#mirror on the wall - whos the most stubborn of them all?

[beccel]

Bonus:

[glitterguts13]

Who would the genshin boys deal with a baby stuck in their pussy. The baby is just there, but every time they stop pushing to breathe, the baby sinks back into their pussy. All they can do is get the baby to a soft bulge before the baby undos their progress

Oh LORD that's just the hottest fucking shit isn't it? Let's go through them one at a time!

Mondstadt

Albedo Oh, he is so frustrated. This isn't how this is supposed to work, he pushes, and the baby comes out. But no matter how hard he tries, his stubborn child just won't come out. Sucrose can just watch, teary eyes, and unable to really do anything. They aren't in distress, just stubborn. Albedo is thankfully clear-headed and able to keep his calm, but he's no less irritated.

Bennett

Of course, this would happen to Benny. He's squatting down over a mirror, trying to see what's happening down there under his heaving belly. Every push causes his little one's head to bulge, starting to burn, but he can't push hard enough to actually get it to crown. He's a crying mess, but he never gives up.

Diluc Stubborn man refuses to ask for help while he's struggling to push the baby out. He's locked in his room, standing braced against the wall. Gravity should be helping, but his baby just won't move. He can feel it pushing free, spreading his pussy open, but in the end, it just keeps slipping back in.

Kaeya Oh, it is everyone's problem. He is screaming, tired, and thoroughly frustrated with the lack of progress. He cursed up a storm, damning everyone and everything because this baby is just stubbornly resting right there. So close, but not close enough.

Mika Poor thing, he's a sobbing mess. He can feel the head under his fingertips when he pushes, but each time he stops to gasp for air, they sink right back inside. There's nothing he can do but keep trying, and praying they'll finally come out.

Razor He's out in the woods, surrounded by the wolves. On all fours, grunting and groaning the most feral sounds. The baby is so close, he knows he can get it out if he just tries harder! But... every time they just slip right back inside.

Venti He's stumbling through the back alleys of Mondstadt looking for somewhere to rest. Heavy in labor, each time he stops to push the head starts to bulge, but it never gets much further. He's tired, and sore, and just wants it to be over.

Liyue

Baizhu The panic is intense and he loses all his composure. He's not strong enough to get them out, he's witnessed people die during childbirth. His own health is terrible on a good day, and deep into labor without the power to expel his baby, he's certain this is how he dies.

Chongyun Swears up and down his child must be a demon for tormenting him this way. Each push brings it right there, so close- but every time he stops, all his progress is wiped away.

Gaming He's got his family by his side, his mother is worried sick. She'd had the same trouble with him, and is by his side, wiping his face and holding his hand. Gaming is screaming and crying, he can feel them under his palm, he's so close to meeting his baby- till they slide right back inside his aching cunt.

Xiao Honestly handles it a little too well. After you've endured the worst pain known to mankind, a stubborn baby is manageable. Not that he isn't exhausted, annoyed, and fed up. He wants this baby out, and it isn't budging.

Xingqui Crying, screaming, gagging, begging. He can't get it out, he just can't. The healers are holding his legs back as far as they can go, but nothing is working to get that stubborn baby to crown.

Zhongli More annoyed than anything. Like Xiao, he's been around a very long time, and he's been through much worse. He's tired, aching all over, fingers constantly slipping into his aching pussy to graze over the head. It's fascinating, but he would like for it to be over now.

Inazuma Arataki Itto Moaning and groaning through the whole thing, deep into a squat. His baby is large, little horns constantly poking into the tender folds of his cunt each time he bares down. He's going to rip open when they finally decide to crown fully.

Ayato Inazuma customs be damned, he is screaming. To hell with what everyone else thinks, to hell with being proper. He's got a baby stuck in his pussy, tormenting him with each weakening push. The midwives look on with sympathy, all they can do is support him since neither are in any real danger.

Gorou Humiliated and ashamed. Kokomi is helping him the best she can, but with his legs spread wide apart, he can see her wince each time the first of his litter slips back inside his belly alongside its littermates. It's going to be a long night.

Kazuha Stays pretty calm, sort of just letting it happen. Pausing between pushes to pant, he takes a moment to brush his fingers over the top of his baby's head, marveling at how amazing it feels. Not the birth part, that part sucks, but the fact his baby is right there.

Heizou Tired, too tired to keep pushing. If his baby wants to stay inside, it can just stay inside. He's not got the energy to keep going.

Thoma Whoever said childbirth was beautiful lied. Each push sends another splattering of fluid gushing around the head, all over the floor he just polished a few days prior. Stubborn child, causing so many problems already.

Sumeru Alhaitham He knows he needs to keep calm and focus. Slow, even breaths, putting all his strength into pushing. It's beyond frustrating to keep them slipping back inside after each attempt, but he knows if he keeps going, something will eventually give.

Cyno Buns come out of ovens a lot easier than this. Nothing funny about having a baby stuck in your cunt while in the middle of a sandstorm. Luckily, with no one around he can keep traveling in between pushes.

Kaveh There isn't a soul in Sumeru who doesn't know what's happening. Kaveh is screaming bloody murder the whole way, swearing up and down he's dying. This must be some sort of divine punishment because there has never been anything more miserable than feeling his baby refusing to come out. Sethos Crying, but doing his best to keep calm. Panic won't help the situation, but it's getting hard not to. Each push sends him closer and closer into a panic attack because why?? Why isn't it coming out??

Tighnari Is fully aware this can happen, but why to him? He's got a full litter in his tummy, ticking and tumbling away, furious that their sibling is halting their progress. Each push is instantly undone when he stops to breathe, sending it right back alongside its unborn siblings.

Fontaine

Freminet Poor thing. He's quiet as a mouse aside from a few whimpers, but it's growing tiring very quickly. His siblings are beside him, coaxing him through it, but they both look grim at the sight of his baby constantly sliding back inside of his dripping pussy.

Lyney Shouting and cursing. The pain is bad enough, but the disapproving look he's getting from Father is so, so much worse.

Neuvillette Locked up in his bathroom soaking in a cool tub, sobbing quietly. The pressure is so intense, and nothing he does is relieving it. Pushing seems so useless, and he wants nothing more than to pull it out. Wrio Not really calm, but quiet and level-headed. Focuses all his efforts into pushing, bracing himself against his office desk as he does so. The head keeps poking out just enough to give him some hope, before it vanishes inside of cunt once more, leaving him irritated and tired. Fatui Dottore Furious, filled with rage. Violently pushes against his belly, legs spread apart on one of his own medical tables. Swearing and cursing, soaked with sweat and wondering if the reason it's stuck has anything to do with the fact it isn't human-

Capitano Doesn't show a single sign that anything is wrong, or that he's even in labor. He's in the middle of a meeting with the other Harbingers, naked from the waist down under his cloak with a baby stuck in his cunt. Pushing quietly when no one is looking.

Pantalone Held up in his office. Anyone who enters is as good as dead, and if this stubborn brat doesn't come out in the next 5 minutes he's going to slam his gut into the corner of his desk to force it out.

Pierro Same thing with Capitano, you'll never know and it's most likely happening right in front of someone.

Tartaglia Unfortunately, he's well aware this can happen because his mother struggled with all of her births. Unfortunately, he's alone, without help in the middle of a mission. Keeps pushing, but nothing helps, cursing each time he feels it retracting into his birth canal.

Wanderer Having the body of a puppet doesn't make him exempt from such troubles. Maybe it causes more trouble because his pussy doesn't stretch as much as a human's should, and each push is met with firm resistance from his modified body, keeping it firmly lodged in his pussy.

[phyrestartr]

My World Ends With You (1/2) | Miguel O'hara x M!Reader

Miguel x Husband!Reader W/C: 4.7k

#SFW, hurt/comfort, infidelity, toxic relationships, brief verbal abuse, mending relationships, difficult/complex feelings and emotions, things work out in the end, nobody dies, the zombies aren't that important, old men just really going through it, ZOMBIES BABEY

Note: Tis a continuation of Till Death Do Us Part . Would rec reading that first lest you get mad confused

--

“Did Miguel cheat on you?” 

The question caught you off guard. As far as you knew, only a handful of people got the gist of what happened, and even fewer knew the exact reason why everything systematically fell apart. 

“How'd you–who told you?” You asked Gwen, surprise and trepidation creasing your brow. 

The young lady shrugged and crossed her arms over her chest tighter as she leaned toward the fire you'd made–the one you made out of pure restlessness from staying inside for too long. You decided to pretend you were out in the great outdoors like the old days, and set up a ring of rocks and chairs on the roof to escape the fluorescent lights and white walls. Evidently, Gwen needed a break from it all, too.

“Gabi.” She fiddled with her toque and cleared her throat. “She, uh--y'know. She mentioned it.” 

“Huh.” Your gaze wandered away from Gwen, and back to the fire. “I didn't think she'd remember.” 

“How old was she? When it happened, I mean.” 

“Must've been 11. We split when she was 13, I'm pretty sure.” You sighed and leaned back in your shitty old soccer mom chair. “Guess we were bad at hiding it.”

“Pretty hard to hide that kinda thing from your kid,” Gwen mumbled, dwelling on something ancient and sore in the depths of her memories. “They're more perceptive than you think.” 

You nodded. The stars caught your attention and you stared up, gazing upon the winking lights and shooting comets flying by. Most of those celestial bodies were there when everything happened. Did they remember, too? Were they haunted, too?

“Yeah. My parents thought I didn't know nothin’ either. They didn't know how wrong that was,” you agreed. 

“So he did cheat on you?” Gwen asked. You nodded. She scoffed. “But--why? He always acts so lovey-dovey and gross around you. Why would he–?”

“Good people do bad things,” you said, and continued before she could cut in, “‘n bad people do good things, sometimes.” 

“So which camp is he in?” She asked.

“Pretty sure he's mostly good.” 

“Pretty sure?” 

You chuckled. “I've met ‘bad guys,’ believe me.” You took a breath and nudged some logs around in the fire with a stick. “Miguel ain't like them. He's full of himself, arrogant, stubborn ‘n all that, but he's helped people. He's helping people, even if he's got a crap attitude about it.” 

“Right,” Gwen breathed. Her voice carried something heavy with it. Something uncertain and unwavering, like the teeter of winter into spring, or thunder that wondered if it might rain. Her restless energy mirrored the fire as it roiled and spat brilliant sprays of embers into the cold, night sky; only, the fire would eventually die down, calm itself into blackened coals. Gwen’s torch would not fade as such. 

“You think he’s a bad guy?” You asked. 

“Never really thought he was a good guy.” She rubbed the back of her neck before sighing. “But. Yeah.  Never thought he was a bad guy, either. Kinda feels like a vigilante, or something. But less cool.”

You smiled when you peered over at her. “Maybe like an antihero?” 

“Way less cool than that, but yeah. Sure. An antihero,” she huffed. “But you’re a blue-blood. I don’t think those types are supposed to get along.” 

That made you laugh. “I think they get along pretty well. They do in the comics, even if they don’t see eye-to-eye on everything.” 

Gwen rolled her eyes. “You mean most things?”

You nodded. “Yeah, most things.” You tucked your hands into your pockets and gazed up again, this time losing your thoughts to the endless void of grey sweeping in and devouring all light in the sky. “You don't need to worry about me, Gwen. There’re more–”

“More important things to worry about?” She finished, not sounding too impressed. “Feels like you're using the end of the world as an excuse.” 

You frowned, and wiped the dew of melted snowflakes from your cheek. “Maybe you got yourself a point, there.” 

–

You were the new kid in year 12. Normally, no one gave a shit–it was New York, after all–but you had a tendency to catch everyone's attention when you never sought to try. 

You were a country boy. A fella with a strange tendency to be kind and hold doors open for ladies or help some sorry idiot pick up their dropped assignment. That gentle lilt in your voice, the only evidence that you weren't from the city, always had people staring your way. Boys would mock you, especially when their girls flushed soft colours and whispered while they glanced your way. It didn't help that you were handsome as all hell, too. 

And one day, like a fucking fairytale, Miguel finally ran into you and got hit with the triple threat that was your accent, face, and genuinity–what he didn't expect, however, was to meet you at the Kwan's ranch.

You were clad in boots and jeans and a stupid cliche cowboy hat hung around your neck, hiding the impressive display of shoulder blades flexing and rippling with strong muscle as you shoveled and cleaned out the old hay and debris from the stables. Something warm and melodious trilled under your breath as you worked, and it beckoned like a siren's song--so captivating Miguel couldn't help himself. 

“Hey,” he said. 

You looked over your broad shoulder and blinked a few times, like you were showing off the brilliant hue of your eyes on purpose. A kindly smile made you shine brighter, too, like the sun somehow lit you up from within. 

“Howdy,” you said. 

“Howdy?” Miguel snorted and tucked his hands into the pockets of his shorts as he wandered in. “That's a little too country, isn't it?” 

“Is it now?” The twang in your voice must’ve been fake. No normal person sounded like they were ripped straight from a Western. “Maybe you're just too city.” 

“Hm.” Miguel crossed his arms and leaned against a beam as he watched you continue to work. “Maybe.” 

“Come on, now,” you laughed, “I can smell the city on you. Could probably taste it, too, if I could.” 

Miguel's face burned. His heart pitter-pattered just a little bit faster, soon going a lot faster when he registered the wink you threw his way. Were you flirting? Was it working? Was Miguel swooning? 

Yes, yes and yes. 

–

“Y'know, you don't have to be such a busy body,” Miguel said, wandering into the lab-turned-greenhouse. He had to admit, it looked good. Peaceful. And it certainly helped with keeping everyone fed and happy. So did your presence at Alchemax; you and Gabriella felt like a fresh coat of paint on a beat-up old car. A nice change. Good additions. 

And Miguel felt complete now that you were with him, too. There were still issues, still things to work out and problems to talk about, but it felt nice to work towards something selfish and meaningful. Something that was wholly and unabashedly for him and him alone.

But you were such a restless man. All day, every day, Miguel found you working; clearing snow, repotting, sowing seeds, cleaning, teaching, handyman-ing were all on your resume of husband material and so clearly those skills ruled your mind every waking hour of every day. It didn't help that the other folks In the colony realized just how much of a do-gooder sweetheart you were. Miguel was one more flirty comment away from nuking the building. 

But the way you smiled in the face of adversity let him keep a reasonable cool. Whether it was your awkward attempt to be cordial with someone who so clearly thirsted for you and your attention, or in a sheepish and innocently guilty way whenever Miguel called you out for working too much, you had a way of melting his frigid heart into something cool and light like an autumnal spring.

“I’m just puttering,” you hummed, pausing what you were doing to lean in and give him a kiss, careful to keep your dirt-crusted hands away from him and his neatness. “Just movin’ some of these into bigger pots. Don’t want them to go dying on us.” 

“I think they’d live.” Miguel hummed as he looked over the array of little plants sprouting with flourishes of brilliant emerald. His hand slipped to the small of your back before his arms looped around your waist, and he pulled you flush against his chest. “I need you more than they do.”

You laughed, soft and smoky. “That right?”

“Yeah.” Miguel left a sweet kiss on your neck, right on the odd, heart-shaped-ish scar he used to leave hickeys over back in the day. “They’re not the only ones that need fertilizing.”

“Christ. Did Pete teach you that one?” You laughed, but didn’t crumble and fertilize Miguel. Damn. 

Your partner huffed. “Come on, just–can’t you take a break, viejo?” He kissed your neck another handful of times and buried his face into the strong curve of your shoulder with a most petulant sigh. “Feels like I only get to see you when we go to bed.” 

“Not much different from how it used to be,” you said. “I worked nights, you worked days. Hardly got to see each other.” 

“I hated it,” Miguel mumbled. And you actually paused, your busy hands halting with the rest of your body. “I wanted you home with me. I didn’t want you to work nights.” 

He felt you shift again, the sound of your hands under running water sparking hope in his chest. But he snuffed it out himself–he knew you too well. You weren’t the type to stop when something needed to be done. Miguel couldn’t fault you for it, though, not when he was the exact same way. 

“Miggs.” You turned in his arms and held the sides of his face. “I’m not going anywhere. No night shifts, no driving after gun-toutin’ idiots on the highway, no overtime. You can always find me if you need me.” 

“Would you've come for me and Dana–” he stopped, a bout of regret punching the words back down his throat. The sudden distance in your eyes and the stiffness of your touch haunted him. Why did he have to talk? Why was he still chasing you away like this? 

“Don't,” Miguel pleaded, his hands flying up to your arms, holding you still. 

An overcast of something chased away the far look. Miguel wished he could read you as easily as you read him. He didn't know what you were thinking. Did he ever?

“I still have some things I'm working on getting past, Miggs,” you managed. “I don't--I'm trying.” 

Miguel nodded. What could he say, really? Try harder? Love me more? Get over it already? Your marriage reached a difficult point before the apocalypse; now, it'd climbed to new heights, but problems erased themselves thanks to the simple fact that the world had ended. There were more deadly things to worry about in the present.

“Just let me know if I can help,” your partner offered. And you smiled, tired and weary, unknowingly soothing the frigid panic freezing Miguel's veins. 

“Promise I will.” You gently stroked the arch of his cheekbone with the back of your knuckles. “Just don't worry too much. I'm alright.” 

And he believed you. 

– 

“Who's your friend?” 

The question drove Miguel insane, like a chisel tapping away at marble. Because everyone asked when they saw you, a stupidly handsome, ridiculously tall, polite southern gentleman dressed to the nines in a custom suit Miguel picked out himself–garments he picked out for his fiancé. His betrothed. His to-be husband. 

Miguel's coworkers knew he was taken. He thought it'd be obvious by whom since, well, he rolled up to the event with you and had complimentary outfits with you and you were wearing a fucking ring on the finger.

Still, countless folks introduced themselves to you, sweeping you up into conversations and leaning in too close for comfort. Miguel’s ego swelled, sure; he had the most impeccable, handsome, perfect man in the world, but his jealousy chomped away at his temper. He didn't like people thinking they had a chance with you. It was funny at first, but you were too nice to snap at them, to put them in their places. And, quite frankly, Miguel had had more than enough of watching his damn coworkers throw themselves at you the second they heard that stupid, endearing drawl or saw your charming, lopsided smile. 

He floated to your side, anchoring an arm around your waist while his other hand held a crystalline glass of something golden and fancy. 

“Hey,” Miguel hummed as your eyes met, and he leaned in, planting a soft, sweet peck onto your lips. “Havin’ fun?” The energy around the bystanders shifted dramatically. Miguel felt more pleased than a lion catching its prey. 

“Better now that you’re here,” you hummed, eyes creasing with a gentle tilt of your lips. He loved that look on you. It was the same one you wore every morning when you cooed your sweet good morning-s. 

“I make everything better,” Miguel agreed. He finished his drink and handed it off to whatever poor sod stood beside him. “Guess they haven’t heard the good news.” 

Your head tilted as whispers spread around you both. “Thought you would’ve told ‘em by now, honey.” 

“Well,” Miguel said, sing-songy and so obviously annoyed and bitter with how annoying this event had been for him. He took your hand and brought it up, feigning examination while purposefully catching the light on the band of gold hugging your finger. “I didn’t think anyone would be stupid enough to not put two and two together.” 

With that, the vibe died. Soft scoffs and muttered words were left in the wake of party-goers as they abandoned the two of you. Some offered anxious goodbyes to you before shuffling off, but many who’d been burned and shit on by Miguel in the past were not pleasant enough to separate you from your man. Which Miguel preferred. 

Miguel smirked to himself, satisfied with his work. Though, when he met your eyes, you looked anything but impressed. Oops. He probably should’ve considered the aftermath.

“Look, they should know who they're messing with,” he testified.

You quirked a brow. “You mean who they're talkin’ to?” 

Miguel huffed, the smallest of pouts forming. “Don't give me that. They were all over you.” 

“Honey, no one's ever gonna replace you, alright? You've got nothin’ to worry about.” Still exasperated, you smiled, and fixed his tie for him, giving it a light tug and tucking it back against his breast neatly. “You think I'd ever fool around behind your back?” 

“What? No.” Why wouldn’t you? You were handsome, a gentleman, a man who could have anything and anyone you wanted with looks and charm alone. So maybe–maybe that's why Miguel did what he did. Maybe he was trying to show you just how wrong you were. 

“Exactly. Now, you stop worrying and try to enjoy the event, alright? Promise I'll stay by your side for peace of mind,” you said with a wink. Miguel melted. You were too good for him. 

“Por dios–yeah, alright, okay. Fine.” He huffed and pulled you in close to him again and gave you a sweet kiss to seal the deal. 

And of course, it was in that moment Dana passed him by with a smile full of secrets and damning evidence–a vault that he wanted to break open and force you to face.  

–

Miles fucked up. 

He yanked open that fucking car door–specifically when told not to–and set off the dinner bell for whatever undeads still wandered the streets of New York. 

The race through the city streets wasn't so easy, not after years of the military, militia and more trying to block off streets, take a stance against the unending hordes threatening human existence–tanks, trucks, barricades and more littered and cluttered the streets like the puddles after a storm. Every vault and jump was uncertain despite determined, never really knowing if the next car the group jumped onto would throw one of you to the ground with a broken leg or twisted ankle. Miguel almost wished Miles shattered his knee. 

Especially when you nearly didn't make it inside. 

Miguel pulled you through just as they got the shitty garage door down, and he pulled you up, eyes wide and jaw set as pain jolted your features. 

“Hey, hey, what's–you're fine. You're fine,” he whispered. His hand frantically touched where they could before settling on either side of your face as you both fought to catch your breath. “You're fine.” 

But you shook your head. “I, uh--need you to back away from me, baby.” 

“No.” 

“I gotta make sure, be careful–” 

“No.” 

You pulled his hands away from your face, and Miguel saw liquid ruby stain his skin, too. 

“Listen,” you rasped as you limped toward a rundown car with your cuffs unlatched from your belt. “We gotta–gotta clear the shop. Miggs, you take care of the doors.” 

But he didn’t. He stood still, shoulders rolling with the heavy breaths he sucked in while you and Gwen puttered around the small, homely garage to the tune of the undead hissing and snarling just beyond the metal door. Miguel took a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the–

“I–uh, what should I do?” Miles asked. 

Miguel whirled around and stalked to him, explosive rage fuelling his steps across the room. He grabbed Miles’ shirt and slammed him into the wall, looming over him like a titan. 

“You are not going to do anything,” Miguel growled. Miles’ eyes widened as he shrunk. “This is your fucking fault in the first place.”

“Hey, he’s just a kid–” Gwen tried, but Miguel’s quick glance her way stalled her. “He didn’t mean to–”

“That’s the problem. He doesn’t know how to survive out here and he’s not willing to use his fucking brain to fill in the gaps.” 

“Dude, let go of me!” Miles snapped, panic lancing through the quiver in his voice. “You can’t–” Miguel slammed him into the wall again. The undead shrieked and howled a mere half a foot away beyond the stone walls barring them out. 

Miguel basked in the dread eating away at Miles’ confidence. “It was a mistake to bring you here. You were a mis–” 

You yanked Miguel off the kid and slammed him into the wall, hand clapping over your partner’s mouth while your red-hot stare bore into the back of his skull and pinned him still. Your other hand held firm over his throat. You didn’t hurt him, but the fingertips digging into the straining tendons of Miguel’s neck threatened the opposite. 

“Quiet,” is what you commanded.

The room fell silent. And it stayed that way. It was hard to tell if anyone still breathed or lived in the minutes you all stood, patient, suffocating, and you stayed in that unsure limbo while the bloodthirsty reverie gradually de-crescendoed in the placid muteness. Slowly, slowly, with each wandering corpse that left to chase errant noises or to wander aimlessly with no mission left in mind, the air in your sanctuary began to heal. 

Your grip became kinder, and you let go, staggering back on unsteady legs. Then, you collapsed.

–

Your injury turned out to be a gash, not a bite. It ran across your shoulder horizontally, accented by a few other gouges bloodying your exhausted face and Miguel's busy hands. 

He stitched you up carefully yet thoroughly, eagerly trying to finish the job while you squeezed your eyes closed and gnawed on the belt wedged between your teeth. To your credit, you handled the temp stitches well. You only really shifted and panicked when Miguel tried to flush the wound with what water he had on hand. 

“That should hold until we get back,” he murmured for your ears only. He cut the thread with his teeth after tying it off, and wrapped your arm with a strip of torn shirt. 

You nodded tiredly and let him take the belt from between your teeth. “Thank you.” You sat up a little straighter against the wall and took deep breaths, eyes squeezed closed and brow beaded with sweat. 

Heat flared in Miguel’s chest. If not for you, Miguel would have ripped Miles a new one. He might have even thrown him to the undead in your name. If you'd come out infected, doomed to die, he'd make sure Miles suffered the same. 

“Don't be so hard on him,” you rasped, voice blending with the soft crackle of the unconvincing campfire. 

Miguel's stare hardened into ice. “He could've–” 

“Miguel.” He looked at you, and melted as you leaned into his warmth. “Lectures can wait. We need to get home first.” 

You were right. And it enraged Miguel further. He wanted to take his anger out on something, or better yet someone, but you just–

“You remember when you proposed?” You whispered. 

The creases between Miguel's brows lifted and smoothed. “‘Course I remember.” He slid a careful arm around your waist and held you to his side. He kissed the top of your head and inhaled your scent. “You were coming home from a night shift.” 

He remembered it too clearly, actually. You, being exhausted and out of it, still suited up in your uniform when you came through the door with a yawn. 

Coffee, your other beloved, lured you to the kitchen where Miguel knew you'd find him. Though he hated not waking up beside you those mornings, he cherished the sleepy back hugs you'd greet him with while you both waited for the carafe to fill. 

“Mornin’,” you grumbled into his neck between small kisses. “Sleep good?” 

Miguel always leaned back into you and basked in the wander of your hands and the scent of cigarettes hiding in your words. It all meshed too well with the bitterness of coffee. “Woulda slept better with you here.” 

You hummed, crackly and apologetic. “Good thing that was my last night shift this block, hey? Get to wake up with you tomorrow.” Your fingertips dragged up the hem of shirt in your search to feel the dips and curves of his toned stomach. “And the next day, and the next day…”

Miguel turned in your arms to spy your drowsy smile. He cupped your face, running his thumbs along the bags under your eyes, before giving you a peck. “I think you need a nap, mi amor.” 

“No, no, ‘m fine. Promise. Just need a shower ‘n I'll be right as rain.” You took one of his hands in your own and turned to kiss his palm. “Wouldn’t be opposed to a mid-morning nap, though.” 

“Lucky for you, I'm getting back in bed after coffee's done.” Miguel kissed you again, purposely mooshing his nose against yours. “Go take a shower. I'll pour you a cup.” 

You hummed, accepting the offer, and very very reluctantly separated from your lover. “Just don't make mine too crazy sweet, alright?” 

Miguel huffed. “Tch. I don't even make it that sweet.” But you were already sauntering off to the ensuite, loud yawn punctuating your departure. “Pendejo.” 

The coffee maker beeped not too long after. Thoughts of what to do with the weekend swirled through Miguel's mind with the springy, disoriented bounce of ADHD while he made up both of your coffees, one just sorta sweet, and one just a little (a lot) sweeter. Honestly, Miguel was bad at making coffee to your taste. Too often he'd watch you stand at the coffee maker, measuring cream, sugar and coffee in your quest to achieve a perfect bitterness to sweetness ratio. 

But when Miguel made you coffee, you never complained. Simply requested it not be too sweet. And everytime Miguel handed you that cup, trepidation filling the childish part of his pride, you always declared it was perfect from the first sip. 

Perfect. Like you. Like his life. That's why he needed to–

“Honey,” you called, bringing your partner back to the present. He turned to you, eyebrows raising in interest at just how low the towel hung from your hips–until he saw the small box in your hand. That made his heart start pounding. 

Miguel crossed his arms and cleared his throat, trying to hide his sheer panic. “Where did you–”

“You forgot it in the bathroom. I think. Found it on the counter.” 

Shit. Fuck. Shit. He really forgot to put that stupid thing away. He really went all cliché romcom and rehearsed in front of the mirror and didn't put the fucking ring away. What the fuck was wrong with him? He was supposed to be a goddamn genius, and yet–

You opened the box because of course you would. Anyone with a shred of curiosity would. And you whistled in a way that only cowboys could. Back when you were both young, you whistled at Miguel like that when he walked by. Lyla said you weren't one to do that, that that was a first for you.

“Damn. This thing looks expensive.” You pulled the gold ring out and looked it over as Miguel came to you. The band was simple gold, yes, but inlaid was a diamond flanked by your birthstone and his, all shaped in a striking baguette cut. The piece was simple and masculine, something befitting you entirely. 

But you were too out of it to realize what the fuck it was you were holding. 

“Bet I could buy a farm with this.” 

Miguel had to laugh a bit at that. “Most people would say a house, you know.” 

“Farm's better. Comes with a house.” You snatched up his hand and examined his fingers, probably sizing up which one the ring–your ring--was supposed to fit on. “Either way, you’re gonna turn heads with a whole mortgage on your finger, I'll tell you what.” 

Miguel's chest warmed. Maybe because of your smooth way of talking, or maybe because you were too sweet and admiring of your partner. Miguel couldn't tell. But it was probably both. 

“On my finger?” He repeated as he plucked the ring from the box. His heart beat in his ears. His face burned. But it was now or never. “I think it'd look better on yours.” 

“What?” You asked, soft and confused, sorta like you'd realized what that ring meant halfway through. “Wait, wait–” 

“I was going to.” Miguel slid the fine gold band on your left ring finger. “But then you ruined the surprise.” 

There was something magical in that moment. Your hand in Miguel's, the sparkle of new promise shining on your finger, the glitter of crystals pooling in your eyes. And your eyes were so wide, like you didn't quite believe Miguel would want to marry someone like you, so he had to say it, if not for the cliché, movie finale:

“Will you marry m–” 

You kissed him before he could finish. Your arms flew around his neck as your weight hit him like a ton of bricks. But he caught you both and held you close, laughing against your lips as the ball of doubt unraveled as every whispered chant of ‘yes, yes, yes,’ touched his skin. 

Those days were good. They were simple. They were The start of everything Miguel could have dreamed of–and then he ruined it. 

“Still hard to believe you wanted me, sometimes,” you reminisced, looking down at the dull, chipped set of rings hugging your finger still.

“You're the only one,” he murmured into your hair. “Even when–even if I–no matter what. No matter what, it was always you. It'll always be you.” Then where's your ring, Miguel?

You hummed and sunk into your partner's warmth more, staying silent with your thoughts as you watched the dim flicker of the fire and the two others collapsed around it. “Try not to be so hard on Miles.” Ah. “He screwed up. But we need to keep morale up.” 

Miguel huffed. “So you only mentioned our–you just wanted me to stop thinking about today.” 

“I wanted you to relax, sweetheart.” God, that smile was so clear in your voice. 

“Tch. Pendejo. He deserves to be yelled at.” 

“By his father. At home. Where it's safe.” 

“Fine.” 

[moonlightspencie]

And I Will Follow You Home

Chapter 6 of ‘treacherous’

Pairing: Remus Lupin x fem!Reader

Word Count: 3k

A/N: the final chapter! i may do some blurbs within this universe if anyone wants them as well, but this series is officially complete.

“Hey,” a voice came softly.

Remus turned towards the wall, unwilling to move from the bed.

“Remus.”

“What?” 

Sirius sat with his friend, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, there’s a meeting downstairs in ten minutes. Most of the others have already arrived.”

Remus fell silent again, clenching his jaw. Sirius huffed a sigh, shaking his head to himself.

“You can’t keep skipping the meetings, mate. They’re important. You’re acting like a big baby.”

“You don’t understand–”

“What I understand is that she’s still showing up, and you’re not. Considering you’re so hung up on your age, you’d think you’d be more inclined to act like an adult.”

“I can’t look at her,” Remus admitted quietly, pulling the covers over his shoulders.

He had hardly been able to look at himself in the mirror after that night, let alone come face to face with you. You’d admitted you loved him, and all he could do was wreck it. It’s all he ever seemed to do, he thought, was to wreck things. He knew he was acting like a child and a coward, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit he’d wanted you just as much. Now he was coming to terms with the fact that he may never have the chance again.

“She still looks for you every time she comes into the house, you know?” Sirius said, crossing his arms.

“Probably so she can steer clear.”

“You’re the one who practically told her no.”

“No, I didn’t,” he snapped suddenly. “I didn’t. I just–”

“You just told her you didn’t want her right now. That’s just as bad, mate.”

He was quiet, the guilt creeping in again, washing over him. Sirius let out a breath, standing from the bed.

“We start in ten minutes. Be there, Mooney, or else I’m bringing everyone else up here,” he stated, then left the room.

You were sitting in a chair in the kitchen, trying hard not to think about the fact that Remus was a staircase and a couple of doors away from you. It had been weeks since you’d seen him, and unfortunately, absence really did make the heart grow fonder. You fiddled with the spoon you’d used for your tea nearly an hour ago, waiting for Sirius to return. So, it felt extra foolish when your heart began racing as you heard someone enter the kitchen, only to find Sirius giving you a small smile.

“Oh. Hey.”

He quirked a brow. “Wow. What a warm welcome that was.”

You let out a short laugh. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I get it. Tall, dark, and moody’s more your thing,” he teased, sitting next to you. “He’ll be at the meeting today.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

You shrugged. “I mean… what else am I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know,” he shook his head. “I just hate seeing you upset like this. Thought it might cheer you up to see him.”

“What, you think I’ll be all fluttery and excited for him to ignore me all evening?”

“Snippy.”

You sighed. “He doesn’t… He avoids me at all costs, now, Siri. I should’ve just kept my mouth shut.”

“No. You were in the right. He’s just a big baby who can’t handle his emotions.”

“Mm.”

“Hey,” he said softly, waiting for you to look at him. “He does love you.”

“Not enough.”

“But one day–”

“It shouldn’t be an if-and-when, Sirius. The world is literally falling apart and he still refuses to be with me. What else would possibly compel him?”

He swallowed, looking a little more somber as his eyes darted down to the counter. “I don’t know, Sunshine. But you both deserve to be happy.”

“Tell that to him.”

“I’ve tried. He’s a stubborn fucker.”

You laughed a bit at that. “He is.”

“You love it about him, though, don’t you? Head over heels for some raggedy, old mule.”

“Hot, raggedy, old mule, to be fair.”

“Gross,” he laughed.

“But… no. I really don’t love that bit about him. I wish it would catch on fire and disintegrate.”

“Come on, but then he wouldn’t be Mooney.”

“But he’d love me.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but came up short, merely pulling you into his side in a hug. You let him hold you, leaning into him. As if on cue, though, Dumpling came strolling in, his chubby little body bumping against your feet, heading straight for his favorite uncle.

“He’s obsessed with you,” you said, watching as Sirius picked him up.

“Who wouldn’t be?” He winked, that cheeky smirk of his shining through as he kissed Dumpling’s soft forehead. “Horrible little beast. Quite the attention hog.”

“Two peas in a pod.”

He chuckled, cradling the cat as Dumpling purred away. You reached over, petting the little traitor as he snuggled up happily to Sirius. You hadn’t even registered that anyone had come into the kitchen until you heard a voice that had you jumping out of your skin from one small word.

“Oh,” Remus muttered softly, freezing up as he looked between you and Sirius. Though he never quite met your eye. “Sorry. Just came for some tea before the meeting.”

“There’s a kettle on the stove. Probably just needs to be heated again,” Sirius responded.

“Right,” Remus nodded, walking quickly to the stove.

Your eyes followed him the whole way, that familiar warm feeling still blooming in your chest as it always did when he was around. 

“I brought a new flavor. Vanilla Caramel,” you blurted out. “If you want some. It’s sweet.”

Remus nodded, not turning around. “Okay.”

You chewed your lip, watching him carefully. You wanted to go over there and kiss him silly again. You also wanted to slap him. But mostly, you just wanted him to look at you.

“I made Sirius go for some cream, too.”

“Right.”

“Your favorite mug is in the cupboard.”

He only nodded that time.

You huffed out a breath, looking to Sirius for help, though he was too preoccupied petting your cat. You looked at Remus again, still standing like stone in front of the stove. You suddenly stood, going to the cupboard to get his mug. You brought it to the counter you were sitting at, setting it right in the center. You then went to get the cream and sugar, leaving them next to the mug. Finally, you reached for the tea, putting a bag in his mug before you sat down again. If he wouldn’t look at you, you could at least get him to face you.

“Why’d you do that?” Sirius asked, a little bewildered at your behavior.

“Thought it would be easier for Remus to prepare his tea if it was all set out.”

Sirius raised a brow at you, then glanced at Remus who was just turning off the whistling kettle.

“Well… Dumpling and I will be… somewhere,” Sirius nodded once, a tiny smirk in your direction as he stood, walking out of the room with the cat.

Remus finally turned, pouring the steaming water into the mug. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know.”

He was quiet, filling the mug and then letting it sit for a moment as the tea leaves steeped.

You watched him for a second. “You’ve been missing meetings.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“With who?”

He huffed a sigh in frustration. “Nobody. You know that.”

“You’re acting like you have something to hide. How am I supposed to know?”

“You should know because I…” he shook his head, cutting himself off. “I’m not seeing anybody. I’m not even talking to anyone except for Sirius.”

“Hm,” you nodded slowly, then looked back at him, studying his face as he looked into the cup. “I’ve missed you.”

“Please don’t start.”

“You’re being a dick. We were friends first, you know? I’m allowed to miss you.”

He finally looked at you, feeling his chest compress when he met your eyes. He wanted to snark back. He wanted to push you away. Despite the guilt he felt, he didn’t want to hurt you even more. But his pull to you felt just as magnetic as ever.

“How do you not hate me?”

“Probably because I love you.”

He shook his head. “Don’t say that.”

“Quit trying to tell me what to do,” you shot back. “Trust me, if I could stop, I would.”

He frowned, looking back at his cup of tea, wishing he could drown in it. His jaw clenched, his head shaking softly again.

“Darling…”

“You said you didn’t want me,” you uttered quietly.

“No, I didn’t.”

“You may as well have.”

“I don’t want to lose you. There’s a difference.”

“That’s fucking ridiculous, and you know it.”

He sighed. “How? You’re… you’re everything. You’re brilliant and beautiful and kind and… and I don’t deserve someone like you.”

“Why do you have to insist on–” you stop, groaning in annoyance. “I can’t keep arguing about this. Why can’t you just trust me?”

“It’s not you I don’t trust. It’s myself.”

“You’re so dramatic,” I roll my eyes. 

“No, I’m not. I’m being–”

“Sirius told me about you breaking his lamp. That’s drama.”

His cheeks went pink. “I only did that because you stormed out on me!”

“Yeah, because you all but told me you would never be with me!”

“I told you I loved you!”

“No, you didn’t. I said you didn’t and you said ‘I do’. That’s not the same thing as saying the words.”

“Well, I… I…”

You stared at him, waiting for him to continue. He blinked, staring at you with wide eyes.

“I love you.”

You all but gasped with the breath you sucked in, your stomach fluttering as his eyes were still glued to yours.

“Remus…”

“The meeting is starting soon,” he said, abandoning his tea on the counter as he started to move towards the door of the kitchen.

“Please don't do this again,” you begged, grabbing his arm. “Please. Stop running.”

“Baby, I can’t look at you without wanting you in every way possible. Please don’t make this harder for me.”

“You just said you love me. Just let me believe that’s true.”

He shook his head, turning to you fully. “It is true.”

“Why are you trying to leave again, then? Stop doing that to me.”

“I– I already told you. I can’t lose you.”

“The only way you’ll lose me is by pushing me away like this,” you said, voice raised in frustration. “We already did this once, Remus, and then you avoided me for a month. Don’t do that again.”

“You don’t understand what this is for me–”

“Then make me understand.”

He let out a shaky breath, his eyes drawing all over your face for a few moments as you waited with baited breath for him to say anything. He went over every possible response in his head, but only one won out.

You shuddered a breath against him as his lips suddenly met yours in a kiss that was far more hungry than the one you’d shared last time you were together. His arms went around your waist, pulling you tightly into his chest, his grip possessive and needy. His tongue pushed into your mouth, leaving you whining softly, your hands in his hair.

“Don’t ever tell me I don’t love you,” he muttered against your lips as he broke away for a moment. “Or that I don’t want you. I want you more than anything.”

“Then have me,” you whispered back.

He stared at you, his eyes hooded and focused in on your lips. Though, you were both taken out of it as you heard Dumbledore’s muffled voice calling the Order meeting to start.

“Fuck,” you breathed out, head dropping against his shoulder.

He took a few deep breaths, stroking your hair softly. “We should go.”

“I know.”

“We can… We can talk about this later…”

You looked up at him. “You have to promise you won’t run again. Actually listen to me this time. I don’t want to argue.”

“Baby.” He frowned a little.

“Please, Remus. You can’t kiss me like that and expect me to be content with friendship.”

“I–”

“Just promise you’ll listen this time.”

“O-okay. Okay, fine,” he nodded. “Promise.”

You stared for another few seconds before nodding as well. You then broke away, intending on going to the meeting, though not before he grabbed your arm, pulling you into one more kiss. His lips moved against yours softly, but certainly not lacking passion. It only lasted for fifteen seconds before he pulled away again.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay, we can go now.”

You nodded, hoping you’d be able to pull yourself together enough to not be a flustered mess through the meeting. Though, you were certain by Sirius’s shit-eating grin when you’d both walked in that he knew within milliseconds. The bastard.

The meeting felt excruciatingly long, your gaze frequently being drawn to Remus who looked as calm and cool as ever. Also a bastard.

It wasn’t until you were back at Remus’s home, however, that you really started feeling the nerves kick in. You were in the living room, in the spot you’d always sit in, waiting for him to bring the tea. You stared hard at the coasters on the coffee table that hadn’t moved since the first time you’d ever been in the room. Now, though, you felt compelled as you leaned forward, pushing them a little closer together.

He came out a few minutes later, glancing down at the coasters, noticing their new position. He smiled a little to himself, though didn’t say anything as he sat down the mugs of tea. But this time, instead of sitting with you, he went to get a book from his shelf. You watched curiously as he browsed, searching seemingly for a specific book.

“What are you looking for?”

“Hold on.”

You chuckled softly. “Pardon me for the impatience.”

He shook his head, the ghost of a smile on his lips. He finally pulled out a book. “Ah.”

“Which one is that?” you asked as he came to sit next to you, closer than usual. 

He flipped through the pages, looking for one in particular.

“Here it is,” he said at last, showing the page to you. “Do you remember this?”

You nodded. “Of course I do. It's the first thing I ever read to you here.”

“It is.” He nodded, reading over it. “I… This line, here. The underlined one…”

“‘If equal affection cannot be, let the more loving one be me’,” you read from the book. 

“If you can believe it… I was convinced I loved you then. I was sure you’d never feel the same. And then… Then I found out you did. It terrifies me.”

“It terrifies you that I love you?”

He nodded, looking directly at you. “You’re too good for me. You have to know that.”

“Stop saying that.”

“It’s true.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It is,” he replied softly, bringing a hand up to your cheek. “It is true. And you can believe it isn’t all you want, but–”

“Stop. Please.”

“You need to understand.”

“I understand that you think you’re some kind of monster. I understand that you’re scared. What you need to understand is that I don’t care about any of that,” you say softly. “Remus… You’re right that it would be hard to be together sometimes, with everything going on. I could go be with someone who’d be easier to be with, but I don’t want anybody else. Hell, I worked day and night just to develop a potion because I knew it would help you.”

“Why are you so insistent on being with me?”

“Because you’re everything to me.”

He let out a soft breath. “You’re foolish.”

“And you’re a little bitch sometimes, but I love you anyways,” you tease, reaching up to hold his wrist as his hand stayed on your cheek. 

He scoffed a laugh. “You’ve been spending too much time with Sirius.”

“You were ignoring me for weeks. I had to hang out with someone.”

His smile faded. “I thought you hated me.”

“I could never.”

He took in a breath. “If… If you want this… like, really want this with me… you have to know that I can’t give you a peaceful life.”

“But will you love me?”

“Of course.”

“That’s enough.”

He swallowed down a lump in this throat. “It’s not always enough to just have love.”

“It will be, though. You’re kind, loyal, smart. Not to mention handsome,” you smile a little, as does he, his cheeks a little pink. “Whatever comes with being with you… I want it. All of it.”

“You don’t–”

“You all but told me you wouldn’t be with me, and you were still all I could think of after the fact. You have me already, Remus. You know that. I’m not going to shy away now.”

“You have me, too. In an iron grip, apparently.”

You laugh a little. “I don’t care what goes wrong. There’s far too much that’s right, and no matter how foolish you think that is, I think you’re ten times more dumb for trying to ignore that.”

He shook his head. “I… absolutely adore you.”

“Is that you saying you want this?”

“It’s me saying that you’ve somehow changed my mind. I think you’ve hexed me.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

He smiled. “Can’t help it. Most beautiful woman in the world is in front of me, you can’t expect me to be thinking clearly.”

You leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. He kissed back, just as gently, resting both of his hands on your cheeks.

“You moved the coasters closer,” he whispered.

“I did.”

“The tea is still hot.”

“It is,” you replied, raising a brow.

He sucked in a breath, eyes falling down and over your form. “So… we have some time before it cools off.”

The faintest smirk crept onto your face. “We do.”

Sunlight streamed in the room at sunrise, falling on two full, cold cups of tea, matching coasters, and a still-open book.

[sstan-hoe]

◇ 𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐋𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐬 ◇

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — andy barber × fem!wife!reader

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — Andy bought you new shoes and you love them, you wear them everywhere at any chance you get. The only downside is that after a little while they get uncomfortable…

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 — SMUT, p in v (unprotected), mention of edging, light degrading (very light) spanking (like once), idk what else

𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 — I won't be posting for a little while now, my plan is to finish some fics and have them ready for all of you!! reblog/ comment and follow!

It wasn’t a new thing that Andy carried you around. He always had the excuse “you’re my wife why would you need to walk?”

However, a few weeks ago he gifted you a pair of black Louboutin heels and you adored them.

You would wear them on every occasion, yes, they were painful but who wouldn’t want to look hot? 

Besides, anyone who wants to look beautiful must suffer.

Recently the two of you attended a party with some of Andy’s colleagues. Of course, he knew you would wear the heels, but if he talked against a wall, he would have had better chances.

As Andy rounded the corner, he saw you standing in front of the mirror at the entrance, wearing a black cocktail dress, golden hoops with a matching necklace and the black Louboutin.

He wanted to ask you if you really wanted to wear them, but he already knew the answer.

So instead, he just snaked his arm around your waist pulling you against him and laying his hand softly on your cheek.

He titled your head up giving you a loving kiss on your lips.

Andy’s lips left yours, but you chased after him to capture him in a passionate kiss. While you were concentrating on the kiss, Andy sneaked his hands down your body.

His plan was easy: seduce you, you're horny and want to stay home and prevent you from being in pain.

Andy softly withdraws his lips from yours once again. He kneels down while kissing down your leg. His hands felt soft against your skin as he lifted your leg with his right hand.

The other one slid down to your feet until it reached your shoe.

A small chuckle escaped you as you realized what he was doing, lifting your foot pressing the sole against his forehead like Margot Robbie in Wolf of Wall Street.

“What do you think you're doing?” you asked in a low voice.

„Darlin‘ I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” Andy gave you those concerning eyes. “Andy they’re painful but sexy and you gifted them to me, I want to wear them all the time.”

Andy sighed in return, “my love you can wear other heels you know I won’t be mad, and you look sexy in everything you wear,” he stood up cupping your face in his large hands, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

“No, I will wear them,” with that you turned around and opened the door stepping into the cool air of the beautiful autumn night.

With a sigh Andy walked after you, this was going to be a long night.

The car came to a stop in front of the bar where you would be meeting Andy’s colleagues. Your man turned to face you, “you can still change your mind darlin’,” he said gently but you shook your head, “no, let’s go, we don’t want to be late,” you said and got out of the car.

Andy stayed back for a moment, his mind running wild as he thought of a way to help you. In the end he could only watch you and make sure you were comfortable. After all you were his stubborn wife who he loved with every cell in his body, he’d do everything for you.

Quickly he walked after you, interlocking your fingers with his as you stepped inside the bar.

Said bar was filled with Andy’s colleagues, some you recognized, others you didn’t - not that you minded as most of them were arrogant assholes.

“Ooh, look at you, you look amazin’,” gushed Marta, the wife of Andy’s assistant. She seemed like a nice woman, but god you didn’t like her. She was always chipper, but it often looked like she was faking it.

“Thank you, you look great too,” you answered with a polite smile while guiding Andy’s hand around your waist and pressing yourself against his side.

Andy smiled to himself as he noticed what you were doing, gladly he tightened his hold on you.

Then Marta began talking, she talked like a waterfall and at some point you needed to escape. “I’m gonna get us some drinks,” you excused yourself and took a deep breath once your back was turned to them.

As you walked towards the counter you could already feel your feet hurting. You hated that Andy was right, but these shoes were too beautiful not to wear.

You hopped onto the bar stool and ordered a juice as well as a beer for Andy. Once you got the drinks and stepped from the chair, you hissed at the burning sensation. There would definitely be blisters by the end of the night.

Giving Andy his beer, he noticed the slight distress on your face. He decided to ignore it for now, knowing you wouldn’t say anything.

The conversation continued for a little while, in the middle you had shifted almost a lot of your weight onto him. Andy didn’t mind, but this only showed him how right he was. However the two of you couldn’t quite leave yet.

You kept your posture up, no one but Andy noticed how much your feet started to hurt.

“Look at this sweet arm candy you got there Barber,” a man said who came to stand next to your husband.

Andy turned his head to the man and glared at him, “my wife, looks beautiful and is not arm candy, Chad,” his tone was harsh.

God, some of these assholes could just go fuck themselves and you’d love to slap the shit out of them.

After another thirty minutes you needed to sit down, you nudged Andy’s arm and gestured to a table to sit on. Not asking questions Andy walked with you towards the table, before you could sit on one of the tables there was an extra step to go.

As you lifted your foot to step up, your knees almost buckled in once your foot hit the parquet. Luckily Andy was there to support you.

He didn’t say a word but you knew what he was thinking, “I’m fine,” you said quickly. “I didn’t say anything,” he countered with a knowing smile.

Both of you finished your drinks and you only hoped Andy didn’t want another beer. Seeing how uncomfortable you were, he did the only right thing.

With a sigh he slipped out of his shoes and pushed them towards you, “come on, take ‘em of darlin’,” he told you. Pouting you slipped them off and handed them to Andy before putting on his - way too big, but comfortable - shoes.

“What will your colleagues think?” you asked concerned, eyes dropping, “I don’t care what they think, I don’t want my wife to feel uncomfortable. Now, let’s get ya home,” standing up in his socks, he held his hand out to you.

“I wasn’t even that uncomfortable,” you argued as you walked out of the bar.

Then almost over the curb and falling into Andy, "okay, darlin'," chuckling he scooped you up into his arms.

He carried you the rest to the car, putting you in the passenger seat and buckling on your seat belt. Kissing the top of your head before giving you the heels and closing the door.

slutty bonus, you whore's

"You're lucky I love carrying you around," he stated as his hand came to rest on your thigh.

"You know, if I didn't know it better I'd say you're disobeying me on purpose…," he growled into the crook of your neck as his hips bucked into you.

"I'm – fuck – sorry!" you have been apologizing for thirty minutes now, being edged three times and you begged Andy wouldn't make it a four. "See, I don't think you're sorry," his tone was almost mean, he mocked you.

"Can feel how tight you are, how you keep squeezing me. I know it turns you on, don't lie to me darlin'," as if you ever could.

You gripped onto the satin sheets, Andy picked his pace up not caring for you – this was a punishment after all.

Not much of a punishment though if you enjoyed it.

"Andy," you rasped, feeling your stomach tighten. You desperately need to live the euphoria.

Complete joy and pleasure building up, "please, please, please," you moaned when he hit that spot.

"Hold it," Andy demanded, railing you, splitting you open. "No, no, I can't!" you cried, shaking your head. Your husband didn't care, he gripped your throat, "yes you can, if you don't…then you won't come at all."

Shutting your eyes, you tried to concentrate on keeping the orgasm inside until Andy allowed you.

He was close himself and already felt his cock twitching, "come, fucking hell," he muttered, rutting into you like a starved man.

You reach the mind-blowing release of endorphins. Clenching to hold onto the feeling until you finally give in and let go. Moans howling through the walls.

Before you could register anything you were turned on your stomach. Ass slapped twice.

"Let's paint that pretty ass of yours, shall we darlin'?"

𝑩𝑶𝒀𝑺 𝑶𝑵𝑬 — @smile1318 @wintasssoldier @xcaptain-winterx @georgiapeach30513 @alina02 @broadwaybabe18 @jobean12-blog @buckymcu12 @shara-ne @lou-la-lou @pomarildreams

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | @sstanhoe-updates blog where new fics will always be reblogged in case you're not interested in the taglist as it has conditions

[turinspeachjam]

Steve, Not Alice (a gift for i_less_than_three you on ao3 for the @strangerthingswritersguild Winter Exchange!)

wc: 1403 | rating: gen | read on ao3

Steve was snowed in.  

He was supposed to finish packing the things he wanted to keep from his parents’ house and spend the night at Robin’s before the two of them headed to Hopper’s cabin for Christmas and then Indy after. The snow had started early that morning, just small flurries that reminded him eerily of the dust motes in the Upside Down. He ignored the weather for the most part, focusing on choosing which of his meager belongings he wanted to take with him to his and Robin’s new apartment. It had been both surprisingly difficult and all too easy. 

He put all of his important photos in an album, taking great care to make sure all of them were accounted for and tucked safely away for the trip. He sorted through all the knickknacks he had acquired over the years and settled on taking only a handful. The minifigures Dustin had given him for his birthday, the dice set that Erica had scrounged up to buy for him the Christmas prior, the baseball card Lucas had asked Will to paint over so it looked like Steve swinging his nailbat, the packet of homemade coupons Mike helped El make, all the bracelets Robin had made for him after Starcourt that he was excited to be able to actually wear once they were in Indy. All of his most beloved treasures all packed safely in his duffel bag. 

He stared at his closet full of clothes that he both loved and hated. Clothes that held memories of the horrors and the joys of the past several years. Polos that his parents had bought him. Sweaters soft and well-worn. A bloodied uniform that he wanted to burn but held onto anyway because it was the uniform that gave him his soulmate. A denim vest that Steve could not bring himself to return to the person who deserved to have it most. 

Steve gazed at the patches and pins lovingly adorning the front of the vest, gently turning it around to admire the demon on the back, the cover of an album that Steve had found himself listening to more often than he would like to admit. He rubbed his thumb against the stubborn blood stains that no amount of peroxide would remove. Steve had spent hours scrubbing at the reminder of the wounds that never quite healed right. 

Steve carefully folded the vest and placed it inside his duffel bag next to all of his other cherished possessions. 

Without much preamble, he grabbed his favorite sweaters and polos, his most comfortable sweatpants and well-worn jeans, and the suit that he wore for Will Byers’s funeral and all the funerals after it. His hands trembled as he placed the suit in a garment bag he took from his mother’s closet. He tried not to think about the last funeral he wore that suit to. He failed. 

When he was done and ready to take his bags to the beamer, he finally looked out the window at the snow-covered world and knew that there was no way he was going to be able to drive to Robin’s place that night. He sighed, desperately not wanting to spend another night in the cold emptiness of his parents’ house. Steve looked around his childhood bedroom, at the matching plaid curtains and walls, the handful of souvenirs from a time when his parents actually liked each other and acted like a proper family, all the things that made him feel desperately lonely. If he had to stay in that house for one more night, he was at least not staying in that room. He would rather sleep on the couch, or even in his beamer in the garage. Without a second thought, he picked up his bags and one by one took them to his car, placing each of them carefully into the trunk next to his emergency road kit and his beloved nailbat. It only took him two trips, but that did not stop him from doing one final sweep of his room to make sure nothing got accidentally left behind. 

As Steve walked past his bedroom mirror for what he hoped would be the last time, he saw something strange out of the corner of his eye. He froze. After everything he had been through involving the Upside Down, he was not in a position to brush anything off as just a trick of the light. So, he walked back to the mirror and stared at his reflection. 

Except it was not his reflection. It was Eddie Munson’s. 

Steve sucked in a sharp breath. Losing Eddie had been hard on all of them, especially Dustin. Steve was grief-stricken every time he thought about Dustin holding Eddie in his arms as he bled out. He was haunted by Eddie’s last words to him. “Make him pay” was all Eddie had asked of Steve, and he could not even follow through on that promise. Granted, they did eventually stop Vecna, but that did nothing to quell Steve’s guilt. 

And here Eddie was, haunting Steve once more by appearing to him as his reflection. 

Unlike the last time Steve saw him, his body shredded and torn beyond repair in a way Steve knew a little too intimately, Eddie looked healthy and whole. It reminded him of when they were in school together. This was not the Eddie who held him against the wall of the boathouse, but the Eddie who climbed tables and shouted about conformity and rejecting the status quo while narrowly avoiding stepping on people’s lunches. Not the Eddie whose hands never stopped trembling from the moment he witnessed Chrissy’s death, but the Eddie who gladly defended the more vulnerable students from bullies looking for easy targets. Not the Eddie who asked Steve to make Vecna pay with his words while his eyes asked Steve something else, but the Eddie who raised his eyebrows playfully every time he caught Steve staring at him when his attention should have been elsewhere. 

This was the Eddie who called Steve “big boy” and “princess” and “Stevie.” 

A shudder ran through Steve’s body, unable to look away as Eddie’s reflection smiled sadly at him, his hand reaching out toward Steve only to stop, resting against the other side of the mirror. Steve watched as Eddie’s lips moved, though he made no sound. He was saying something over and over and no matter how hard Steve tried he could not understand what Eddie was trying to tell him. 

“I don’t—I can’t hear you, Eddie.” 

Eddie did not stop talking, though his lips did slow down a bit, his mouth exaggerating each word. Steve almost spoke again before he realized that what Eddie had been repeating had been Steve’s name. Steve bit his lip, trying not to cry. 

“I’m here. I’m here, Eddie,” Steve whispered, not daring to look away from Eddie’s lips saying his name. “I’m here.”  

Eddie looked at where his hand was pressed against the glass and then looked back at Steve, his eyes pleading. Steve slowly reached out toward him, his own hand trembling as he placed it on the mirror. Except it did not rest against the mirror like Eddie’s did. Steve could feel the warmth of Eddie’s hand in his. Steve stared in awe at where their hands touched, mystified at what was happening. 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Eddie placing his other hand against the glass, so Steve followed suit. Both of his hands were warmed by Eddie’s. Steve could not help but laugh, the sound trembling in his throat. He could feel heat behind his eyes, smiling brightly at Eddie in the mirror. In his excitement, his hand twitched against Eddie’s, pushing forward slightly. 

He could feel the glass surrounding his fingers. Confused, he glanced back down to where their hands connected and saw that the tips of his fingers had passed through the mirror, still resting against Eddie’s hands. He briefly thought about a book his mother used to read to him when he was much younger. A book about a girl named Alice and how she walked through a mirror to get to a place called Wonderland. Steve pushed further into the mirror, watching as more of his hand was swallowed up. Without a second thought, he walked through the mirror, feeling the glass engulf him entirely. 

“Hey, Stevie.” 

[nicksalchemy1]

Mientras Respiro, Espero - Part 1

Pairing: Firefighter AU Dean Winchester x Nurse!Plus-Size!Mexican!Reader

Summary: Dean Winchester, a firefighter with a reputation for casual flings, finds himself longing for something more meaningful in his life. Meanwhile, you, a stubborn surgical intern, are trying to escape your past in California. When Dean loses a bet and is tasked with cleaning the trucks, your paths cross unexpectedly. Little do both of you know meeting each other would cause some problems.

A/N: “Mientras Respiro, Espero”: Spanish for “while I breathe, I wait.”

Here’s the first part of my little story. I really like writing in this universe and if part goes well, then I’ll continue posting. (I’m gonna post it anyways 🧐) Credits for inspiration again go to @zepskies !!

🚒 Series Masterlist

Word Count: 2,167

Warnings: Toxic parental situation, mentions of fat-shaming, childhood trauma, and a quick old-fashioned meet cute.

Part 1 - Who’s Afraid Of Little Old Me?

Avalon, California, was a gilded cage with ocean views, where the houses were as polished as the facades people wore. It was in one such manicured home where your story paused.

“Mija, you’re wasting your life with these... these dreams of yours! ¡No seas tan estúpida!” Your mother’s voice was a razor wrapped in velvet, cutting into you as you packed the last of your belongings into an old, battered suitcase.

The room was a mausoleum of your former life, with its pristine walls adorned with academic accolades and a full-length mirror that once reflected a girl desperate to please. Now, it only mirrored your resolve.

“I’m saving it, not wasting it,” you shot back, the words tumbling from your lips like brave soldiers in battle. You tucked a framed photo of your childhood self – the one with the broadest, most hopeful eyes – into the suitcase's side.

Your mother’s silhouette filled the doorway, her arms crossed in the silent indictment. “And what about the family reputation? Our standing in the community?”

You zipped up the suitcase, and the sound of a definitive line drawn. “What about my happiness, Mamí? What about living a life that’s actually mine? With someone who won’t pick on me like I’m still a child?”

She scoffed dismissively, a sound that stung like salt in an open wound. “Esos gringos no saben nada. Happiness is a luxury for those who can afford to be foolish.”

You locked eyes with her in the mirror, your own gaze hardened like forged steel. “Then consider me a fool.”

The house seemed to hold its breath as you shouldered past her, suitcase in hand. Your father stood in the hallway, a silent sentinel. His eyes, a mirror of your own, flickered with something that might have been pride or sorrow – or both.

“Daddy,” you whispered, pausing for a moment.

He cleared his throat, a rumble from deep within. “You always were the stubborn one,” he murmured, his voice barely above a soft-spoken whisper. “Be careful. Call me anytime you need me.”

A nod was all you could muster before you descended the staircase, each step a drumbeat to your newfound freedom. The door closed behind you with a finality that echoed through your bones. The California sun dipped low, as if bowing to your courage.

The suitcase wheels rumbled against the cobblestone path, a small but sure declaration of your departure. Behind you, the house – a beautiful prison of expectation and familial duty – faded into just another part of the landscape.

You didn't look back.

Considering it was your first time flying in an airplane, first class at that, you were anxious. Not about actually being in the plane around people or the way the lady in the seat across from your aisle coffee smelled like someone took a fancy shit, but because you were moving in with a couple that you trusted yet, hardly knew.

Mary and John Winchester were rough around the edges, but they meant well. They knew what happened in your household, how toxic it was, and invited you to stay with them in Lawerence. Plus, you would be able to keep your job. Mary was head of Neurosurgery and earned you a spot as a surgical intern. Working hard or hardly working, am I right? You thought to yourself, smiling to yourself.

And boy, were these ‘gringos’ rich. Not only did they offer you that extra guest room in their house, but they also bought you your first-class seat, in which your butt was in right now.

You knew John was a respected detective, and with his income mixed with Mary’s, they made bank.

You also knew they had two sons. John and Mary mentioned their names, but you knew the youngest worked for the ADA, and the oldest worked as a firefighter.

Cool. Wonder what that's like, you tilt your head in thought.

A stable work life, home life, and family. But not all ‘picture-perfect’ families meant they were truly picture perfect.

And that was for you to figure out.

The airplane descended through the cotton candy clouds, and the world below began to take shape—a patchwork of fields and roads that would soon become your new reality. Your heart danced a nervous tango with the seatbelt across your lap, anticipation tightening with every drop in altitude.

The captain's voice crackled through the cabin, announcing the imminent landing in Lawrence. You straightened up, smoothing the fabric of your jeans as if to iron out the last creases of your past life.

When the wheels kissed the tarmac, you felt a jolt, not unlike the one that had propelled you out of your family’s house. You collected your single suitcase from the overhead bin—a symbol of your fresh start—and made your way through the aisle with a resolve that echoed the click-clack of your boots on the aircraft's floor.

The airport was small but buzzing with life, a hive of reunions and farewells. You stood for a moment at the arrival gate, scanning the crowd until you saw them.

Mary's presence was undeniable. She stood with a grace that spoke of her surgical precision, her eyes warm and welcoming. John, equally imposing in his own right, had the stance of a man who had weathered storms and could chart a course through any adversity.

They spotted you almost immediately, and Mary’s smile widened as she opened her arms. “There she is! Welcome to Kansas!”

You stepped into her embrace, the scent of antiseptic mingling with a soft perfume—a stark contrast to the oppressive aroma of your mother's overwhelming floral scents. “Thank you, Mary,” you smiled, grateful for the genuine warmth.

John extended his hand, which you shook firmly, finding in his grip the silent support of a seasoned detective. “Good to have you here. We’ve got the guest room all set up for you,” he said, his voice a deep timbre of reassurance.

You nodded, your eyes meeting his. “I can’t thank you both enough for this opportunity.”

As you walked through the airport, with Mary’s hand lightly on your back and John carrying your suitcase, you felt the weight of your old life lifting. The conversation was light, peppered with Mary’s questions about your flight and John’s quips about Kansas being the true heart of America.

Once in the car, the grilling starts. “So, how are you doing, hun?” Mary asks curiously, mainly because she’s concerned and trying to make sure you’re comfortable.

“Oh, you know, as good as you can be while moving state from state.” You remark as politely as possible, trying not to seep tension into the car ride.

“I hope you feel better. When we get to the house, you’re welcome to rest. I don’t cook very well,” She clears her throat, shrugging, “But I can give you some money to order something in?”

“I couldn’t do that, but thank you. It’s late, anyways. I’ll wait till tommorow morning.”

“Okay. Just as along as you’re comfortable.” Mary winks, a soft, motherly smile on her face.

You nod, meeting her smile with the same.

John pulls the Volkswagen van into the driveway and puts it in park, shutting the engine off. “Home sweet home.”

You sigh and step out of the car, staring at the home. The house is a two-story structure with a prominent green exterior. It features white trim around the windows and roof edges, contrasting nicely with the green. The front door is wooden with a rich, warm tone. There are two windows on the upper floor and one window on either side of the front door on the ground floor. A chimney extends from the left side of the roof, indicating a fireplace inside.

A well-maintained lawn adorned with various small plants and flowers. A concrete pathway leads to three steps up to a small porch area before reaching the wooden front door.

Mary leads you up to where your room is at and it seemed to be one of her boy’s old nurseries, but now the wall was decorated with two old band posters, The Beatles and a Zeppelin poster. Huh. The bed had a floral blanket and a navy sheet under it. There were two pillows in a white silk covers and a lamp on the beside table.

“John and I are gonna hit the hay, so, goodnight, love.” Mary waves from the doorframe, giving you one last glance before heading off.

“Goodnight,” You reply, setting your suitcase down beside your bed and lay back on your bed.

In the locker room, you changed into your scrubs, the fabric feeling foreign yet exciting against your skin. You tucked your hair under a surgical cap and checked yourself in the mirror. Ready.

The hospital corridors were a maze of activity, doctors and nurses moving with a sense of urgency that was almost palpable. You found your way to the intern's lounge, where a group of young doctors was gathered, pouring over patient charts and sipping on coffee as if it were a lifeline.

That's when you met her — Charlie Bradbury. With her vibrant red hair and a stack of comic books under her arm, she was a splash of color in the sterile environment. She noticed you immediately, her green eyes lighting up with an impish sparkle.

"Hey, you must be the new kid! I'm Charlie, your friendly neighborhood genius slash intern. Welcome to the chaos!" she greeted you with an outstretched hand, adorned with quirky rings.

"Thanks, I'm..." you began.

"Don't tell me," she interrupted playfully, "You're the one who just flew in from Cali, right? Mary's been raving about you."

You chuckled, feeling a sense of relief wash over you. "Guilty as charged."

Charlie showed you around, her chatter filling the spaces between the bustle of the hospital. She introduced you to the other interns, the nurses, and even the grumpy guy who ran the coffee cart. Throughout the day, you shadowed her as she confidently navigated patient care, inserting IV lines with precision and calming anxious patients with her quirky humor.

Despite the exhaustion that came with the endless rounds and the mountain of new information, you felt a sense of accomplishment. You were doing this, really doing it — and you were not alone.

In the afternoon, Mary tasked you with delivering first aid kits to the local fire department as part of a community outreach program. You welcomed the break from the hospital walls and made your way to the fire station with a box of supplies in tow.

As you approached, you noticed a firefighter washing a large, red truck — his sleeves rolled up, revealing muscular arms, and his focus never wavering from the task at hand. You hesitated for a moment before approaching.

"Excuse me," you called out, "I have a delivery from Lawrence General?"

He turned around, and you were met with striking green eyes and a smudge of soap on his cheek. He was ruggedly handsome, with a stubble that spoke of long hours and a jaw set with determination.

"Oh, hey," he replied, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Thanks for the-"

Before he could finish, another firefighter called out to him, "Dean, we need you!"

"Sorry, duty calls," he said with a charming, apologetic grin. "Just leave the kits by the door, and thanks again."

"No problem," you replied, feeling a pang of disappointment as the moment ended too quickly. You placed the box down and watched as he jogged back to his colleagues, ready to respond to the next emergency.

The rest of your shift passed in a blur, and before you knew it, Mary was driving you back to the Winchester home. As the car hummed along the road, she glanced at you with a knowing smile.

"I hope your first day wasn't too overwhelming. You did great," she said encouragingly.

"It was definitely a day to remember," you admitted with a tired smile.

Mary's expression turned warm and excited as she announced, "Well, get ready for a family dinner tonight. John and I want you to meet our sons properly. They're excited to have you."

The thought of the evening ahead sparked a mix of nerves and curiosity within you.

"Oh, uh, okay." you replied slightly indifferent by the unexpected dinner, but the prospect of a meal with a family that wouldn’t make measure how many calories your plate has won’t be bad just because you had to meet your “landlord’s” sons. “Sounds nice.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And there’s that! Next time. 😉

Character Introduction For This Series

Dean Winchester Masterlist

[anncanta]

Mirror, mirror on the wall

Fandom: Dracula (2020)

Characters: Dracula, Agatha Van Helsing

Relationship: Dracula/Agatha Van Helsing

Rating: Teen and up audiences

@alma37 @hopipollahorror @moremoveslessannouncements-blog

Read on AO3

Or read below

‘What happens if I win this game?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Agatha leaned forward and rested her hands on the table.

‘We both know this is not just a chess game. I don't know what you have in mind, but the fact is …’ she glanced briefly at the pieces. ‘You are clever, cunning and competitive. But that is not the case here. You took me from the convent – kidnapped me – and brought me here. You could have locked me in a box, you could have raped me or tortured me –��

‘Agatha, your expectations exceed my wildest –’

‘Yet you offered me a game of chess. And I want to know why.’

There was silence for a few seconds.

‘The fact that I am here is enough to consider you the winner,’ said Agatha.

‘Are you so sure?’

‘Yes.’

For a while, Dracula silently looked at the table, the chessboard, the waves of hair falling over her shoulders.

‘Maybe I am not,’ he said suddenly.

The room changed so abruptly that Agatha did not have time to understand anything.

…They were standing on a castle tower, on a small platform, and far below them stretched the valley, the forest, and the river.

Agatha went to the parapet. She rose on her toes and looked over the edge. Jonathan must have jumped from here.

‘This is that very tower,’ Dracula said from behind her shoulder, confirming her guess.

‘Do you want to show me my future?’

Agatha turned around.

‘I don't know what I want anymore.’

He stood in front of her, very close, and the sunlight touched his face. Agatha was surprised to discover that he had long eyelashes. She raised her hand and touched his cheek.

‘It's not real,’ she said.

‘No, of course not.’

Agatha nodded.

‘Then kiss me.’

…

‘What happens if I win this game?’

The pieces were all mixed up. Agatha's lips were burning.

‘I'll lose,’ Dracula smiled.

‘I couldn't wish for more.’

***

The Demeter arrived at Whitby Harbor right on schedule. After making the last entry in the logbook, Captain Sokolov put it in a drawer and left the cabin. The autumn sun that greeted him on deck was cold and unfriendly, but after long weeks of sailing in fog, the captain was glad to see it.

Everything was fine, he assured himself. The voyage had gone well. No storms, no incidents. The passengers were happy, the cargo had been delivered safely.

And yet something was bothering him, stubborn and persistent. Elusive, like a pebble in a boot.

‘How many passengers did we have?’ Sokolov asked Valentin, standing nearby, looking at the rigging and ropes, muttering something under his breath.

The old sailor frowned.

‘Six. Three men, a child, and two women,’ Valentin spat discontentedly on the creaking boards.

The captain nodded.

‘Six.’

He waved away the images of a tall man in a black top hat and a thin woman in a nun's robe that appeared in his head.

When the captain went ashore, he no longer remembered them.

‘And the king had a daughter, with skin as white as snow and lips as red as blood,’ said Agatha, watching the captain's retreating figure. Dracula, who had followed her down the gangway, threw a warm cloak over her shoulders.

The sun had almost disappeared behind the horizon, gilding its edge.

Dracula leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

‘I heard she was the most beautiful of all. No woman could compare with her. I think that's why her name meant “morning dawn.”’

[sinfulsalutations]

𝕥𝕒𝕝𝕜 ⋆*･ﾟ 𝕔𝕝𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕥𝕣𝕠𝕠𝕡𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕖𝕔𝕙

➼ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ ☆ ᴛᴇᴄʜ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

➼ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ ☆ ꜱʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴇꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ��ᴏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ɪᴛ. ꜱʜᴇ'ʟʟ ʟᴇᴛ ʜɪᴍ ʙʟᴀʙ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ɪɴ ʀᴇᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ. ɪᴛ'ꜱ ɪᴛꜱ ᴏᴡɴ ꜰᴏʀᴍ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴏᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ, ʜɪꜱ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ.

➼ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ☆ ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ᴄᴜᴛᴇꜱʏ ꜱᴛᴜꜰꜰ, ꜱʜᴏʀᴛ ᴀɴᴅ (ʙɪᴛᴛᴇʀ)ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛ, ʜᴜʀᴛ/ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ, ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ᴄʀɪᴇꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰʀᴇꜱʜᴇʀ, ᴛᴇᴄʜ ʜᴀꜱ ᴀᴅʜᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴀʟᴋꜱ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʜɪꜱ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴇꜱᴛꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴛꜱ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴄᴜᴛᴇ

➼ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ ☆ 2.4ᴋ

➼ ᴘᴏᴠ ☆ ᴛʜɪʀᴅ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴ

⋆ ★ ɪ ᴀᴍ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʜᴏɴᴇꜱᴛ, ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ꜱᴏ ꜱᴇʟꜰ ɪɴᴅᴜʟɢᴇɴᴛ. ɪ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴀ ꜱʜɪᴛ ᴡᴇᴇᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪɴᴀʟᴇ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴄʀɪᴇᴅ ꜱᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴛᴏᴅᴀʏ ɪ ʙʀᴏᴋᴇ ᴍʏ ꜰᴀꜱᴛ ᴇᴀʀʟʏ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴇᴀꜱᴛ ᴏɴ ᴍʏ ᴘʀᴏʙʟᴇᴍꜱ. ꜱᴏ ɪ ᴡʀᴏᴛᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ ᴍʏꜱᴇʟꜰ, ɪ ꜰɪʀᴍʟʏ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛᴇᴄʜ ɪꜱ ᴀʟɪᴠᴇ ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʙʙ ɪꜱ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ᴏɴ ʜɪᴀᴛᴜꜱ ꜱᴏ ɪ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴᴇᴅ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ᴀʀᴍꜱ. ɪᴅᴋ ɪꜰ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴇʟꜱᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴄᴀʀᴇ ᴏʀ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴀꜱ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴀꜱ ɪ ᴅᴏ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ᴅᴏᴇꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴍᴀᴛᴛᴇʀ. ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ʜᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ :)

⋆ ★ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴏɴ ᴀᴏ3 ⋆*･ﾟ ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ ꜰᴏʀᴍ

It’s suffocating.

Everything is too much, not stimulating enough, too little, too... everything. She's cradling herself like a baby, a whiny little kid, grasping herself, gripping it with sharp nails, leaving deep, deep marks all over her skin. The claustrophobic air cages her in, she is trapped, she is trying to escape, and now it taints her.

But maybe she’s just overreacting. That must be it. That’s why she feels stupid and silly. Like a little kid stomping their foot when they don't get their way. Being dramatic over little things. Just little things she's upset about; little, little, minuscule things that had piled up, slowly until it was too much. It's too much. It's all so much that she's so little, so small in her own arms pressed up against the `fresher wall, barely able to hold herself up with wobbly knees as she cries.

Silently. So so silently. 

She can’t be a burden. It would be insultingly rude, to put that responsibility of her happiness on the people letting her stay on their ship. Clone Force 99 is incredibly hospitable to her. Too kind. They gave her a cot and food, company and kindness in exchange for her expertise in medicine. She is an asset. She is useful. And when she isn't?

That, she can't be certain. Not everyone is the same, she knows that. But she won't risk it. Not when she's become attached to their little family. Hunter is always endlessly caring, even if she is closer to a stranger than family to him. Wrecker immediately took a liking to her, even if she did have a softer voice and disposition. It took Echo a little longer to warm up to her, but enough restless nights for the both of them to talk about their lives before joining the batch had brought the two as close as she was with the rest. And she simply adored Omega; from her curiosity and optimism, even to her brash stubbornness.

And Tech... she couldn't imagine a day not getting to see his face, hear him talk about anything and everything he has learned and studied. His voice was another form of remedy. Perhaps it might help with this frustration... 

Knowing all of this, she won't take a chance at losing it. She wants to stay somewhere, for once. She's not going to kriff it up this time. 

She tries to bottle it up. She sniffles once, twice, before grabbing a dry towel and dabbing it in water, softly wiping away at her tears in the mirror until her reddened cheeks blend nicely with the rest of her complexion. Once she feels fully satisfied with the way she looks, she blinks away any remaining water droplets that litter her eyelashes like raindrops on leaves and tries her best to smile in the mirror. 

Everything is okay, she thinks. It’ll be fine.

She’s still relieved, however, that most of the batch isn’t currently on the ship. Usually, she would have gone off to Cid's and maybe grab a drink before listening, as always, to what the smart little trooper had to say. Hunter has caught on and began leaving the two in their strange, dorky little bubble tucked into a little booth, her open ears and his excited chatter.

Today, the only person who didn't go back to Cid's (or to chomp on Mantell Mix) is her and Tech, who works on damage inflicted on the outside of the Marauder. They've just got back from a rather chaotic attempt to retrieve some goods from a back-alley planet Cid sent them to. Wrecker was able to secure the crates, but not without a gang of pirates firing old-fashioned arrows in his direction until they tore at the exterior and into the inner mechanics of the ship. And as usual, Tech insisted to stay back and fix it all by himself (You all could have the rest, he said).

She wouldn’t say she was most particularly fond of Tech, but that would be a bald-faced lie; she loved all of the boys like they were her brothers. Though, perhaps with him it is different. Just perhaps. Perhaps, right? Unless it was more- kriff, it probably is.

Especially ever since she saw him without his goggles for the first time; she was able to see that hue of brown that colored his eyes so well. He was rubbing his eyes and yawning as he went to clean them, and he hadn’t even noticed her ogling eyes from a few feet away. Omega certainly did. And asked her about it the next chance she got. 

“Do you like Tech?” 

When she didn't respond, she only kept nagging.

"You do like Tech, don't you?"

"That's why you like to look at him so much, right?"

Yeah. She loves the kid, but her endless questions did end up getting to her. So Omega might have given her a cheeky look when she said she was going to stay back as well. Oh, if that was the only reason she had decided not to come along with the rest.

But it all leads to right now, admiring him from afar while leaning against the open ramp. It takes him a moment to notice, still very focused on the task at hand, on his knees in front of an open panel and he quickly turns, blinking rapidly in succession and in surprise. 

“Oh-” He begins, before quickly clearing his throat and continuing, acting less shocked than before. He adds her name quickly in before, and treads so lightly on it too, as if he was unsure if he was allowed to call her by that. “Hello. I forgot you stayed back.”

She chuckles lightly and walks closer to where he worked, watching his clever and dexterous fingers move swiftly. 

“So I’m that quiet?”

He shrugs.

“You can be swift when it requires you to be,” He observes, finally looking up into her eyes. The look he gives her, one of full undivided attention, makes her heart miss a couple of notes on the staff. He continues without noticing her hitched breath. “But I wouldn’t say you are… quiet .”

She grins, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Her eyes are still heavy with the remnants of her tears. 

“Yeah,” she mumbles, leaning back onto the Marauder and sighing, her eyes fluttering close. She tries to relax, really does, but it's hard to when Tech was right there. He still watches her and stills completely, as if he was trying to pinpoint the exact feeling on her face. “Do you mind if I just sit here?” She finally asks, eyes still closed.

With that, Tech blinks again, quickly composing himself and looking away once she opens her eyes again to appear as though he hasn’t been staring at her. He nods.

“Of course.”

She hums sweetly like a hummingbird in response and tries to get more comfortable, slowly sliding down until her bottom promptly hits the floor and she is level with his crotch, as he still kneels to gain access to the inside of the ship. And she watches for just a little, the only noise filling their bubble the noise of fuses and bolts twisting and loosening, the occasional clang of two pieces of metal here and there, even a long strenuous creak from the larger panel dismantled. He doesn't talk. She doesn't talk.

It might be quite boring in any other situation, one where she isn't feeling so helplessly overworked and burned out, or in general to any other person in her shoes, but it feels so calming just to watch. To observe and not have to react. Just be without any strings attached. His presence is calming. It’s fascinating. When she just watches him, it is uncomplicated. It is simple and it is good.

Though it isn’t enough. Something in her itches. She thinks it is physical, and she readjusts her seating position a few times, and fumbles, but it doesn’t seem to work exactly. Tech turns to her. 

“Are you comfortable?” He asks.

She nods.

“Yeah, nothing to worry about,” She reassures him, and he nods accordingly. 

“Good. If you need anything, please let me know,” He finishes before going back to his work. And when the talking stops completely, replaced with the crackling sounds of fizzling electricity, she realizes what feels off about the moment. 

“Tech?” She starts shaky, gazing up at him slightly worried. Tech stops completely; his hands drop and he tilts his head. He lifts up his visor to look at her better, and the simple act makes her bite back a grin. “Would you tell me something?” 

At first, he just stands there, confused. His head tilts even further and makes sure to confirm.

“You, want me to talk?”

She looks at him perplexed and huffs in disbelief. 

“I do,” She states simply.

"About what?" He probes further.

She shrugs.

"Anything you want. I just want to hear your voice."

He’s still confused as he looks at her through the yellow-tinted goggles. No, less confused, and more surprised. Tech turns away for a moment, trying to process the moment. A pretty girl wants him to talk… just talk about anything. And she wants to listen. Listen to what he’s been told over and over again his useless information regarding niche subjects and fields of study. He’s always seen her interest in what he’s said, yes, but he's just assumed it is common decency to listen to what someone is saying. He’s not used to his brothers actually tuning in and seeming actually interested in what he has to say. But she is. And she wants him to say more. 

He always has something more to say. But now, looking back to her barely parted, pretty lips and her thoughtful eyes… Tech draws a blank. 

He turns away again, fumbling with the task at hand as he tries to distract himself from it, still trying to conjure up something, anything to say to her. And she still waits, unphased by his hesitant silence as she methodically raps the pads of her fingers against her wrist. She sits as if she has all the time in the world. And if it were up to her, she would give him that.

He finally thinks of one small anecdote to share. 

“... I read a fascinating historical document this morning," he says. She perks up brightly, eyes lighting up with excitement as he begins.

“You did?” She says.

He nods in confirmation. The coy smile matched with tied lips she wears across her face is undeniable; even he can see it in the corner of his eye as he works. He tries not to let it get to his head. 

“Can you tell me more?” she continues.

Tech hisses so quietly, the modulator under his helmet doesn’t pick it up. Thank the Maker for that. 

“... It was the first recording of our modern republic system,” He does his best to recall what the document was about. “Or, what the Republic was, at least.” He looks over quickly for reassurance that this is what she wanted from him; he sees her nodding eagerly and intrigued. Oh, that only excites him more. He begins to remember more pieces of what he read once he turns away and back to the wiring in front of him, talking to her as he works. He even tries his best to slow down his pace to make it easier for her to process and understand better; though, he was unsure if it was the content that intrigued her more or simply his presence. 

“The document was essentially half-transcript, half-commentary on the first galaxy-wide meetings in the Senate, and the new opinions surrounding it."

"Who wrote it?" She interjects. He blinks but doesn't tear his eyes away and toward her.

"A group of people. Transcribers from the conferences, a member of the Jedi Order, and a few prominent Coruscant state senators that oversaw them."

She hums, and from the corner of his eye, he sees her lean closer to him, sighing deeply and letting her eyes flutter as if she was breathing in the most serene scent, and not the smell of smoldering wires and oil. Perhaps in their bubble, if Tech were to take his helmet off and breathe in as well, it smells of roses.

"I cross-analyzed both sections; there weren't any higher conclusions recorded. But by using critical thinking, you can really piece together how disorderly the first few decades of the Republic were." He tries to keep working, but ends up fiddling more than actually working; if he were to complete the task, he'd be done much sooner than he wanted to; especially if it meant he'd have to stop talking to her and their bubble would pop.

"Senators of large Core planets had to try and keep the piece; many outside planets had doubts about the design and future of the Republic to be sound. And even from the beginning, there were rogue planets that refused to join entirely. I guess there were always a few ‘Separatists.’”

The comment makes her chuckle.

“That really is interesting, Tech.”

“It is! In fact I-” He begins before the realization hits him and it shuts his mouth promptly there. He looks at her, just as perplexed as she was before, but more laced with insecurity. “You… find this, interesting?”

She nods as if baffled by his question. 

“If only you had me around before,” She says melancholic and softly. “I find all your interests really cool. And… I like hearing you talk.”

The admission has her flushing furiously, and Tech is too busy trying to compose himself to even kriffing notice. 

“That is… good to know,” he manages to say, giving her an approving, stiff nod before going back to work. His roboticness manages to elicit a sweet giggle out of her, and she sighs into comfortable contentment as he continues talking.

Her heart soars as he keeps going on, even without her explicit request. Even if she isn’t ready to talk, or even tell him about what is going on yet, hearing him gush about his interests certainly simplifies everything in a way that perfectly fills their little world, and makes everything better for as long as they stay.

[mr-entj]

Welcome back Mr. ENTJ. :) ENFJ here with a quest if you don't mind. I hear a lot that "Fe is fake" which I understand where that perspective comes from. If that is a common downside to having Fe (being fake or inauthentic), what would be a common downside to having Fi which seems to be all about authenticity? Thank you for considering my question.

Stubborn and uncompromising. You see it the most in unhealthy FPs (INFP, ISFP, ENFP, ESFP) who have the 'me against the world' / 'I'm an outsider' mentality. The world will not change to accommodate them and they won't change to accommodate the world so it's a stalemate. Hence, uncompromising.

Also, Fe isn't "fake," but unhealthy FJs (ENFJ, ESFJ, INFJ, ISFJ) who are usually enneagram 2s or 9s tend to prioritize the group over the individual, people-please, and avoid conflict. This can lead them to suppress their own wants/needs and mirror other people's opinions for the sake of group harmony. Dealing with these FJs can feel like chewing gum with the wrapper still on-- I can taste a bit of your personality, but it's heavily filtered, dulled, and muted behind a wall of social niceties. Show me who you are when you're alone.

[yiga-hellhole]

TFTK Extended Cut: CHAPTER 2

another bonus chapter to fill in the time between now and chapter 12!! this time featuring midna and fi, bonding over shared worries and shared joys. they are besties :3 this one is casual but still a lot of fun i think. around 5k words under the cut! enjoy!

ao3 mirror HERE!

Midna awoke to the sound of late afternoon bustle outside her tent. Immediately she was greeted with the stubborn burning of the aftermath from almost two weeks before. The scarring on her neck tugged with each breath — now without their stifling bandages, but insistent on bothering her nonetheless. For a moment, she allowed herself to sigh deeply, feeling the tepid air rush into her lungs as she closed her eyes, and lazily fluttering her eyelids back open as it left her. The ceiling of her tent was pitch black, shrouding the inside of her dwelling in the same shade, save for some endearing salt lamps gifted to her by the Gerudo refugees. Mere days ago, they arrived at the Eldin border in droves, having trekked from their desert home and across Hyrule Field to plead for safety with the Princess. Zelda, eager to receive any help, and offer any shelter that could be exchanged in these trying times, welcomed them with open arms. As she had done for every people that came knocking on the castle walls.

The thought of those women scattered through their camp, and how she’d fought for their safety, suddenly snapped her into panicked realization. She quickly looked to her side, before the icy chill of fear could sweat down her back, to find her Fused Shadow placed by her bedside. That loyal helmet proudly displayed itself there, its stone-hewn eye watching over her as she slept. She exhaled, the tension building up leaving her with that very same breath. Just looking upon it made her trace her fingers gently over the bubbly flesh of the scar that now spanned from her upper lip to her cheekbone. If it hadn’t been for her helmet deflecting most of Ghirahim’s knives, that encounter would certainly have cost her a lot more than bits of skin. The camp was safe, for now, but such a priceless artifact could tempt even the purest of souls into getting sticky-fingered. 

Just as she was starting to drift off again, the sound of a chime twinkled through the air outside her tent. One of her guards, who was hushing in idle conversation with her colleague just earlier, announced a visitor. Midna welcomed them in.

A presence, or rather, a lack thereof, gently parted the curtain of her tent. Purple, wing-like flowing drapery peeked past the dark blue fabric. Soundlessly floating inside, the curtain fell back into place again, blocking out the flash of outside light that overpowered the gentle glow of the tapestries for just a moment. Herself now shining a luminescent blue, Fi, Spirit of the Master Sword, had entered.

Midna gave a crooked smile with only the right half of her face. It must have looked a bit strange, but with the scabbed-over gashes pulling at the skin on her face, she took up the habit. “On sick call again, huh?”

A soft sound of chimes emanated from her as she hovered closer to the bed, looking down at her with her big, glazed-over eyes. “Greetings, Princess Midna,” she said. “Your scarring looks favorable. I foresee a 79% chance of your recovery.”

The Twilight Princess snickered a bit solemnly in response and cocked a brow at her. “That’s funny. Yesterday you said 81%.”

Fi did not respond. Her pale expression did not change, but her head tipped slightly downward, avoiding her gaze. It seemed that even the cold and calculating weapon of the Goddess was familiar with the delicate art of lip service. Midna knew very well that she did not look all too good. Her cursed form aside, Ghirahim and Zant had done quite a number on her in their last battle. Demon Blade Ghirahim, with his devious tricks, tainted her face with a barrage of daggers. To make matters worse, that worm of a Usurper managed to leave her with broken ribs and a nasty concussion. Much to her wounded pride, Princess Zelda forbade her to even set foot outside her tent, with her grocery list of injuries. 

The loophole of “I don’t walk, I float,” didn’t do her any favors, either.

So here she lied, every day, condemned to bed rest. Her sole fortune was the frequent visits she got from her fellow lieutenants. She knew none of these people — not truly — except for the young girl they had enlisted as a mage and scout. Little Agitha, one Princess to another, dropped by every other evening for tea, to prattle off about some little insect she’d found in the fields to her ‘Miss Kitty’. Something about it made her nostalgic for a time she shouldn’t be too keen to look back on.

One unexpected comrade she found, was Fi. Technically, the two had traveled together once before, they simply weren’t aware of the fact at the time. To see the mighty Master Sword now hovering by her bedside, her statue-like face in the approximation of a pout, was as jarring as it was endearing.

“You’re just trying to make me feel better, I get it,” Midna sighed, her expression softening. She reached out with her tiny, clawed hand, waving it at Fi’s wing. “Hey. Why don’t you come sit with me? Let’s talk.”

Fi glanced down at her hand, tracking its motions until it slumped onto the mattress. For a moment, Midna thought her request had fallen on deaf ears until the sword spirit twirled in place, and weightlessly sat down on the mattress, like a feather touching down on water. 

“What do you wish to discuss, Your Grace?” Fi inquired, tipping her head to look down at her.

Midna snickered, batting playfully at the cloak that now draped on her mattress within reach. “First things first, drop the formalities. When it’s you and me, I’m just Midna.”

A pause. Fi turned her head to look out in front of her, as if processing something, and then turned back to her. “As you wish. Midna, what shall we talk about?”

So she had to compute that real quick, first? How amusing the sight was, to see a data input happening in real-time, with a real-life automaton. Though the Twilight Realm was filled with pseudo-conscious machines, none were as sophisticated as Fi. Curious, given her thousands of years lagging behind her own time. Or maybe she was not truly a machine at all..? Thinking about it, Midna realized she knew very little about the workings of the sword spirit sitting by her. 

“… Tell me how you met your Link and Zelda,” she asked, looking up at her with a smile. “We have that much in common, right?”

Fi met her smile with her own, though hers was gentle. Timid, almost, uncertain like butterflies deciding upon a flower to perch on. “The art of storytelling in a way that is pleasing to you was not bestowed upon me my design, but I will relay our tale to you to the best of my ability.”

Fi recounted her stories in greatest scrutiny, speaking on and on about scorching arachnids beneath the volcanoes, endless spans of sand wastes, and ships lost at sea. Glassy eyes turned to the black fabric of her tent, she prattled on for what must have been an hour. Still, Midna found herself not minding in the slightest, and simply curled up against her pillow. As contented as she could be, at least, straining against the pressure of her injuries. With the scenes she described almost projecting from her eyes and onto the cloth before her, the peculiar way Fi viewed the world was evident in how she spoke of it. Incredibly specific attributes were carefully logged in her mind, treating every little environmental detail with the same weight as she would the many riveting battles.

“The entrance gate to the next room was forged of steel with curious properties, resisting temperatures of at least 1.100° Celsius…”

As she spoke, the Hyrule of Old seemed as familiar as it seemed strange. Midna knew of the Eldin Volcano, of Faron Woods, but not of the ancient structures she described. 

“A humanoid cephalopod, defying any known taxonomies through its leg-count of approximately thirty-six…”

Fi spoke as though reciting a captain’s logbook, or the research notes of a long-lost scholar. Youthful as she may have seemed, with a face no older than that of a girl in the springtide of her life, her way of speaking betrayed wisdom as old as time itself. Whereas others spun their yarns into warm, if not slightly sloppy scarves, losing stitches and weaving in colors for the flair of it all, Fi constructed a veritable tapestry. 

“… decorated with a central votive statue of a human, deconstructed into a head, torso, and four arms. Its frescoes consisted of patterns depicting the Nymphaea genus, which grew throughout the central pool…”

Such methodical recollections continued on and on, but her tone changed entirely when speaking of the people she’d met along the way. Fi understood material properties, and the angular features of architecture, but in her centuries of isolation, she didn’t come to understand the complexities of mortal lives. But instead of surface-level analyses, when she told Midna about those candid little anecdotes, she described their words and expressions with careful fondness. As if uncertain of what to do with it, or waiting for permission, she cradled and cherished that feeling of friendship as if her very speaking of them could turn those memories to dust. 

As she got to her tale’s end, she turned to Midna again, as if physically shutting out one part of her mind, and turning to the next. It was subtle, but her expression changed, then, a warmth cast over her sapphire complexion. 

“… And as we stood before the Gate of Time, I realized that our mission had come to an end. I said my goodbyes then, to our Link, our Zelda, and parted from them as their Servant. I am certain, however, that I have stayed with them as their friend, even if only in memory.”

Almost exhausted by this extensive tale, Midna cocked her head, meeting that innocent face with a smile. Fi looked back at her, a touch puzzled, as if thinking she’d missed out on some sort of joke. Assuringly, Midna reached out to pat her on the tip of her cloth wing, but retracted soon after the bruising nagged in her ribs. 

Such a veritable tale, with all its twists and bends, yet its fateful, epic ending. A journey crossing continents and threads of time to meet one noble goal, and sealed with the dawn of Hyrule itself. With all the chaos and gloom she herself had endured, something troubling bubbled up in her.

“Honestly,” Midna sighed, resting her head on her hand. “The way you describe your journey makes it sound all clean and plotted out. Completely destined to happen the way it did, yeah? It makes my own journey seem so messy in hindsight. Even stumbling into Link was more of a chance encounter, if anything!”

Fi looked at her once again a little confused, but soon her posture straightened. “Our own quest was not without its perils. You may be mistaken. Simply because it did not appear like it at the time, does not mean the Goddesses did not smile upon you in your efforts to save Hyrule.”

Midna nodded a bit absentmindedly at her words. She wondered if indeed, those residing in the Sacred Realm had any hand in delivering her resolution to her. Would They be so bold, after Their descendants cast her very people into their own prison? Somewhere, she wanted to be convinced that the peace and tranquility the Twili had built there was their own making, even if she herself carried no grudge toward the Golden Goddesses. Fi’s words, forged by Hylia Herself, knitted themselves into unease in the back of her mind.

Right as she was getting lost in thought, the Sword Spirit continued to speak. “… And, even if it was not destiny… The Hero always needs a friend, and I believe you to be a fine choice for a companion, indeed. He was fortunate to have met you.”

Midna found herself tongue-tied for a moment. Even as she spoke, Fi did not part her confronting, azure gaze from her, and she grasped onto it with her own wide-eyed stare. Her words bloomed into a warmth in her stomach, spreading to behind her collarbones, tickling up to her cheeks that split into a wide, toothy grin. A laugh escaped her. 

“Right you are! That idiot would have been toast if it weren’t for me,” she cackled, humming and examining her nails with a smug glee.

Something inexplicable crossed Fi’s expression. Something made the polished surface of her eyes turbulent like the ocean itself, but the emotion lurking between those deep blue mirrors remained but a vague shadow. At least, until she spoke. “I am conflicted. Has Link’s carelessness truly not faded between Cycles?”

Midna scoffed. Faded! What a joke. To decide which of their Links was the most whimsical would have to be decided by coin-flip, and with their luck, the thing would land on its side. “As hare-brained as ever, I’m afraid,” she responded, picking at her teeth with her pinkie nail. Despite her lack of lungs, Fi sighed exasperatedly.

By all means, their merry exchange of pleasantries should have confused the guards outside her tent by now. Fi, by no means, had a reputation of being particularly social, though even Midna had to admit this was for a good reason. It was excessively difficult to smalltalk with her. The sword’s short, matter-of-fact responses essentially fashioned every topic with a ball and chain around the ankle and pushed it off the pier. Still, Midna enjoyed a challenge, and after having dwelled in the realm of queendom for the past years, getting to just chat with someone was a refreshing change of pace. She needed to think about something that wasn’t the crushing burden of war for just a little. By now, Fi had scooted to sit next to her, back to the pillow and one leg swung on the mattress. Her reclining pose was stiff, like a mannequin’s, but this was perhaps her first time ever in a resting position that didn’t involve being embedded in a pedestal. Head rested on the sword spirit’s shoulder, she decided to cut the poor girl some slack, and refrain from commenting.

A yawn escaped her. She was getting drowsy. The dark shrouding her tent reminded her of home; perhaps a little too much so. Such tranquility made (most of) her people mellow, but she wasn’t quite feeling up to heading back to sleep yet. 

She nudged Fi’s waist with the back of her hand.“Actually, can you part the curtain a bit? I want to see what’s going on out there.”

Not turning to look at her, Fi kept her gaze fixed on the opposite wall as she spoke. “Midna, that would be unwise. The sun’s light will impede your recovery.”

“Oh, it’ll be fine. So long as I’m out of direct light I’m good to go,” Midna drawled with a wave of the hand. “Besides, it’s almost evening, isn’t it? They don’t call me the Twilight Princess for nothing.”

Fi nodded, raising herself from her seat through sheer defiance of gravity, and bobbed through the air to open the curtain. A pillar of light split the darkness inside the tent into perfect halves, casting colors on the opposite wall, but left the Twilight Princess untouched. The world was already a drowned, pale crimson, dusk settling comfortably as the sun placed itself upon the horizon like a golden helmet. Fi lingered a moment there, peering outside, before curtsying politely at some unseen group outside the tent.

As the sword spirit returned to sit at her bedside, Midna could now see who was lingering out in the camp. Princess Zelda was accompanied by her most fateful knight, Link, discussing pleasantries with King Darunia, who braced a massive hand on her shoulder in sympathy. No matter the incarnation, it seemed the Princess was doomed to be burdened with trials of calamity. Midna almost seemed ashamed to be laying there so casually, within view of the group, but they soon turned to face her. Shame turned to a chilled comfort as Zelda smiled at her, nodding warmly with her hand crossed over her chest. Link and Darunia, unburdened by such formalities, simply grinned and waved cheerfully. Midna found herself mimicking that very same lightheartedness, rather than the royal, dainty wave her advisors back home tried so hard to imprint on her. Even now, that blond goofball sparked silliness within her, no matter how grave their outlook.

Her hand lowered as they turned back to their conversation. She sighed, her hearty smile turning to bittersweet somberness. “… Hey, Fi. When you look at them, what goes through your head?” Midna asked, speaking without taking her eyes off the group outside. “You’ve been through a lot with them, too, back in your world. Don’t you feel weird around them? It’s them, but… It’s not.”

Fi’s peering at their old, yet new friends, did not linger. Instead, she turned straight to look at her. “What I think of them is not relevant. It is my duty to aid them,” she said. Something about the cold tone in her voice made Midna’s eyelid twitch. After spending all that time telling her about her adventures, did truly nothing strike her, ripped into this strange future world as they were? To be confronted with those same voices, those same smiles, yet to see not a blink of recognition in return?

“It is relevant!” Midna snapped, but quickly faltered. Stonefaced as ever, Fi did not even flinch at the raising of her voice, yet something in the way she stared back at her made guilt drop into her gut like a lead ball. “… I’m sorry. I just want to hear what you have to say. There’s nobody else who can hear me out.”

For a while, Fi was silent and averted her gaze. Figures, Midna thought. Recollecting details from her journey in her own verbose and analytical way suited the Sword Spirit fine, but to ask her opinion on a social matter… From what she’d told her, her Link was her only conversational partner in thousands of years. Maybe it wasn’t right to assume she was comfortable talking about those kinds of things yet. A little remorseful, and about to retract her offer, Midna looked up at her, only to realize just what it was Fi was peering at so intensely.

She had her eyes right on the Fused Shadow.

With her lips curved into a gentle smile, Fi looked to the helmet for just another moment, before turning to Midna again, seemingly having decided exactly what to say. “They are incarnations. Not exactly the people we knew, but not entirely different, either.” 

Fabric brushed over her fingers. Fi had laid her ‘hand’ on hers. 

“They may not be the same, but they retain some memories. Enough to know that they can trust us, Midna.”

She looked at her lap again, her blank expression cracking just a touch. Whatever thoughts and observations she had in mind, she was weighing them off with great care. “When I last saw the Princess, I… Cannot say I am sure, but all her vital signs pointed to a deep worry. She cares for you, Midna. She is not your Zelda, and he is not your Link, but they will fight with you. In this War Across the Ages, nothing is more important.”

Finally, Fi sat up straight, and her wing retracted from her hand. “That is all I have to say.”

At a loss for words once again, Midna stared at her companion, mouth slightly agape. It wasn’t simply the information she’s dropped on her — the incarnations, the retained memories — it was the implication. She didn’t realize how she needed to hear from someone else that something was wrong, that it wasn’t the same, and that there was a disconnect. She didn’t realize how she wanted the comfort of being trusted by those descendants of her dear friends, and how they thought of her fondly despite being near perfect strangers. Above all, she didn’t realize how much she wanted to hear it from Fi, of all people. If even a tool, forged specifically for the mission she undertook, could feel conflicted, yet finally, comforted, by all this, then…

“… Fi?”

Fi’s eyes widened somewhat, having not even flinched for all the time Midna spent staring at her. “Yes?”

Midna sat up slightly, wincing at the slight ache it brought to her ribs, and settled somewhat gravely. “When you get back to your own time, can you do me a favor?”

“That depends on my ability to fulfill your request,” Fi replied, as bluntly as she expected she would.

“Before you return to your slumber inside the Master Sword, or whatever,” she began, fingers curling together in her lap as she sought the right words. “Can you just… Go see your Link and Zelda? Just to see what they’re up to now, and to say goodbye again,” Midna offered, smiling somewhat bittersweetly.

Once again, the intricacies of sentimentality were lost on Fi. Her blank expression was once again truly empty, a state she reverted to whenever her comprehension of mortal matters failed her. “… I apologize. I fail to comprehend your request. I have said my farewells to the Chosen Hero and Incarnated Goddess already, before my reawakening. Furthermore, I do not see how this benefits you. You would not be there to see it.”

“The favor isn’t to benefit me, it’s for you. After all this, you’re going to want to go see them. Trust me.”

Fi cocked her head curiously. That empty expression brought Midna to frustration – or rather, desperation. The weight of being tossed through time and confronted with her friends under threat of the very same force tore at her foundations, and her many walls crumbled. Hiding herself from those incarnations outside behind Fi’s veils, she felt choked by her yearning for her old friends. If she could not, then maybe…

“… Fi, you can go do something that I have no hope of doing ever again. When I crossed into the Realm of Light, the worlds we loved withered before our very eyes. Zelda, Link, and I, we all gave our lives for one another to save it,” Midna started, her hand insistently clutching the fabric of Fi’s wing, as if she could squeeze the understanding into her through her fingers alone. Her voice faltered. “Now, I can never see either of them ever again, and if I were to try to, I’d just risk another maniac like Zant trying to cross over to hurt them and their land. So I beg of you. Please fulfill my wish in my stead. You’ll be glad you did it.”

Fi stared at her wordlessly, empty eyes not parting from hers, until they were no longer empty at all. Instead, that glossy blue suddenly seemed all-encompassing. Midna could only break away from the contact when a light, fluttering feeling cast down upon her hands, and she glanced down to see Fi had placed her other wing to cover hers. A shadow loomed over her, and she looked up at the sword spirit again, who had leaned in with a nod. For the first time, she almost looked somber as she spoke. 

“I understand.”

The room grew quiet. For the past hour, the air was stirred by the constant flow of words, making it feel all the more stagnant when silence did fall. Curiously, Fi also seemed bothered by the tension left by the heavy words they’d just exchanged, and rose from her seat. Fearing she would leave, Midna stammered for a moment, about to extend her hand to halt her, until she noticed Fi simply floated across the tent, idly observing the various knick-knacks she’d displayed around the place. Did boredom make her a touch nervous? 

Midna took the opportunity to reel her back in and relieve her from her shared antsiness. “… So what were you planning to do when you get back otherwise? Just head straight back to sleep?”

Attention captured immediately, Fi hummed thoughtfully, staring down at the floor. She appeared almost giddy, like an adventurous child plotting to sneak away to do something they hadn’t the permission to do. The sight of it almost made Midna want to bully her a bit. “When I turned to my slumber without end, the plans to settle the Hylians back on the surface were not yet underway. If I return, the progress on this development would be fruitful for my logbook, indeed. Though, its proper chronicling will have to be left to the Hylians themselves…”

Midna scoffed and waved her hand. “Oh, don’t be silly with your ‘if’s. You’re the spirit of the Master Sword, you’ll be fine.”

“Indeed. As the Master Sword, I shall prevail,” Fi nodded. She turned fully back to her now, hovering at the foot of her bed. Staring down at her like this, the sheer nobility of that metallic being stirred a feeling of awe inside her. With the rays of the sun shrouding her in a golden veil, Fi truly looked then like the ancient, wisened being that she managed to hide behind a youthful countenance and an odd speech pattern. “The root of my uncertainty lies not with myself, but with our allies. Even if I live on, were we to lose Lana, I would be trapped in this time. As would you.”

Still, one arcane being wouldn’t be moonstruck by another just like that. She leaned her cheek on her hand, considering her words. Lana… She ought to have more words with that woman. It was that blue-haired mage that assisted her in doing away with the then-revived Zant, back when the Twilight Realm was freshly ripped into this future world. That baseline of trust could use some expanding upon. “… I see. You got it all plotted out, don’t you?”

“Indeed. Our chances are not hopeless, but they seem to dwindle with every battle.”

Midna looked up at her and frowned. Once again, the people she swore to protect were dropping like flies, and once again, she was powerless to do anything against it. “… Yeah, and here I am, laying in bed. Doing nothing at all!”

Fi leaned closer to her, face blank, yet her sheer energy buzzed with something stern. “You are recovering. Without your full strength, you would simply perish. Focus on your rest, and join us again at the battlefield at your full potential.”

For a moment, Midna pouted, her fang protruding defiantly from her lips. But then, she peered back into the eyes that hovered so close to hers, and she realized something. 

“You’re sounding just like Zelda,” she grinned.

Fi nodded dryly, fully intending to take her words as a compliment at face value. “She is wise beyond her years. I’m honored to be influenced by her.”

Midna let out a laugh, squinting her eyes shut and smacking her hand on the mattress. For just a moment, she could ignore the deep ache that burned through her ribs, completely overshadowed by the fond company of her friend. “Yeah, yeah. Forget I said anything!’

After all the time they’d spent, one giggling, and the other intrigued, eager to understand, yet not fully capable of it, it had to come to an end. The rattle of metal and stomping of feet outside alerted the pair of someone of certain esteem approaching the tent, and indeed, heavy footfall stopped outside the tent, shy of entering through the parted curtain. An imposing shadow was cast inside, but Midna had grown far too familiar with the figure it belonged to, to be even slightly intimidated.

“Lady Midna,” spoke a voice like the cracking of a whip. “May I enter?”

Midna perked up. Impa was inviting herself in. “Oops. That’s your cue, bluebird,” she giggled, fondly patting on the wing that was laid by her. “Our General wants to interrogate me, I’ll bet.”

Fi looked down at the contact, and cocked her head. “I understand,” she spoke with a nod, and slowly levitated to rise. “Then, I wish you luck. May Lady Impa be merciful to you. I thank you for your invitation to converse with me. It was… Fun.”

Though her eyes did not move, the sword spirit’s lips, smooth like polished tourmaline, cracked into a gentle smile.

“Hey, Fi. Before you leave,” Midna interrupted her before she could float away, a hand extended. Fi looked over her shoulder. “Think about what I said, yeah? You won’t regret it.”

Fi nodded. Time and time again, people around camp have hushed whispers about the sword spirit. How she was off-putting and robotic, lacking any kind of emotion. Midna believed not a shred of it. In her own way, Fi told the world how she felt, even if she did so in ways organic beings wouldn’t understand. It wasn’t like she had put up walls for people to break through. Midna was taken aback, then, by how incredibly open Fi was, and how easily the two confided in one another. She just had to know where to look to understand what the odd girl wanted to convey. Between two strange, otherworldly beings, a chord had been struck. Midna was rambunctious and loud, while Fi was decidedly more reserved, but in a way, both wore their hearts on their sleeves. An odd warmth sprang into her chest as she saw the blue spirit glittering in the light of the setting sun, her own sapphire glow drowning out the golden hue cast upon her. The light went straight through her when she looked back at her, a gentle smile pulling at the corners of her lips. 

“I foresee my likelihood of fulfilling your request to be… Favorable. Goodbye, Midna. May you fulfill that 79% percent with strength and grace.”

[mimisempai]

Do you think Crowley has stronger feelings for Aziraphale then Aziraphale has for Crowley? Or do you think maybe Crowley can accept he likes Aziraphale while Aziraphale is still having a difficult time processing his emotions? It seems to me that Crowley has been open about wanting to leave and just be with Aziraphale. I hope is season 3 Azi can recognize his feelings and accept them 💖

Thank you, dear Nony, for the question. I'm not a meta-specialist at all. My analysis of such things is much more on an emotional level and my thoughts are not the most structured. So I apologize in advance if this answer is a bit of a mess.

I've often seen: "Aziraphale fell first and Crowley fell harder".
 Yes and no. They're different, so I think their feelings manifest differently. For me, the first spark for Aziraphale was at the first meeting and for Crowley it was on the wall. And in perfect reflection. Aziraphale was fascinated by this angel who was so passionate and dare to question God. Crowley intrigued by this angel who has dared to give his flaming sword and thus steps off the trail. With that wonderful mirror scene of one protecting the other with his wing.

I think that for each of them, the feelings have been there for a very long time, but for different reasons, both are in perfect denial. And the more I think about it, the more I believe that the strength of their feelings is similar. The problem is that each of them is blinded by the strength of those feelings. Whether it's one or the other, they want what they think is best for the other, they want the other's happiness. For Crowley, it's running away from everything that has to do with heaven and hell. For Aziraphale, it's giving Crowley back what he lost.

The second problem is that everything has become urgent because of Metatron. Neither has the time to move forward, and neither is willing to listen to the other. They're both stubborn because they each believe they hold the key to the other's happiness. That's why it's so heartbreaking. To me, it's most obvious when they're both up against the wall, desperately trying to convince the other. Crowley: "Just the two of us.

Aziraphale: "I need you."

For me, it's them saying desperately "I love you."

****

As I said at the beginning, it's a bit of a mess. But I hope I've answered your question. One thing's for sure, they love each other.

[spaceorphan18]

Hi! I have a question about your fanfic Head Over Feet (it’s really good by the way). What made you decide to have Blaine be the one who is married with a husband who is very different to Kurt, while Kurt struggles to commit to a serious relationship?

Hi! Thanks for the question, Nonny, with as much Glee conversation as I get, I don't usually get things that discuss my writing, so I really appreciate the question!!

Also, just in case anyone is worried, yes, I am still working on it. I was working on the chapter the other day. I know I've been a little sidetracked (oops) but I promise, it's a passion project I'm still planning on finishing. :)

So, first of all, the structure of Head Over Feet is a mirror to Season 6, and my intention was to implement a lot of the characteristics and plot points that Season 6 had. One of those elements is that Blaine is (seemingly) in a committed relationship. While Kurt kind of flounders because his no matter how hard he tries, his heart is already at a fixed point.

I also liked to imagine what kind of place Blaine and Kurt would be ten/fifteen years down the road had they not had each other.

One of the elements of Blaine's character is that he did want to be married. And yes, in the show, he wants to be married to Kurt. But there was a romantic ideal about marriage in general. It is a big deal for him, and a goal he wanted to achieve. And I think a Blaine without Kurt would still try to latch on to someone who held those same ideals. I think Blaine -- finding someone who would be good enough -- would jump at the chance at marriage, whether it was truly the right person or not.

And... I'd like to point out that -- there's this kind of misconception about relationships sometimes. That they only have meaning if it's your one true person soul mate, etc, etc, etc. And I don't necessarily think that's true. I think Blaine and Sean's marriage helped Blaine heal in a lot of ways -- in the way that I actually think Blaine's relationship with Karofsky helped him heal.

Blaine being married to someone else, and for so long, will forever remain a part of him. He won't regret being in that marriage, and Sean will have always had an impactful moment in his life, even if the two of them get divorced.

Like the show -- I wanted Blaine to have some time to mature and grow and learn how to be in a functional relationship that didn't need to the epitome of perfect. And even as it ends, Blaine and Sean end on good terms, the same way Blaine and Karofsky ended on good terms. It was an important relationship at the moment, but it isn't the most passionate, the most love filled, the most soul searching relationship. And that's okay.

I also want to point out, I did subtly throw in a nod to Kurt. Sean is a fashion designer for Broadway. That was completely intentional, and while Sean is a lot different (I think Blaine wanted to move away from someone with the same personality) there are ways we keep finding the same people, and Sean's profession was one of those ways.

(Also - as an aside, I purposely made Sean a big and bulky guy - somewhat to mirror Karofsky, and also because Blaine would choose someone who didn't remind him of Kurt.)

Likewise, I intentionally made Ian (Kurt's bf) a professional piano player as a nod to Kurt finding someone who had nods to Blaine.

So, on the flip side we have Kurt. Kurt is one stubborn guy -- and he did a serious, serious relationship when he was younger and decided that he would not do that again. He is very, very protective of his own heart, and he has no desire to ever put himself through that pain again. So he walls himself up and plays it safe by making sure he never gets in too deep with someone else. If he lets someone else in, there is always the possibility that his heart would break into a thousand pieces again when he and Blaine broke again. And consciously or not, he won't go through it again.

This is also a Kurt who didn't deal with the fact that he made a hasty mistake in calling off the wedding. He firmly believed he wouldn't get married until he was thirty. Didn't believe that marriage would work. And if he gave in, if he allowed someone in his space and in his heart, he'd have to face up to the fact that he fucked up. And he spends a lot of time trying to reconcile that his head and his heart are in two different places.

Much like Season 6, though, Kurt is quicker to return to Blaine than vice versa.

The thing about Klaine is this... Back in season 2 and 3, Kurt had an almost blind faith that his relationship with Blaine would work and Blaine had doubts, and then they ended up breaking up because Kurt didn't realize he had to put in work in his relationship, and Blaine didn't trust it enough. By the time Season 6 comes along, it's clear that the dynamic had flipped. Blaine had too much faith that marriage would fix all their issues, and Kurt was the one who had doubts -- because his heart had been broken before.

So, I wanted to take that dynamic and layer it onto the fic. Kurt figures out that he doesn't have doubts - that he knows Blaine is the one and he knows it'll be hard work. While Blaine learns that he needs to be skeptical and take his time to rebuild.

The upcoming part of the fic -- the last five/six chapters deal with this... and it's something I wish they had done more of during the actual show. In coming back together, it doesn't necessarily solve the issues they began with, so now that they are able to have a relationship again -- how do they fix what was broken before? How do they make sure it's the right fit this time and that it doesn't break. So that's the trajectory of the final chapters.

Anyway... I suppose that kind of scratches the surface of your question, Nonny! Characterization is very important to me, and I wanted to make sure I was making logical progressions of the characters in a post-Season 5 world where they didn't return to each other, while reflecting on elements we see in Season 6 only set 10 years down the road.

I hope that all makes sense! Thanks for the question, I always enjoy chatting about writing! :)

[johnwickb1tsch]

The Night Nurse - Ch 7

A John Wick x Helen Fic

When nurse Helen Morgan is caught in the crossfire of a shootout and aids the injured John Wick, she’s faced with two options: serve the High Table, or be executed as a Witness. She tells herself her choice to work at the Continental has everything to do with survival, and excellent pay, and *not* her growing feelings for the Tall, Dark, and Handsome Assassin™ who got her into this mess in the first place, thank you very much. │ Masterlist / Chapter Map │

VII.

“You did good,” he complimented.

“I did good?” she scoffed. “That was like a movie. Is your life always like this?”

He thought a little bit about that while turning onto the ramp to the highway. “More or less.”

He didn’t get shot at in broad daylight very often. Usually his opponents were smarter than that. More discreet, at the very least.

Luckily, no blue and white sirens appeared in his rear view. There were certain cops in the area who would recognize his car and not pay his hijinx much mind, unless they absolutely had to. More likely though, he’d simply outrun any sluggish response the city might have offered.

Unless Igor and Alexei could get their ride flipped back over, he had a feeling they would be having an annoying little chat with the fuzz. The thought made him feel slightly better, though his overall sense of resignation didn’t subside. The fact of the matter was, they had shot at him, and that was a thing John Wick the Baba Yaga couldn’t let slide.

He would have to do something about it. That was a fact of their world. Any sign of weakness would be pounced upon. Usually this was a thing he would have dealt with quickly and efficiently, but…he didn’t want to go hunting that evening. He wanted to make dinner for this beautiful woman beside him, and linger over a bottle of good wine. Usually self-discipline wasn’t an issue for John, but this once, just this once…

The rest of the trip was uneventful—as uneventful as driving in the Big Apple could ever be. However, John didn’t really relax until the city views gave way to the pastoral, the landscape shifting from the angular grays and browns of buildings to the welcome softer lines and greens of early spring. It was about an hour’s trip, all in all, and Helen looked around curiously as they motored up his manicured driveway, slipping into the garage.

“Wow,” she said quietly as they went through the mudroom to the kitchen, the cavernous open living area filled with natural light from the wall of windows. “So modern.”

“I guess so,” John shrugged, dropping his keys in the bowl on the counter.

“It’s definitely not what I would have pegged for you,” she admitted as she stood on the cusp of the living room, looking around. There was no negativity in her words, more a statement about her own perceptions of him.

John joined her in looking around, curious if there was something he’d missed.

“What would you have guessed?”

“Something darker, maybe. More traditional. You seem to gravitate towards classics.” From his suits to his taste in books to his vintage car, he supposed she wasn’t wrong, and thus far those were the only things she knew of him.

With hands in his pockets he looked around. He realized he was about to share something he’d never told anyone; it came so naturally, with her. “I only realized this a few months after moving in…but I think I bought a luxury version of the Soviet orphanage I grew up in.”

He thought back on the cold concrete building that had been home for years of his young life in Belarus. The hard angles, the utilitarian design. Ugly, but cheap to build in a pinch when housing was needed for the numerous parentless children of the USSR.

This home took those design principles and made them into something beautiful. In this rich country, the most basic modern building materials of concrete and steel were transformed into luxurious commodities for the rich. It mirrored his own transformation in a way. The hungry but stubborn child, ragged but determined to survive—and now, a man of means, living comfortably. The American Dream, or some version of it.

She turned back to regard him, compassion in her eyes. He hadn’t imparted the information to garner sympathy; it was just the truth. She had a way of bringing it out of him. He realized he wanted her to know him. The real him, outside of the legend she’d been gossiped to about at the Continental.

But rather than coo over him, you poor thing, I’m so sorry, she simply canted her head. “So, this house is like your ‘Fuck you’ to Communism?”

It was also the exact opposite of the shabby elegance, the opulent but crumbling ormolu mouldings and dark enclaves of the Tarkovsky theatre, another place he did not miss.

He smiled a little, in spite of himself. “Yeah. Something like that.”

She nodded, looking around with approval. “Nice. So, you like it, then?”

He looked through the windows, across the expanse of his yard to the tree line. Beyond that, there was a glimmer of water in the distance. The travails of the city were a distant dream there. He’d bought this house under the name of a shell corporation; one could not easily look up where John Wick lived in the real estate records. It truly was a sanctuary. And now, for the first time, in fact, a beautiful woman was standing in his kitchen, looking through him with her wise, bright, eyes. It made this place feel like a home more than any couch or table or painting, and he wondered what it would take to convince her to stay.

“Yeah. It’s peaceful.”

“I’m happy for you, John.”

Strangely enough, he believed her. After that, he didn’t know where he got the cheek to tease her. “Thanks, for not calling me a rich asshole to my face.”

She rolled her eyes. “Just for that, I’m going to make you carry my bag.” Hefting the thing, she handed it over.

“Oof. What’s in this? Bricks?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” With an insouciant look over her shoulder, she began to wander down the hall like she owned the place. Allowing himself a borderline dopey smile with her back turned, John made to follow.

***

“I think we’ll start with the basics. Do you know how to throw a punch?”

Helen placed a hand on a spandex-clad hip, one eyebrow raised high. “Do I give the impression I grew up on the yuppy side of Boston? I’ve been in a scrap or two.”

They were in his home gym, a large room he used to exercise and train, and he was fairly certain the sight of her in form-fitting yoga clothes was going to be the death of him.

The corners of John’s mouth turned up, delighted by her sass, as usual. “Yeah? Have I got a juvenile delinquent on my hands here?” He couldn’t fathom a young Helen getting up to much, in the grand scheme of things. Shoplifting. Possession. The usual mischief teenagers amused themselves with. He’d been running guns by the time he was fourteen. Killed for the first time when he was sixteen. Most teen misdeeds paled, in comparison.

As soon as the words left his mouth Helen froze.

After a few awkward seconds she remarked, “Did Winston tell you?” There was a strain in her words, and he knew he’d stuck his foot in it somehow. Sighing heavily, she looked off to the punching bag hanging in the corner of the room, avoiding his eyes. “That man is a terrible gossip.”

“Tell me what?” asked John, feeling like things had jumped from point A to point F and he’d missed everything in between.

Helen, however, kept skipping ahead, talking to herself as much as him. “I wondered if that was why you mentioned blade training today. The record’s supposed to be sealed, but I guess he has his ways of finding things out.”

“I…am completely lost here,” admitted John, and only then did she look at him again. “Did you stab someone?” The suggestion seemed ludicrous, but Helen’s frown conveyed a multitude of words.

“Would you believe me if I told you he had it coming?” 

To his credit, only a beat passed before John answered, “Absolutely.”

“That's something, I guess.” 

“Give me a name.” It was becoming a theme with them.

“I would...but he's dead.” John’s eyebrows lifted at that. “I didn't kill him,” she quickly amended. “But...I would have. Still think I'm such an angel?”

He could tell that the possibility that he might think less of her hurt her.

“Yes,” he answered, unequivocally.

“Well. You do kill people for a living…” She tried to muster a smile, but it was an extremely watered-down version of her usual radiant offering. “I don’t think you enjoy it though.”

“No.” It was true. He thrived on the adrenaline of completing a difficult task—but the actual killing brought him neither joy nor much pain, these days. He’d numbed himself to it. “Did you enjoy…what you did?” He had to admit this was not a conversation he’d ever expected to have with this woman.

She crossed her arms over herself, sighing again. “In a way?” A nervous little laugh escaped her. “God, I’ve never told anyone this before.”

John simply waited, patient as the mountain.

“I guess I should give you some context.”

“Only if you want to.” What he’d meant to be a playful comment had turned into an ordeal for her, and he loathed himself for it. This was what he got for trying to flirt.

She nodded, more to herself than him. “My father died when I was in my early teens. My mom...was a drunk and an addict. It got so much worse after Dad was gone. Some of the men she brought home were very aware of the fact that she was a train wreck with two young girls in the house. Luckily I was older by then, but my sister…” She grimaced, and even after so many years, the flash of rage in her eyes could have started a wildfire. “I caught my mom’s boyfriend trying to corner my little sister in the kitchen. So I stabbed him with a kitchen knife. And in the heat of the moment…it felt good. I hated him. He was creepy and horrible and it felt so good to hurt him.”

John wanted to hold her in that moment, yet he could tell she didn’t want to be touched just then. He understood that all too well, so he simply nodded. “You did what you had to do to defend her.”

“I guess.”

“I think you’re amazing.”

There was a broken note to her laughter. “I know he deserved it. But I think in a way I’ve been trying to make up for what I did to that awful man my whole life. Nothing like Catholic guilt to make a bad situation worse, huh?”

“I wouldn’t know.” He thought for a moment about this information she’d offered up like a confession, eyes lowered. He had a feeling she meant it as a warning, but he couldn’t take it as such. He knew what true evil looked like. He saw it in the mirror every day. This woman was not it. “I do know that your sister is very lucky to have you for a protector. I never had anyone who would have done that for me.”

She took a deep breath, her long fingers holding her throat as she looked at the ceiling, picturing the conditions he’d endured as a child. The thought of him as a scrappy little dark eyed boy with hair in his eyes, fighting for the meagerest crust of bread, lodged her heart directly in her throat. Her voice came barely a whisper. “Was it as awful as I’m imagining it was?”

  “Probably. But my point is…don’t blame yourself for doing what had to be done to survive. For your sister to survive. Blame your mother, if you have to blame anyone.”

That brittle laughter came again that broke John’s heart. “Oh…I do.” She swiped at a tear that escaped the corner of her eye. “Jesus, I’m sorry. Enough pity party. Teach me how to kick some ass.”

And just like that, she was back. He’d always known it in a way, but he found himself more convinced than ever that this woman was tough as nails beneath her warm exterior. Somehow, despite what had happened to her, she had not let the world turn her bitter or mean. That took a strength that John could barely fathom. He felt that he had survived the traumas of his youth out of pure spite. Spite for his captors, and his tormentors, and the dark world he owed fealty to through no real choice of his own. He’d killed and killed until he’d carved out an existence for himself that slightly resembled freedom.

But Helen—she resisted, and kept her heart full all the while, and he’d never admired her more than in that moment. This woman was precious, and he wanted to make sure she had the tools to fight anyone or anything that might dare try to quash that light. It was possible he’d never realized how much he’d numbed himself to the horrors of the world, until she’d entered his life. Now he felt everything to the power of ten. Desire. Fear. Rage. The thought that someone might even dare hurt her made him want to burn the world down. He knew it was crazy, but now that the box had been opened—he didn’t know how to put it all back.

He was realizing there was no going back, and if he’d had any sense left to his name, that would have scared him.

***

He knew it would take a lot more practice for this multitude of information to sink in, but hours later he was proud of Helen’s focus. She absorbed information like a sponge. She was already no stranger to the workings of the human body. As it turned out, taking it apart was almost easier than healing it. He showed her how to attack the vulnerable pressure points in a man’s body. The underarms, the throat, the eyes, the groin. How to break from certain holds on the wrist and how to turn joint locks against them. How to use an opponent’s momentum or own bodyweight against them, so it didn’t matter if they outmuscled you, if surprise was on your side.

Despite his earlier faux pas, he taught her some blade work too. As a student of anatomy, she already knew where the most vulnerable arteries were. The femoral in the leg, the carotid in the neck. The wrists weren’t bad either, and the belly would certainly usually make an aggressor pause and evaluate their life choices. With a small knife concealed in her pocket, he felt comfortable that she could do almost more serious damage than with a gun. He already knew exactly which one from his collection he would be sending with her. 

He would have been a liar, if he’d claimed it didn’t move him to be in such close proximity with her. Touching her. Even if with such a specific purpose in teaching her how to defend herself, there was a titillation he hadn’t anticipated. Training had always been about survival. Now, after they had been at it all day with only a short lunch break, exhaustion and maybe a lowering of guard was setting in.

“One more time, then we’ll call it,” he insisted.

Helen answered with a pout of lips that played hell with his resolve. “But I’m tiiiired.”

“I know. You’ve done great, and I’m proud of you. Kick my ass one more time.”

“Yeah, right.”

She looked him up and down, taking in his lean form, the corded muscles of his arms deliciously bare in his black sleeveless shirt. He’d been slowly driving her mad throughout this training session. It took every iota of her concentration to focus on what he was trying to teach, with those large hands touching her. To not utterly melt, like in every delightfully bad bosom-buster romance she’d ever read. She’d known John was strong, in theory. He had to be, to do what he did. However, it was quite another matter to experience that inexorable strength first hand, even while she knew he was being exceedingly gentle.

“It will make me feel better about unleashing you back onto the world.” He couldn’t watch her back 24/7, as much as maybe he would have liked to.

“Ok. One more, then I will be officially pooped.” They assumed the position, the way they had countless times that day, John standing close at her back with his arm around her waist, his other hand resting lightly at her throat. After several seconds Helen released a shaky breath. Centering herself, John reasoned. Reviewing her options. Probably not enjoying the fleeting moment of closeness, the way he was, because he was a sick bastard.

The moments of stillness stretched on, their awareness of each other amplified by this exquisite nearness.  

“Are you going to do something about this?” He didn’t mean to whisper it. He really didn’t. But she was so close, and her scent of sweat and that sweet honeyed herbal soap drove him to the edge of sanity.

In answer Helen leaned back slightly, closing the line of their bodies that were damp with sweat from the day’s exertions. Nerves he didn’t even know he had came to attention, leaving him painfully aware of this woman in his arms. He held her weight effortlessly, his grip tightening of its own accord about her waist.

He never wanted to let her go.

She turned her head, their lips agonizingly close to touching. One hard intake of breath was all that stood between them. Time seemed to slow to a crawl. “You make it hard to want to get away,” she answered in equally hushed tones, as though they were in a church, and not the place where he daily honed his deadly trade.

“Helen…” He didn’t know what he was asking for, in saying her name like prayer. Benediction, absolution, or damnation.

She touched the tip of her nose to his lightly, experimentally. How well they fit. John Wick was not a man to give in to nerves, but he realized his hand on her throat shook ever so slightly.

He’d never wanted anyone, the way he wanted her.

Her eyes fell to his mouth, a tell as to her thoughts if ever there was one.

Then her gaze dropped lower, and those beautiful eyes went wide as saucers. “Shit, you’re bleeding!” A smear of tell-tale red glistened across his shoulder.

The magic of the moment shattered like glass on stone as she turned in his arms, all business as she wrenched back the shoulder of his shirt to see. “You’ve pulled your stitches. I was afraid this would happen. John…you are a hazard.” The exasperation in her tone was mostly endearing.

Indeed, the newest wound on his shoulder had opened a little. Blood seeped from the small tear in his flesh, running down his pectoral.

“Sorry.”

She shook her fist up at him, though her smile belayed any ill feeling. “Well, you wanted to know what was in my bag. It’s mostly the Costco-size first aid kit I’ve put together for hanging around with you.”

“Lucky me.” He tried not to betray his disappointment, still feeling as though live electricity crackled over his skin, desire tying his insides up in knots. This woman would be the end of him. It took everything he had not to grab her up and kiss her silly, his noble intentions and his pulled stitches be damned.  

“We’ll see. Alright, where’s my operating room? Bathroom? Kitchen?”

“How about…the dining room.”

“Okay, it’s your furniture.”

“I’m not bleeding that much.” He certainly wasn’t bleeding enough to want to stop what they had been about to do.

Maybe there was something wrong with him.

This was probably for the best, but why did it have to hurt so much? Worse than his wound, by far.

“Lead the way.”

<<CHAPTER 6 CHAPTER 8>>

[miguelsfangservice]

BEYOND THE SPOTLIGHT III

Pairing: Miguel O'hara x F!Famous Idol Reader

Warnings: Angst/comfort, fame has caused reader a lot of pressure and insecurities.

Summary: It doesn't matter he's at HQ trying to keep the multiverse afloat, your face, your voice, your smile and laugh follows him everywhere.

No, he is not losing it (yet); it's just that it’s kind of inevitable when most spiders under his command are... how did Gwen called it? Ah-staning you?

Well, he can't really complain, it's his girlfriend, after all.

PART I, PART II, PART III

“I’m telling you, he’s been seeing someone” Peter chants while gently bouncing Mayday on his arms, trying to soothe her enough to fall asleep. “That or there’s something super shady going on with him”

“Why are those the only two options for him according to you?” Jessica questions, raising an eyebrow.

“Those are the extremes of all the situations I could imagine for Miguel.”

“Him dating someone is something extreme for him, Peter, really?”

“Ok, you know what?” he rolls his eyes, and looks at Jess completely offended by her refusal to help him figure out what’s happening with their boss. “If he’s not seeing anyone, his behavior is still kind of worrying, don’t you think? Like, even while talking about all the stressing stuff about our work, he seems worried about something else. Miguel does NOT worry about anything else BUT work, Jess. You gotta admit that.”

“It’s just…” she whispers, looking away from Peter, unsure. “It feels kind of out of character from him, don’t you think?”

“I guess so, but maybe he got tired of…you know, the loneliness of the job.” Peter says looking down to see Mayday finally asleep, he smiles and thinks about his friend, of how much he would like to have something like what him and Jess have. “He deserves to have someone who’s there for him when he goes home.”

Jess smiles, thinking about her family, about the warmth that comes after a long day saving her New York and other universes.

“We should ask hi—”

“We clearly need to spy on him”

❃❃❃❃

Miguel entered the apartment with a heavy sigh, feeling the weight of the night's events on his shoulders, it’s been hours and the sun is starting to rise in the horizon, but there’s still some left-over adrenaline. All he wants is to get on the bed and hug you, he knows both need that.

The sight of the scattered clothes in the bedroom and half-finished breakfast worries him. Everything your company (specially that annoying manager of yours) is making you do isn’t healthy, it’s going to harm you sooner or later and he needs to find a way to stop it.

Miguel is used to deal with a hundred Peter Parker’s stubbornness, he knows his way around most of them…but with someone who mirrors his own stubbornness? No way in hell that, if he tried to dissuade you to leave the company, it would go well between the two.

Besides, this is his first relationship in years. He doesn’t want to mess this up, he needs you so bad to the point Miguel feels like he could die if anything were to go wrong, separating you from him.

It’s not healthy, he’s aware of that.  But years of trauma and solitude had taken their toll in several aspects of his life, especially in the relationship-love department.

He broodingly picks up the clothes and finishes your breakfast, then goes to bed and tries to get some sleep…tries and tries for what feels like hours, but he can’t stop thinking about you.

You were probably exhausted, hungry and stressed out of your mind.

Miguel looks at the clock on the wall, at 1:00 p.m. he knows you get your one and only break of the day. Miguel can visit you then, bring you some food and try to cheer you up, maybe if he’s nice enough with godawful Ashley she could let him stay for the rehearsals.

It’s not a secret that Miguel despises her and he knows you do too, so, it makes him feel a bit guilty to think that, out of all the people in your and his life, Ashley is the one who knows about your relationship.

You had told him it would make it easier for him to get into the building if she knew, instead of having him sneaking around after long exhausting days saving the multiverse.

Deep down, he recognized the same could apply to his people at the HQ. Especially Jess and Peter, who could probably give him decent relationship advice.

With those thoughts on his mind, he changed clothes, took the keys of the apartment and headed to your workplace.

❃❃❃❃

Ashley leads him through the building, trough tons of hallways covered in mirrors.

“Dios, qué asfixiante es este lugar.” ( God, this place is so suffocating) He mumbles.

“Hm?”

Miguel politely smiles and shakes his head. Ashley keeps walking in front of him.

She kept talking about how much your effort was benefiting the company, backhanded praises and just saying stuff Miguel felt bitter about, he knew that even if she was telling him good things about you, she did not mean them, Miguel was aware of how bossy and cruel she could be to you if her demands were not reached.

“If only your girl could up her game, you know?” she was using an upbeat tone, but Miguel was not stupid, he could sense pettiness in her voice.” Lose some weight and be on time she could ready for something more.”

Miguel couldn’t help but scuff and clench his fists.

“I think we both know she’s already more without any of what you mention she supposedly needs to do.” Miguel's response was laced with a sharp edge, his tone far from the usual 'normal citizen Miguel' as you liked to call it. Instead, it resembled the 'mean boss Miguel' that you sometimes reprimanded him for when he took annoying calls from Peter. “She has prepared herself for this her whole life, she’s more than ready for it, she’s already doing more than enough, wouldn’t you say?”

He kept walking, Miguel could see the door to the rehearsal room so he decided to ignore her silence and the few seconds Ashley stopped right on her tracks, watching him walk away from her.

Miguel was about to knock on the door, your sweaty and exhausted self-opened the door. Your eyes grew big and a smile started to appear on your chapped lips; Miguel tried to offer you a warm smile, but seeing how pale and absolutely tired you were clenched his heart, his mind aching to do something, anything to take you away from this place.

“Miggy, what are you doing here?”

“I thought maybe we could find some nice place to eat on your break, cielo.” He can feel Ashley’s presence behind him and he confirms she has catch up with him when your eyes divert to her.

“I’m sorry, love. I- I have to finish this one, but we could eat together tonight, right?” you whisper, your gaze nervously diverting to Ashley. Miguel looks over his shoulder and catches your manager practically giving you a death glare before shifting her attention to Miguel and forcing a tight smile.

Miguel had enough.

“You did not finish your breakfast and barely got any sleep” he hisses. Miguel does not intend to make you think he’s angry with you, but his anger towards the situation is threatening to overtake his rational side and with all the bitterness he can muster without fully showing his anger he says: “Even Ashley here can tell with how pale and shaky you are, although it wouldn’t be convenient for her to admit it.”

“I don’t think I like whatever nonsense you’re implying here” Ashley retorted, her face red with contained anger.

“You know exactly what I’m saying here, stop manipulating her!”

“Miguel, enough! I’m fine! I’m not even hungry—”

“You need to understand, you may not be feeling bad right now, but if you keep this up it’s going to do more damage than good, you know that, right?” Miguel softens his voice, moving closer to you.

He feels his stomach drop when you step away from him.

“Cielo, this place, this people” he almost hisses those words, pointedly looking at Ashley. “Cannot be the only way to get what you want, please…I’ll help you find a way, trust me with this. You’re talented, hard worker—”

“Stop” you whisper, you don’t even have the energy to stop your tears. You look around and there’s people looking at the scene now.

“You are enough, love. Don’t let them tell you otherwise just so they can fill their bags with money!”

You can hear the desperation in his voice, his eyes pleading. But it’s all too much, his words, the whispers of those who know nothing about you, about Miguel… and the relentless stare of Ashley, of this damn company that gave a nobody like you a chance to fulfill your dreams.

Overwhelmed, you felt the emotional weight of the moment bearing down on you.

“Leave, Miguel, please”

Your heart hurts at Miguel’s utterly devastated face. Even with the mental fog the stress is giving you, you are quick to regret your words, he was only trying to help, and while this wasn't the best approach, you know feelings are hard for him.

Miguel composes himself, gives you a nod and starts walking away.

“Miggy, wait—.”

“You need to leave too.”

You turn to look at Ashley, to people who didn’t know her, the expression on her face denoted nothing…but most of your day was spend with her and you knew that look.

Not only were you frightened, but you also felt completely humiliated, you felt like a child being scolded by its mother.

How in the world could you end up like this?

Behind Ashley, you look at your reflection.

Really looked at your reflection, for the first time, not to judge your body or your dance moves, but to actually see what they were making of you.

You felt a familiar warmth engulf your tiny hand compared to his. Looking up, you saw Miguel looking at Ashley solemnly, you imagined this was the expression he made when he gave orders to the hundreds of heroes under his command.

“Let’s go, cielo. You need to rest.”

❃❃❃❃

A/N: I'm so sorry this took me so long! I was having a hard time writing this cuz I didn't know what direction i wanted all of this to take. But I hope everyone can enjoy this! I'll love to hear your thoughts!

[sanctamater]

@hoboblaidd; continued from x.

The cold here is different. Older, stranger – it seeps beneath her furs and velvet, settles against her bones. It feels like a death she had avoided, an end she had never faced; and while the walls and stone of Skyhold are not the ones she had grown in; the land is. And the land, like her, remembers; scars of the Blight and all it had wrought still linger – mirrored in the sky; in her own expression; solemn. The good lady looks as though she belongs at a funeral. Perhaps she is already at one.

When the sainted mother thinks of who she might have been, the image is as fogged as her reflection is; distant, unknowable – and no matter how often she wipes at the glass, it never clears; what ifs and could have beens scattered in the earth before her with no open grave to rest in – and though that girl ( that woman ) never existed, Maker – she is too afraid to turn to face what ( who ) she has become; shaped by a dozen different hands, her own too; raw and aching in her gloves. Scrub at something hard enough, and one day it may be clean; but the dirt under her nails is as stubborn as she is.

Most days, she works. For a great cause, she tells herself ( others, too ); a noble cause – something far bigger than any before; buried under paperwork and shipping manifests. It keeps her busy. Too busy to think, to remember; and here she can do nothing but – a moment to breathe in the quiet of the garden. Damp earth, rainwater; incense from the Sisters of the Chantry lit for both the alive and the fallen. Often, she thinks of Elizabeth. Thinks of others, too – nameless faces she cannot quite remember but had been wronged by her all the same; from matters of business to matters of the heart. As with all things, she holds on too tightly – and the familiar rhythm of the Chant does little to soothe her. A breath – in, and out. When she opens her eyes again, she sees him – another lone figure in a place that has become both sanctuary and social. The inner circle has eluded the good lady – though she has not sought it out. How unlike her ( or, perhaps, like her ); to be so removed from the centre of society ( if this could be called society ) was, certainly, unlike her. A self-imposed punishment for a myriad of sins she did not have the strength to give name to. She was, after all, here to serve – and if she did happen to make coin in the process; well – that would do. Solas, she thinks. That must be his name. Apostate usually followed soon after as though the word were a blade itself; and while the good lady knows that many still scorn mages who live outside of the bounds of a Circle; she cannot fault them. After all, she had kept one safe with her for nineteen years. It is with that does she step forward; the words upon her lips said without the tact many might expect from a lady of her station – much less a warning.

“ Forgive me – I did not wish to startle you. ” Lost in thought where she sought to escape it.  Briefly, she glances at the white robes and red hoods of the Sisters and Brothers; Andraste’s children now quiet. The good lady remembers what she remembers. The white-washed, rough walls of the Chantry she had gone to in her youth; time worn – the feeling of her mother’s hand over her small one; how her grandmother had known the Chant by heart. She’d never memorized it. Another breath – and she looks back up to him ( always up ). There is a voice she remembers, too; not her own, no – but his. It haunts her, still. Time itself will walk backwards before you find redemption. Whatever that means. Most days, she tries not to give much stock in to the ramblings of dead men and false prophets; still, it gives her pause. “ It is my own philosophy. ” Her smile is a wry one; a quirk of her mouth and nothing more, gone too quickly in favour of cold impassivity. Untouchable, until she is. It is a philosophy that may yet serve her well; one she has been in service ( in search ) of for near her entire life. Twenty years of looking, and she feels no cleaner than she had the day she’d come out of that river. “The Maker is not one to tell us how to find the redemption we seek. That path is one He leaves for us to discover and follow in our own way.” It would not be redemption if the road to it was an easy one – and the words come easy to her; old habits from a life she’d tried to leave behind. She’d have made a good Reverend Mother in another life, offering comfort to the afflicted. Instead, she is here. “ Repentance can be as simple as truth. ” Yet, it rarely is. That, alone, would be too easy. Perhaps she believed in it for every soul that but her own. Who is the sainted mother to say if she deserves forgiveness? Who is she to say if she has found it? “ Truthfully – It is something we must, I think, find in ourselves. Through deeds or words… And the answer is one only we can find in that path that is most often walked alone. ”