I’m capable of it.”

“Then why do you keep avoiding me?”

“I’ve been kind of busy dying,” Scott says wryly, unable to resist a bit of morbid humor at his own expense.

“Scott! That’s not funny!”

“It was a little funny.”

“No!”

Jimmy sounds genuinely distressed, and Scott drops the wry smile. “Jimmy, I’m an elf. I won’t live far beyond you, but only because I’ll fade without you.” It’s a simple statement. The truth, as much as he can give.

“So your solution is to isolate yourself and fade now?” Jimmy’s outrage is justifiable, but Scott just shrugs.

“It does sound stupid when you put it like that, doesn’t it?” It really does. “But I lost you once, and I don’t think I could bear it again.”

A hand lands on Scott’s arm, and he turns, startled. Jimmy doesn’t give him time to react, throwing his arms around Scott and pulling him close. Scott almost lets out a very undignified squeak at the sudden contact, though he slowly relaxes into Jimmy’s hold.

He should pull away. He shouldn’t give Jimmy false hope like this. But Jimmy is so warm , and Scott is so unbearably cold. Every fiber of his being is screaming that this is what’s right; screw Rivendell and obligations and too-heavy crowns, Jimmy is home to him. He’s warm for the first time in months, and the most heartbreaking part is that it can’t last. He can’t do this again.

He pulls away, ignoring the painful hope on Jimmy’s face. “I’m sorry, Jimmy.” For the first time all conversation, his voice well and truly wobbles. “I can’t. Not again.”

“But-”

Scott shakes his head. “Losing you will destroy me. We dared to love, and now all we can do now is lessen the pain when it all comes crashing down.” The words are like glass in his throat, but he forces them out anyways. They have to be said.

Jimmy’s silent, and it hurts more than if Jimmy had yelled at him.

“Goodbye, Jimmy,” Scott manages, turning away before Jimmy can see the way his face twists in pain. He makes his retreat as quickly as possible, stumbling and nearly taking a tumble just before he reaches the door. Unlike before, there’s no helpful ex-husband there to catch him, to make sure he’s alright and ask a million questions until Scott’s forced to admit that he’s not okay and hasn’t been in a long time.

He fumbles with the latch, hands shaking and vision blurring. Finally, it clicks, and Scott stumbles inside and slams the door shut before sliding to the ground. He won’t cry. He won’t . He doesn’t love Jimmy, he can’t love Jimmy anymore. Jimmy was never meant to be his. They might have carved out a few precious moments, stolen them from the universe and giggled like kids with their hands in the cookie jar as they kissed amongst the flowers, but those brief moments were all they were ever going to be allowed. It was always going to end this way, Scott tells himself. There’s no use crying over a mortal who will be dead in the blink of an eye to an elf. What would his parents say? That this was typical of him, probably. Typical Scott, always wanting what he would never be able to have. Typical, predictable Scott, loving a mortal who shouldn’t be worth anything to him.

He’s crying. There are tears spotting his cyan robes, splashing onto the wood floors he worked so hard on. Scott rubs at his eyes furiously, but that only makes it worse, sobs shuddering through him and leaving him hollow and aching. He’s so cold . The ache in his chest has returned tenfold, stealing away his breath, and he curls further into himself, struggling for air.

He’s going to die. He is going to die , alone on the floor of his house because he fell for someone he couldn’t have. For all that he’s spent every minute since Jimmy’s death in 3rd life wishing for some way out of this cruel world, he’s terrified now that it seems inevitable. He’s scared in a way he hasn’t been in forever, breath coming quick and shallow. He's scared, and he is so, so tired of this ache that haunts him, the chill that he can never get rid of.

“Jimmy,” Scott whispers. There’s no way for the human to hear him, but the name brings him some comfort. “ Jimmy .” He wants his husband. He wants someone to hug him. He doesn’t want to fade away freezing and alone, no one there to hold his hand or reassure him that the pain will be over soon. Internally, he begs for someone, anyone who cares to come looking. To find him, even if they’re too late to save him. Someone. Anyone. Please.

No one comes, and Scott lays on his floor until his breathing steadies out again. His head spins when he forces himself to his feet, and he has to lean against the wall for a few moments. There’s no time for dramatics, he tells himself sternly. He has a kingdom to rule. He cannot afford to break over a mortal he never should have fallen for in the first place. He doesn’t love Jimmy anymore, he can’t .

(He’s lying. But Scott has always been an excellent liar, even when it’s to himself.)

#scott smajor #jimmy solidarity #empires smp #i maintag my fic because i dont fear god or scott smajor #my writing

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