#nothing graphic. its more about loss i suppose. the after

[pillowspace]

Hi, it's like almost 4 in the morning, but I suddenly had an angsty Time Loop AU realization that was like semi-horrifying and I kept thinking about it, so.

It could be easy to write off Sun and Moon as not really having to face much trauma during the time loops, while just Y/N does. But when you take into account that Y/N's the only one who knows they'll be okay in the end, the loops in which Y/N dies are devestating on Sun and Moon. Because they're not constantly in virus mode. Moon has moments. A lot of moments, but they pass. The virus eases up. And the loops aren't dependant on Y/N, they're dependant on the day of the fire, meaning that they're just kind of in sleep mode until time's up to bring them back. So Sun and Moon just have to deal with the burden of what's happened to Y/N until time resets, and they're not waiting for that reset to happen, because they don't know it's coming. Sometimes it all went wrong early on, and those times were easier. Sometimes it all went wrong much too late when they already loved you, and those times broke them.

Maybe just the faintest phantom memory of what that loss felt like slips through on Y/N's next "first day" of the job (if we're sticking to Eclipse having the memories, then it'd be a fun thought to consider the tiniest of memories slipping through sometimes), and Sun and Moon are both confused by the sudden wave of relief-desperation-anguish-love-guilt-guilt-guilt they randomly feel upon Sun meeting you. The feeling's easy to discard, but they don't understand why it happened. They suspect it to be a bug. Just a quick second of confusion in the programming that runs what emotions they feel.

After the loops, Sun and Moon remember every single day they spent genuinely believing Y/N was gone forever, and that hurts. And honestly, I'm caught between saying "they never let go of Y/N afterwards" and "they're too scared to hold Y/N anymore." Perhaps it's both. Perhaps they want to hold onto Y/N, and Y/N is the one who has to help them learn that's okay. I did put post-loops Y/N down as "very cuddly," after all.

Mm. Anyway. I should sleep

[sweetpascal]

— 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐨𝐫

pairing: general marcus acacius x fem!reader

summary: unsure of whether or not your husband is alive leading his army's invasion, the only method of tranquility is by reaching into your past memories as a necessary distraction.

warnings: MINORS DNI, wife!reader and husband!marcus, mentions of TW: miscarriages, (probably incorrect) roman history, mentions of TW: blood and death, making love, sweet nicknames (carissima/me - dearest, dulcissima/me - sweetest, meum cor - my heart, melculum - my little honey), marcus has a big dick, creampies, tender softness, probably ooc marcus ??

wc: 4.4k

notes: oh booyyyyyyy. so we all collectively agree that general marcus is scrum-diddly-umptious ?? all the pics, videos, and gifs dropping does not ease my obsession. so.. i turned my obsession into a work of art for all of you to read ^.^ idk squat about the roman times, but i did do my best to research !! divider from @saradika-graphics 🤍

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It seems like the days have been mixing in with each other the more time has passed. Unsure of which day started and which day ended, you lost track of time. It had been one month, maybe two at this point. The sun rose and set, the moon and stars following in tandem. It was almost like a dance. It was amusing, to say the least. It reminded you of your relationship with your husband. With the light color dress wraps and delicate gold jewelry you'd wear around your neck compared to his permanent scowl, it's clear to civilization who's the sun and who's the moon. But you both complement each other in more ways than one.

You're able to calm him down with a simple touch on his arm, causing his boisterous voice to quiet down and his heart to steady its pace. Marcus' presence looming behind you around others, everyone already knows how dangerous he can become if someone even looks at his wife the wrong way.

Now, without his presence and his voice and his touch, nothing feels real. Pacing around in the dining hall of your home, you rubbed your hands tenderly over your barely-there baby bump over your soft blue wrap dress that Marcus surprised you with the last time he had come home from a previous battle for more land. He had won, of course, because General Marcus Acacius never loses. The mere thought of him losing a battle led by him with his army in tow is one of your greatest fears as his wife.

Staying inside your home and wallowing in your fears was no good for you and your unborn child. You couldn't go through the stress of worrying after your husband and deal with another heartbreaking loss alone. The night that Marcus had come back, you had broken down in front of him, shakily telling him through your thick tears that you had lost your son.

"A son?" He had quietly asked you, his eyes wide and heartbreaking.

"The teller that settles by the river," you told him with a broken voice. "She had confirmed it with her readings."

You remember it clearly as day; the look on his face equivalent to that of a broken man. You had choked on your tears, begging for his forgiveness for not being more careful, for not being a dutiful mother that was supposed to protect their child. You had knelt down in front of him, grabbing his knees and pleading to him and the gods for forgiveness and punishment, your hands pressed together in a prayer.

"Carissima," he had whispered quietly to you, slowly getting down onto his knees to remove your tight hold on his dirtied pteruges. His hands, trembling and unsteady, tenderly hold your cheeks to look into your heartbroken eyes. "I shall never strike a hand upon you, need you deserve it or not. I shall never lay blame on something the gods have brutally stolen from us. Oh, my dearest wife." His last whisper had you gripping onto his arms and crying your heart out into his shoulder. He said nothing more, nothing else. On the ground that day, all he did was hold you, and that was more than what you needed.

Breaking out of that distressing memory, you busied yourself with around-the-house distractions. In your hands was a handmade wicker basket you had purchased at one of the markets. The owner was a sweet, older woman that knew of your reputation amongst the others. She always treated you with kindness and looked at you with excitement every time you came by and not fear. She also gifted you a handmade blanket sewn with intricate patterns of the moon and sun.

"I gift this to you as a thank you for your kindness," she had said, pushing the blanket further into your hands when you had protested. She lay a wrinkly finger against her lips and drooped her eye to a wink.

Stepping outside with the wicker basket in your arms, you traveled a short distance to a small pond with many bushes, trees, and delicate flowers all around. This was your happy place. And this was also where you and Marcus had made love for the first time so long ago. The tree, the rock, the patch of grass. All of it held a distinct memory of your first time. Thinking back to it brings a smile to your lips.

"Tell me to stop, and I will. Tell me to stop right now and I shall go back to where I rest and I will not pursue you any longer," Marcus had told you breathlessly against your jaw. He had you laid on the soft grass underneath the moon, the light shining against the pond in a way that makes the gentle movements look like glitter. Your dress was hiked up around your hips as he rested heavily between your trembling thighs, your hands squeezing on his strong biceps that flexed in response to your sizzling touch.

"Marcus," you sighed prettily in his ear, and it sounded like the sweetest song he has honor of ever hearing. "My need for you has not gone away. It will not go away unless you take me right here, under the moon and stars, until I'm singing for you in pleasure."

The look in his eyes was that of desperate hunger and wanton need. When he had slid himself into your cunt for the first time, all of your prayers to the gods have been finally answered. Marcus was made to be yours. And you were made to be his. Hushed moans and frantic thrusts, Marcus fucked like how others perceived himself – like a barbarian. Some women would disagree and find it appalling and dirty, but it was perfection. He wasn't scared to touch you. He touched you as though if he were to let go you would float away, for he would no longer be able to taste you on his tongue or feel your tight warmth wrapped around his thick cock.

A touch to your shoulder had you gasping and dropping the basket onto the ground. You spun around and laid a hand on your chest and one on your bump, staring at the poor maid that scared you accidentally.

"I deeply apologize for frightening you, miss," she stares at you with her hands up in defense as though she was staring at a frightening animal backed into a corner. "General Marcus has arrived and he asks for your presence in your bedroom."

"No, no, it's quite alright, dear. My head was in the clouds again," you offer her a gentle smile and a brief laugh, laying a hand lightly on her shoulder to ease her worries. "And Marcus, is he...?"

The young maid recognized your worry and shook her head as an answer to your unspoken question. You hand her the wicker basket of plucked fruits from the bushes and politely tell her to wash and ready them, and to bring them to your bedroom when the task is done. She nodded and hurried off immediately.

You carefully, but also hurriedly, made your way into your home. Nodding and giving polite smiles to the people inside, you walk up the spiral marble stairs. When you reached the top, there stood a statue of yourself sitting atop a stone with a statue of hour husband on his knees and his lips pressed to your knees. There were intricate details in the statue, like of Marcus' fingers gripping your thighs or the soft rolls of your body. Your husband preferred a large home such as this for his growing family. You preferred something quainter and more personal, but what your husband says, goes. You recognized his large, dirty footprints leading to your bedroom, another young maid already on her knees scrubbing the stains.

"Aureia, there's no need for that," you tut softly at the young girl, and she looks up at you with wide eyes. "Leave that alone for now, alright? As for this moment, will you please gather the others and bring pails of hot water for a bath?"

"Right away," she nodded and hurried off. It brings a smile to your face at how eager the young maids are to please. Unlike the other men and women that have maids in their homes, you treated yours like people. They respect you and in return, you respect them. Marcus used to disagree until he remembered how you grew up when it was just you and your widowed mother, along with the reputation of being poor. Realizing that you see yourself in these young maids, your husband made it a point to allow you to be in charge of them and do whatever you see fit. Having that much power can be overwhelming, only because of the fear of having your kind heart be taken advantage of. But those that work for and with you know to never cross you, for they'll have to deal with the consequences your husband has waiting for them.

When you entered your private bedroom, there he sat, still dressed from head to toe in his armor. He sits with his back facing the door, his sights focused on the large window that overlooks the garden which circles around the empty thermae. You slowly move around the bed and finally stand before him, essentially blocking his view of the window. Marcus doesn't look up at you just yet. So, you stay silent and let him do what he needs to, let him think what he needs to think.

His hands, still caked with dirt, grime, and dried blood, move up to your stomach. Your bump is within his line of sight. Both of his hands rest on either side, feeling the firmness and shape of the bump. You watch as his eyes shut and his jaw clenches. His face was also caked with dirt, grime, and dried blood. The ends of his hair are curled with sweat from the heat of his long journey back home to his family. Marcus says nothing when you stroke his jaw silently. Neither of you register the door opening and four maids coming in one by one to empty two pails each of hot water into the tub that sits in the corner of the room. They know better than to interrupt.

When the door shuts, Marcus moves to rest his head against your bump. His ear is pressed into your soft flesh through the dress adorning your body. He can faintly hear the thumping of your heart and that brings him back down to earth, back home to you. Your hands, warm and gentle, card through his messy, graying curls. Damp with dirt and sweat, you don't care. Feeling him right here, right now, was all that mattered.

"It's over," he finally speaks, his voice rough and low. His hands move down to find a home on your wide hips, fingers just barely digging into the shape. "The war is over. I made sure of it." And he leaves it at that.

Your eyes shut and you let out a sigh of mixed relief and heartache. You couldn't imagine what your husband had to go through, as a leader, to make sure that he and his army of men make it out alive. You couldn't imagine the number of bodies that are lying out there, hundreds of miles away, torn apart and bled out, mangled flesh and bone. You couldn't imagine your husband possibly being one of them. Bending down as best as you could, you tenderly wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders and kissed the back of his head. You briefly sniffed his hair and pulled back.

"Let's get you inside the bath, hm?" You whispered softly, hands lovingly scratching at his scruffy jaw as you pulled his head up to look into your eyes.

When he stands, you almost forgot how imposing he was. His height was a strong factor. The bloodied armor he wears makes him look much broader and more dangerous. The exhausted look on his face makes him look much more mean – evil, even. But he's neither of those things, at least not to you. He stands as still as a tree as you begin to unclip and pull off his armor one by one. From the thick leather chest plate bound with protective metal underneath, all the way down to the thick leather arm-wear covering his forearms. Unsheathing his sword from its belt, you unclip that from around his waist as well. Having done this a million times, it's muscle memory.

He stands before you, naked, dirty, and exhausted. You reach behind your neck and slowly untie your dress wrap. It pools at your feet, your naked body now on display for him to see after months apart. Marcus' eyes take in every detail. The delicacy of your collarbones, your perky breasts, the curve of your growing belly, the soft curls of your pubic hair, those thighs that Marcus loves being in between, all the way down to the dangling anklet he gifted you.

"Come on," you whisper softly and take his hand to lead him to the filled tub. Steam sits above the water and Marcus' aching muscles scream out to it.

He enters first, hissing at first from the heat but then moaning gruffly once he sinks further into the hot water. Almost immediately, his sore muscles begin to relax. He could fall asleep right this instant. He feels a gentle push on his shoulder. He scoots forward and allows you to enter behind him.

"What are you doing, dear wife?" He doesn't hear an answer to his question. He's about to turn his body, but then he feels your hands massaging his tender scalp and washing his dirty hair. His eyes shut almost instantly, and he groans huskily with parted lips.

You wanted to laugh at his reaction but decided against it. Marcus never had time to relax and wind down. He was always on his feet, always discussing the next steps of battle, always readying his army men with hardcore training. It pained you to see him like this, especially at a distance. He never wanted you around to witness his leadership. Not wanting to induce stress onto you early on in your pregnancy, not wanting a repeat of your last pregnancy, he had given you strict instructions to let him handle everything.

"Meum cor, you do so good with taking care of your husband," Marcus quietly tells him, his entire body shuddering when your nails tenderly scrape the sensitive parts of his scalp. "I know the other men are envious of the treatment I receive from such a divine woman."

"Mm, I know, my love," softly laughing at his goading. You reached over the side of the tub to grab a small wooden bowl. Using that to pour water onto his soapy curls, you gently tipped his head back and did just that. You kissed the side of his head and gently cleaned away the dirt and grime on his beautifully tan skin. You paid extra attention by lovingly kissing the scar on his right cheek.

For the next hour, you put all your focus into washing his body. No longer was he a filthy barbarian. No, he was now your clean, fresh smelling husband. His damp hair curled elegantly behind his ears and neck. You had maneuvered onto his lap to focus on his front. There were more prominent bruises on his chest and arms, as well as some cuts that have begun its healing process. You gave him a small pout, to which he tuts and lovingly cups your chin between his thumb and forefinger.

"I could ride into the sun and still come back to you in one piece, meum cor," he tells you quietly, moving his face much closer and shifting you to sit comfortably on his lap. "No man, no sword, no army could ever strike me down and take me from you."

Holding onto his scruffy jaw and peering into those dark chocolate eyes of his, he looks at you with such tenderness that no stranger will ever witness. Your bump is resting against his own stomach, and he feels every breath you exhale. Heads lean closer, his aquiline nose resting on the side of yours, lips just a hair away. There's distant chatter outside in the gardens, the curtains swaying gently from the warm breeze coming through the open windows. The water in the tub is still warm and steaming, the clearness of it was now murky from the dirt you cleaned from his aching body. You have half a mind to drain the tub and call out for more pails of fresh hot water, but you're so comfortable and safe in the arms of your husband.

"Do you recall the night I took you underneath the stars?" Marcus asks you huskily, both hands gripping your hips, strong fingers digging into your plushy flesh. He forces your hips closer to his, thick thighs tensing underneath your own. "The way you begged me to keep going, even when it began to rain down upon us."

Your lips parted to elicit a soft gasp when you felt his hardness on your thigh, thickening and rising with each second that passed. You do remember that night like it was yesterday. The soft rain pattering on your naked, writhing bodies. Your nails had dug deep into his skin to keep him from moving away. You had cried out to the gods for more, more, more.

"I do believe I may have scars from those nails of yours," Marcus joked lightly against your jaw, pressing a kiss to the bone with his plush lips.

Giggling quietly in his ear, you held his head close to your chest as his kisses traveled south. "I do believe you're creating tales, carissime."

He hums disapprovingly, holding you tighter on his lap when you shift. The steam from the water made his skin feel sticky and warm. You tasted salt on your tongue when you kissed below his ear. It was intoxicating, to say the least. Tasting him, trailing your tongue all over his molten hot skin, licking over his scars and freckles. There was a quiet minute when you both looked into each other's eyes again. Marcus can see the light hasn't died. He can see the adoration you have for him in the way your pupils dilate, and breathing quicken. And you can feel the love Marcus has for you in the way his eyes get slightly wide as he takes in your features, most likely mapping out which ones he hopes your unborn child takes from the both of you.

"Take us to bed, meum cor," you beg him. No longer able to keep looking at your handsome husband and not do anything about it, you leave it all up to him.

Without another word, Marcus stands with a hoarse grunt. With one strong arm wrapped tight (but not too tight) around your waist and his other hand under your thigh to keep you up and against his body, he steps over the tub and makes his way over to the bed. Neither of you care if your wet bodies are soaking the sheets. As he lays you down and rests on top of you, nothing else matters at this moment.

"Melculum, you look like a goddess with the sunlight kissing your naked skin," he whispers to you, lowering his head to kiss at your breasts and collarbones. You gasped and arched your back, further pressing your breasts into his mouth, to which he sucks a sensitive nipple between those lips.

Marcus rests on his forearms on either side of your head with his big hands tenderly cupping the crown. Your feet teasingly trail up and down the backs of his thighs, and you feel his hardness twitch between your bodies. Whispering his name in a needy voice, he looks up at you and catches the look in your half-lidded eyes. The flush on your skin makes your skin glow. He would never disrespect his gods and goddesses, but Aphrodite does have a competition on her hands.

Feeling too eager, you take charge and yank his neck down to finally kiss him. After months of not feeling his body, hands, and lips on yours, you powered all your emotions in this kiss. It was messy and desperate and hard. Tongue, teeth, garbled whimpers and heavy breaths. Marcus suckled at your bottom lip, letting it snap back against your teeth to then suck and bite at your neck. Your hips were shifting to slot his hard cock between the silky lips of your wet cunt. Grinding up and down, the thick vein that rests on his hardness glides easily against your swelling clit.

"Marcus," you weep quietly in his ear. "Oh, my husband. I need you more than life itself. Oh, you're the bravest, strongest soldier known to man. You're so... powerful, so dangerous. You keep your family and your people safe, my love." Saying this all while you're grinding your sweet cunt up and down the length of his hardness has Marcus growing erratic by the second.

He looks down between your bodies. Your cunt lips open like the blooming petals of the sweetest flower. The soft dark curls of your pubic hair rubbing against his own. Your small belly bump that keeps your unborn child safe and sound. Marcus uses his thumb to guide himself inside your cunt, breathing shallowly when the warm tightness sucks him in, inch by inch. Your mouth falls open to let out quiet, needy moans.

"There we go, melculum," Marcus grunts lowly in your ear, lowering his hips further down into yours and his thick cock slides deeper inside your leaking hole. The heat, wetness, and tightness of your cunt has him spiraling already. The knot in the pit of his stomach further unraveling the deeper he gets. "You were made for me," he breathes deeply, the heat of his breath fanning over your sensitive neck.

When he starts fucking into you, he was mindful to not rest his entire weight on your belly. He repositioned himself in a way that had his back curving to drive his hips deeper, faster, and harder into your own. The action had you arching and gasping. Your soft breasts and feet bounced gently from the movements. Marcus lovingly strokes down your temples with his thumbs and kisses you hard once again. Your fingers curl into his hair, now drying and curling beautifully. He looks like a god. It makes you want to cry. But then, his cock starts punching against the one spot that makes you scream.

"Oh! Marcus!" You yelped, eyebrows furrowed and lifted up as your mouth fell open and moans started pouring out. "Right there! Right... there. Ri-ight the-ere!"

He slows his thrusts until he's grinding so deep and so slow. Your moans turned into whimpers. He was able to hear the sloppy noises of your cunt soaking around his hardness. He grins down at you, his dimple deepening when you twitch and writhe.

"So beautiful," he whispers against your jaw. "So ethereal underneath me, writhing and begging for my cock." Marcus sharply drives his cock into your cunt unexpectedly. You let out a long, wanton wail that has his grin widening. He does it again, and again, and again. It was driving you absolutely crazy.

Your slick is most likely dripping out of your hole and onto Marcus' balls which slap against you. You can practically feel the weight of them, so heavy and full of two months' worth of cum. He drags his cock in and out of you slowly now, allowing you to feel every vein and every inch. Your thighs spread wide for him, eager for more. He answered your silent pleas and fucked you at a quicker pace again.

"Wrap your arms around me, Marcus. Oh, please, please, please!" You sobbed quietly, tears prickling at the corner of your eyes. He follows immediately. His strong arms wrap under your back and he rests some of his weight onto your front. Your thighs widen to accommodate his size, allowing his cock to nudge deeper in a way that steals your breath. "Just... like... that," you whimpered after each thrust Marcus gives.

He feels dizzy and overwhelmed in a good way. The smell of the homemade soap on your skin, the softness and warmth of your naked skin against his, your sweet moans like a pretty song in his ears, the slick tightness of your cunt sucking him in repeatedly. Feeling, smelling, and hearing all of these at once was enough to finally let him spill out his moans without holding back. His chest vibrates against your bare breasts with each grunt that passes his kissed-raw lips. The vibrations on your sensitive nipples tickled you erotically.

"You are intoxicating," he moans heavily against your sticky skin, his scruff scraping deliciously and his lips and teeth leaving little love bites. "Non possum satis de te." I cannot get enough of you.

With your eyes rolling back and your thighs trembling around his wide hips, you simply cannot control what your body does. Marcus catches you off guard by messily kissing you, his tongue intertwining with your own, tasting each other's saliva. The taste of him had you whining into his mouth. There was a faintness of wine on his tongue. Although you obviously couldn't drink while you bear his child, the lingering taste of it on your husband's tongue was enough to drive you wild. Your hands, originally placed on his shoulder blades, trail down to his tapered waist and finally cling onto his perky bottom. You squeeze the tender flesh and briefly dig your nails into the skin, feeling the muscles clench and unclench with every roll of his hips and cock driving into your cunt.

"Tu parum desperatus es, huh?" Marcus' voice sounded cocky and the grin on his face didn't help. You're a desperate little thing, huh?

One of the things that made your husband a respected leader was his arrogance was never wrongfully directed. He loved to gloat, about anything and everything. But when it came to you, his wife, his ego inflates to the point of popping.

That's when you felt it. The coil in the pit of your stomach gets tighter and tighter, forcing your gooey walls to twitch around Marcus' thickness. He moans lowly at the feeling of it. He hooks one of your thighs over his arm, bracing your knee into your chest to fuck you deeply. The position change had you shuddering, more slick leaking out and staining the sheets below your bodies.

"I'm... I'm... fuuuck!" With one final cry out to the gods, you scratched down Marcus' skin and braced yourself for impact.

Your orgasm washed over you like one of the strongest ocean waves known to man. Your body wouldn't stop twitching and writhing underneath his massive body. The squeezing tightness of your cunt wouldn't let your husband fuck you any longer. He drops down and lets out a final rough grunt before spilling inside of you. He has a entire body shiver as his cock twitches repeatedly, his thick cum spilling out every few seconds. It finally stopped after a whole minute; yes, you were counting. The tickle of his cum hitting you deep inside had you giggling drowsily.

"You should be thanking your husband for giving you a well-needed release, not laughing at him," he hums against your skin, the vibrations of his voice and bristles of his scruff tickling you further, causing you to laugh louder. He feels your belly jumping from your shaking body and he can't help but to smile.

Being in the arms of his wife after a long journey of war and death, there really is no place like home.

[take-it-on-the-run]

The End

Wally Clark x Reader

Two people died on September 23rd, 1983. One laid out on a football field before hundreds of people, and the other left behind on the cold floor of the boy's locker room.

Word Count: 1.7k

Tags: Sexual assault, semi-graphic depictions of SA, including: almost direct aftermath, reader is naked in the beginning, mentions of blood, and implied loss of virginity via SA, flashback to SA; death, reader's death is overlooked, ANGST

Characters: Wally Clark, Reader, Dalton (OC)

Read it on AO3!

A/N: The Doors title. Hey ya'll. I cannot believe the love I've been getting on this page, and it's driving me past my writer's block more than anything. With school starting, I can feel the academic anxiety kicking in, but I use my writing as a coping method when I can. This story has very intense topics (as stated in the tags) and is not meant to idealize any topics in any way. This was inspired by @general-fanfiction's Hopes and Fears series (GO READ IT RN), and @whoopsyeahokay's October Sun series (ALSO GO READ IT RN). If this story is well received, or I just feel the urge to, I'll probably turn it into a series (bc this sucks as a one-shot). As always, please heed the warnings, and read only if you're comfortable.

Wally Clark Masterlist | School Spirits Masterlist | Main Page Masterlist

Blood was everywhere.

It slid down your legs and dribbled onto the cold floor of the locker room. Every inch of your skin felt like it was too tight for your bones, and all you wanted to do was reach down your throat and rip out your heart.

Copper flooded your mouth. The tang brushed against the back of your chattering teeth, and all you could think about was how you wanted to crawl to the nearby shower and let it run until one of the coaches found you and dragged you out.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Move. You told yourself. All of your limbs ached. Nothing felt real.

You didn’t want this to be real.

It was supposed to be kind. Gentle. An act out of pure love.

Standing up proved to be hard, and it was like no one was able to hear you screaming out for help. Filtered out by the people flooding the halls, hustling to the big homecoming game going on that night.

The tiled walls provided little help as you brought yourself to a standing position, walking slowly as you felt your feet brush against the pile of your shoes, pants, and underwear on the floor. The touch stopped your heart, breaking a new tier of hate and regret across your body.

He said he loved me.

You turned on the shower, cranking the knob to the hottest setting, knowing that the water wouldn’t get anywhere near warm. Water slid harshly over your body, and you felt it pelt against spots of dried blood on your thighs.

You wished you never come to this stupid football game.

You wished you weren’t as ignorant, or as gullible, or as love-blind as you had been in the past three months.

You wished you never met him.

His face felt bitter and sharp in your head, poking and prodding, as if trying to stick the memory of his hands on you for eternity.

Time passed irregularly, no one came in or out of the locker room, and you were sure that the football game had to have reached its end by all of the cheering and yelling you heard outside.

After using all of the hot water in the gym wing, you slowly walked to the lines of lockers, trying even glimpsing in the direction of your clothes. tried to open every locker until one popped open, revealing a pair of grey sweatpants, a sweatshirt, a muscle tank, blue gym shorts, and a matching varsity jacket with #57 stitched on the arm.

You grabbed the matching sweatsuit, balling it in your arms and silently apologizing to the boy you’d never return the clothing to.

He probably won’t even notice, you told yourself.

You turned the corner around a line of lockers and you could swear you were going crazy. A bare foot poked out from behind the last line of lockers, limply tilted against your pile of clothes, painted a chipped wine red.

You blinked hard, looking down at your own chipped wine-red toes, and you clutched the clothing you stole to your naked body. The cotton was soft compared to the cold tile bracing against your feet, and you brought your eyes to look back to the pile of clothing on the floor.

Bile pooled at the back of your mouth as you hesitantly stepped closer to the foot that hadn’t disappeared. You’re going crazy, you told yourself, but the more and more you stared at the limp, pale body - your limp, pale body - whose features were more of a brutal mass than a face, the less it was going away.

You barely made it past the urinals and into an open stall before you dry-heaved into a toilet.

You were dead.

You couldn’t be.

As you zipped up the stolen hoodie and sweatpants, you tried to remember it all. Kissing under the bleachers before the game, him asking you to come with him while he grabbed something from his gym locker.

Every agonizing second you asked him to stop, to stop pressing you into the lockers because one of the locks was digging into your back; his decrepit hands sliding at your waistline, pushing and prodding past the fabric of your clothes.

Nothing would come up from your stomach.

Could ghosts vomit? You asked yourself, slowly standing to your feet and walking back over to your dead body.

Conversations started to flood the hallway, every muscle in your body coming briefly to attention before you flew out the door and screamed into the rushing crowd of students.

“Hello?” You called out, reaching your arm into the crowd, only to watch it get run through like something out of Star Wars.

Your body became hot, and even though you knew deep down that no one could see you, you pushed your tears back down your choking throat and felt your cheeks heat up with shame.

You walked into the crowd, who was thinning out the further you got from the hallway. Your body tensed for a moment, seeing the lights of police cars and ambulances pulling up to the school. Expecting to see the paramedics rushing toward your body, you waited for them to split the crowd, to start heading toward the school, but they were bolting the other way.

Straight toward the football field.

This school has to be fucking cursed.

One of the players was splayed out on the field, his head gently being lifted as paramedics were tugging his helmet off his head. The football team from whatever school yours was playing against was sitting on the bench, whispering and pointing to another one of their players who was talking to a police officer further down the field.

57.

The number sewn on the jacket hanging among the clothes you stole stood out against the dark blue of the player’s helmet. People gasped and a woman cried out as the paramedic set the helmet aside, revealing the face of the school’s resident golden boy; a dark bruise crawled up his neck, and his mouth guard slid between his lips as his limp head hung unnaturally over his shoulder.

You walked closer, straight through the forming line of police officers, and looked into the field. At the edge of the bleachers, waving his arms around and yelling into a silent group of people, stood Wally Clark.

Wally Clark is dead.

Just like I am.

You took off running, the activity coming easier to you when you were alive.

Alive.

“Wally!” You called out, and the football player snapped his body to your voice, his eyes wide and seeming relieved that someone was talking to him.

You stopped, resting your hands on your hips as he hopped down from the bleachers.

“What’s happening? Why- why is no one talking to me? What did I do?” He asked, skipping the formalities. He came to stand on the field before you, the football gear he was wearing sending a rush of debilitating shame through your body.

You faltered for a moment, his face flashing in your eyes before you rubbed your face back to reality.

“You didn’t do anything, Wally.” You managed to push out, pushing your eyes anywhere but on him.

“Then what is happening? I feel like I’m going crazy, one minute I’m running with the ball, and boom- I’m at the bleachers, trying to get my mother to talk to me and she won’t even look up at me. I know she’s pissed at me about going on the bench, but I mean I got back in the game, and now I’m guessing coach is pissed at me on insisting to get back in and-”

“You’re dead.” You cut off his rambling, forcing yourself to meet his face without looking away after a second, “I mean, I think we’re both dead.”

First, he smiled. Like what you said was some kind of joke. After you said nothing, he started toward the sidewalk, where his mother was now alongside a stretcher being lifted into an ambulance. You could see the tears on her face from where you were, each step you followed Wally, the easier it was to see her sorrow.

Then, as he was following his mother, he suddenly was gone, like he was plucked off the Earth by God himself.

That was until you turned to see him standing on the football field, right where his body was previously lying, tugging at the roots of his hair.

You hovered your foot, leveraging that if you stood on the sidewalk, you would be slingshotted back to the men’s locker room.

You decided to trust your gut and instead talked to Wally.

“I can’t be dead, I mean, that would mean you’re dead, and I literally saw you in the hallway this morning,” Wally said as he paced in a small area before you, “and I know for sure that I saw you because you were hanging around Dalton’s locker, which was weird because everyone on the team thought he had some college girl or something he was hanging out with-”

You didn’t register some of the words he was saying, instead you tried to control your thoughts from ripping you back to your last moments on earth at his name.

“-I mean, do you even know how crazy this sounds?”

You took in a shaky breath, wiping your hands over your face to poorly conceal any emotions that unwillingly spread onto your features, “Yeah, but that’s the thing, Wally. I am dead.”

Saying you were dead for the first time out loud was a lot heavier than you thought it would be.

You’re pretty sure that if the insanity of Wally being killed hadn’t overridden your brain, you would be somewhere huddled up and screaming for some greater power to give you eternal rest.

“What? That’s not possible, I mean, the people you were here with would’ve noticed you were gone. Dalton would’ve noticed you were gone.”

You didn’t want to give his name as much power as you did, but your body tightened up hearing it. You didn’t correct him, instead opting to stare at the dark woods on the far end of the field, your eyes burning once more.

“Y/N,” you were a little surprised that he knew your name, and even more when he stood in front of you with the most gentle expression you’d ever seen, “what happened after school? How did you die?”

[letsgobarbs]

Part III: The Hero Of My Books

Pairing: Tim Rockford x F!Reader

Summary: Convinced your husband doesn’t want you, you turned to Jack for some help. The situation unravels and all secrets come to light.

Rating: Explicit

Content Warning: YOU 🫵 consider cheating on Tim. But you don't at the end. Maybe it's just a little bit of cheating if you squint. Jack is nothing but a plot device here. creepy neighbour alert. Reader has anxiety. voyeurism. mentions of divorce. classism from an unimportant side character. toxic family situations for all. both Reader and Tim are a bit fruity if you squint. arranged marriage. p in v sex. oral f!receiving. loss of virginity. there is an age gap, but even i don't know what it is, go with what you will.

Author’s Note: I was so deep in the Merge Mansion lore for this one. Found out Maddie’s grandpa was a spy of something which made me think of Jack. So, this entire thing turned out way different than what I thought it was going to be. I'm fairly new to both writing and Tumblr so reblogs and comments are always appreciated. This fic exists in my ao3 as well, but this version is just very very slightly edited. Not even slightly, it’s just re-read and adjusted.

divider by @saradika-graphics

Part I, Part II

It had felt good to say it. No matter how this concludes, it felt liberating to confess. You tried your best to tamp down the little seedling of hope that still sprouted into expectation, “You don't need to say anything, I'm not expecting anything from you.”

You had been a coward, hiding your fears behind the books, and the writing slump, and the lack of sex, and the affair. You had been terrified of not being loved back because you had thought it was a weakness. Your weakness. It had only taken for your husband to think you were cheating for you to realise that, even unrequited, loving him was never a weakness. It was something you were good at. It was your craft, your skill, your art form. You would have never tainted it by cheating. After all, you had celebrated your art form one cheesy, smutty book at a time. The only reason you hadn't been writing well lately was because the distance with Tim had made you too antsy.

And it didn't matter if Tim loved you back. Sort of like it didn't matter whether you were playing singles or doubles if you only cared about playing some tennis. Love was your Olympic sport and you were a gold medalist.

“I love you too.”

Well, that changed everything.

“I can't believe you thought I didn't love you.” Tim came to stand in the doorway of your kitchen, even under the overly warm, ugly kitchen overhead light, you looked divine.

“I was trying to…”—you took a shaky breath—“make a move or something. And, it felt like you were pulling away. You did pull away. And I thought it was your way of letting me know you didn't see me like that.” Tim had moved close enough for you to see his dark eyes behind their black frames. It frazzled you to be so close to him again.

Tim felt his fingers twitch with intent and a faint tingling feel. God, tingles. He’d thought the sparks were only supposed to happen once you actually touched the other person, but here you were, setting him ablaze with that glazed, wondrous look in your eyes. You wanted him. Loved him. His hand came up to gently caress your face, his knuckles softly brushing over your cheekbones to your chin. Sparks. Tim couldn't grasp or hold you without this damn current making its way up his arm and doing his poor heart in.

“I'm sorry”—he unfurled his fingers over your cheek, tips grazing the soft skin under your ears, to gently hold your face—“for being a damn coward. Thought you wouldn't want anything with an old man like me”

“I’ve never wanted anything else. Or anything more.”

Tim angled his lips over yours barely grazing each other, his eyes met yours in a silent challenge. Then kiss me. And you did. You pulled him to you with a hand between his shoulder blades, gently sucking his lower lip to slot between yours. You could do this forever. Tim felt his knees buckle when you traced the tip of your tongue over his upper lip skimming over the bristles of his moustache. He leaned forward to brace himself against the counter behind you, trapping you in between, pressing you closer into his body while his tongue scraped against the smooth underside of your tongue. You broke the kiss with a gasp at the sudden sensation.

A pang of anxiety coursed through you, but it had no place under Tim’s adoring eyes. You incredulously soaked in the moment, tracing your fingers up his spine to entangle the hair curling at his nape. Your other hand rested over his rapidly thudding heart, feeling your own start to dance to his rhythm. The world slowly floated around you, correcting course and tilting on its axis until all your pieces snugly settled with him. Tim’s arm came around your waist as he nudged your cupped face back to his lips in another slow and sensual dance.

Tim rid you of your clothes, forming a trail as he guided you towards the bedroom with affectionate pecks and playful nibbles. Suddenly, he was everywhere, desperate hands palming and stroking your soft skin and mapping the features of your body. Tim charted his hand up the back of your thigh, thumb stretching out to graze the curve of your underbutt as he pressed feverish kisses down your neck. His cotton shirt felt delicious against your exposed nipples. He untucked his shirt as he took teasing nips at your clavicle breathing in the scent of your skin and body wash.

Both of your hands halted his movements, “Stop. I want to watch.”

You sat at the foot of the bed, the movement drawing your attention to the slick that had gathered between your legs. You would've worried about staining the sheets had Tim not taken off his shirt. You watched as he folded it in half before draping it over the dresser. You wanted to tease him about being shy now when he had just flung his fogged glasses across the living room earlier. But it was difficult to come up with words when you were admiring his side profile and the light scattering off his beautiful curls. You took in his furrowed brows as he unclasped his watch, his gracefully sculpted nose, his ruggedly patchy beard, and the freckles that dotted his shoulders and arms. It was unfair how lovely he looked.

“Look at me.”

Tim turned to face you with a quizzically raised brow, noting the command in your voice and the delightful shiver it sent down his back— filing away the moment to explore another day. Tim discarded his undershirt, and you appreciated the muscle in his throat that jutted out to form that hollow notch at its base, the smattering of salt and pepper chest hair that led to the soft swell of his stomach with the wispy trail that disappeared into his trousers.

He had never spent much time thinking about his body, but now he was tempted to peek in the mirror to see what had you so captivated. Tim leaned on a leg, an arm resting on his hip with his other leg stretched out before him to adjust himself, deliberately pausing to slowly palm his dick and stroke it through his pants. He slowly unbuttoned his pants but pulled his boxers down along with his pants, impatiently his mind went to more pleasurable and entertaining things he could be doing as he watched you lean back on the bed.

While Tim was downright pretty, the size and girth of it were intimidating. Realistically, you knew you could take it, but you were always a little scared of pain.

“Are we sure that’s gonna fit?”

Tim couldn't help but break into a little grin as he ran the back of his hand up your inner thigh finding it smeared with arousal.

“That's adorable, we’ll make it fit, baby.”

He joined you on the bed with more kisses as you both awkwardly shuffled upwards. Once you were propped up against the headboard, Tim’s mouth latched onto a nipple while a hand gently cupped the other; his wedding band felt cold against your heated skin making you arch into his mouth.

“Relax… touch your pussy for me. Make yourself feel good.” He whispered into your cleavage.

You rubbed tight circles around your clit mirroring Tim’s tongue as it swirled around your areolas, pausing to flick or suck your hardened nipple— he then gently bit down as he pinched and tugged the other unexpectedly hurtling you off the edge with a gasp.

Tim urgently kissed into your opened mouth, “Please, plea—” his voice broke into a lower octave—“please let me taste you.” He had spread your legs and plunged his head between your thighs before you had finished nodding.

Tim looked ravenous as he took in the sight of your folds, slick and wet. He lapped at the shiny inside of your thigh, savouring his first taste of you with an inadvertent moan. He took his time to graze his teeth against your skin, sucking in little marks into the crease of your pelvis, building his anticipation until you urged him with a roll of your hips.

Tim swept his tongue in a single long lick upwards, parting the lips covering your oozing slit and exposing the clit under your hood. You clutched at his hair and were rewarded with Tim moaning into the tip of your clit. He took his time exploring, guided by the sweet noises you made for him until you were nothing more than a pulsating, throbbing ball of aching need and nerves. You knew Tim was whispering praise into your cunt, but you were so far gone into the haze of pleasure that they went unheard. You didn't even realise when he had pressed two of his fingers down into your vagina while nuzzling your clit. He turned his hand palm-up causing his fingers to graze a spot inside you that hardened your body into a knot before you unravelled under his tongue.

You came to with colours still dancing underneath your eyelids, and your body still shivering in the aftermath of the violent tremble in your limbs. Tim was still pressing sweet kisses above your clit and around your most sensitive nerves soothingly rubbing his palms over your hip only for each stroke to form warm currents and more shivers under your skin.

“You think you can let me up now?” Your legs had wrapped around him to keep him there while you rode out the tremors of your orgasm on his face. It was tempting to just keep him there with your legs straining to frame the broad expanse of his shoulders while he sported his cheeky grin and glazed eyes. But when you reached out to thumb at his dimple you found his facial hair wet and the sudden urge to taste yourself on him gained Tim his freedom. He came up with a mischievous attempt to bite your hand that had been caressing his face.

On Tim’s lips, you were more scent than taste, musky and sweet mixed with the cool mint of his gum. You reared back.

“Did you have gum in your mouth while you went down on me? Because that would be psychotic.”

Tim huffed a warm laugh into your neck, “I don't know, do you wanna spend some more time looking for it in my mouth? You can even pat me down while you're at it.”

“Oh, detective, thank you for complying, we’re just following a process.” There was a teasing lilt to your voice. You sighed into his kiss while Tim rested the weight of him on you. You reached for his cock that lay between you, pressing heavy and warm on your stomach demanding attention.

“Not that procedure, not yet, wait. Just give me a minute. I've made a mess of myself.” Tim had given into the impulse of humping the sheets like he was a teenager again and was a hair-trigger from bursting. The gentle and chaste kisses did very little to stave off the urgent wave building at his spine when your hands were roaming over his back pausing to experimentally squeeze his ass. Naughty minx. But it allowed him enough reprieve to spread your thighs wider, draping them over his own before positioning his cock over your slit. His cockhead gave gentle taps to your clit that sent quivers down your spine. Just as you thought he would be pushing into you, Tim only lazily swayed back and forth gently rubbing his cock over the most throbbing part of you while you desperately clenched onto emptiness.

“The suspense is killing me, please just put it in me.” Your voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

“You’re tensing up on me, honey.” Tim flipped, carrying you over him in his arms.

“Take it the way you like it.”

You notched the tip of him against your slit, sliding down onto him. The heady rush of him stretching you out had your head rolling back, arching your tits back into his waiting palms. You teared up in frustration at a stabbing ache when you could not take more despite pushing yourself down, desperately wanting to be further filled. There was an itch that would be left so unsatisfied if he did not reach deeper into you, you felt so empty and blocked at the same time.

Tim found the little nub between your legs again insistently working it while spreading his fingers to cup the core of you that sheathed him halfway coaxing it to take him in. He guided you into a soft swivel with a warm, rough hand on your hips.

“Good girl.” Your pussy convulsed around him before easing down on him in a single swift motion that had the both of you gasping at the electric sensation.

“You take me so well, pretty girl.” Tim was content to let you find your rhythm. A warmth bloomed in his chest at the sight of you enjoying his cock, milking him for your pleasure as you looked down at him with darkened misty eyes.

“Should've done this way sooner. This pretty little cunt is made for me, isn't it?”

The yes’s poured out of you like a prayer, “Tim, it feels so good, please, please, please—” You were so so close, it just seemed as if the release was running away from you, you could cry. It was even more frustrating that Tim wouldn't do anything to help.

“Oh sweetheart, having some trouble are we?” You were vexed, he was enjoying your predicament. A smirk on his lips as you desperately tried to word your pleas to him. Irritated, you finally reached your hand between your legs where you were still frantically undulating over him.

“Tsk, I didn't say you could touch yourself. You're going to cum for me, do you understand?” Tim grasped your hand and encaged it with his own holding it over his abdomen even as you still struggled to reach your clit. His hips bucked up into you at the retaliatory scratch you gave him.

“Yes, please, Tim, just please, touch me, please make me cum.”

“I need you to say my name when you come, okay, Darling? Say my name, baby.” He seemed to have lost all his previous gentility with the quick pinch and tug he gave to your already hot and sensitive clit. You reeled off him as you came but Tim pulled you back down his cock anchoring you into him. You had been chanting his name before you went off the edge, but the orgasm had rushed up on you so fast that you were sure you had stopped breathing for a while, your cries still felt trapped in your throat. Or maybe it was Tim’s cock you felt all the way up into the back of your throat.

He was sitting up with you, still buried hot and hard inside your fluttering cunt. Tim rubbed little circles and patterns into your skin, sending jolts of pleasure to course through you.

“You didn't cum… I'm sorry, just let me—”

“Shh, Shh don't be sorry baby. I'm the one who should be sorry. You’re going to let me cum inside aren't you.” You knew he was asking, but his tone left no doubt that he would spill inside you. He had nothing to be sorry for, you wanted so desperately to feel his hot cum coating your walls. You wondered if he felt the involuntary spasm your pussy gave in a desperate attempt to keep him inside.

“Oh you liked that, didn't you? You're gonna be a sweet girl for me, won't you, babe? Let me use that tight little pussy to get off?”—Tim tightened his grip on your hips—“Be a doll and hold onto my shoulders okay?”

You weren't answering any of his rhetorical questions when he was bouncing you on his cock with quick sharp tugs.

“God, wanted to be a good, kind husband who didn't use his wife too hard on her first time. But this cunt is a trap isn't it, baby? I could live inside you for ages”

You did need to hold onto his shoulders after all. If the thought of Tim using you as nothing more than a cocksleeve to jerk off his cock wasn't hot enough, your previous orgasm hadn't entirely rolled out before another one hit. This time, you did scream his name. You also left scratches over his shoulder, biting into his neck to silence yourself.

The bite of pain finally sent Tim over the edge, as he grasped you further into him. For a moment, neither of you knew where he ended and you began. He could do nothing more than fall back into the pillows taking you down with him. He couldn't even muster up the strength to pull out, not that he wanted to. Tim stopped your devious fingers from teasing his nipples, opting to tip your chin up for kisses instead— craving an affection that didn't further stimulate the jolts of pleasure he was still feeling at the base of his spine.

You could feel Tim softening inside of you, sending a pang of distress to pierce through the fog of bliss at the thought of losing that physical connection to him. Your frizzled brain kick-started to interrupt the peacefully comfortable post-orgasmic haven with your husband.

“Could you hold me tighter?” Tim must've picked up the vulnerability in your voice because both his arms came around you to hold you in a tighter embrace. Your mind struggled to come up with words to fill the silence. It would be completely fucked to ask Tim if this meant they were together now. He did say he loves you but you didn't want to pressure him, maybe it was just sex. You were already married so what if he didn't mean it? But Tim was never one to say things he didn't mean.

You felt Tim trailing soft kisses on your forehead as he whispered, “You’re thinking too loud.”

“I still can’t believe you thought I didn't love you.”

“Well, you didn't seem attracted to me…”

Tim heaved a disbelieving sigh, rolling his eyes at you as he gave a sharp spank, “Oh, I'm attracted to you, alright.” He rubbed your ass to soothe the sting.

“Did you think I was just platonically cuddling with you on our couch watching shitty reality tv—”

“Hey, you enjoy shitty reality tv.”

“—Or that I’m just being friendly when I try to cook your Chinese order at home, you know I live off of takeout!”

Okay, maybe you have been a little stupid. Tim has scoured the internet and attempted so many recipes for your favourite Chinese dishes because the local Chinese restaurant always made your stomach upset. The next closest restaurant was a long drive away from Hopewell Bay. He had even driven you there when you needed your Chinese takeout fix.

“I'm still working on that Szechuan sauce by the way, I promise I almost have it, it’s good but it's not takeout quality yet.” Both of you knew it wasn't remotely going to be as satisfying as a takeout.

There was a niggling itch at the back of your mind, a reminder that you were forgetting something very important. You tried to shrug it off, if it was important it would come back to you, as you settled into smooching Tim again.

“Oh my God, Jack!”

“So do not want to hear another man’s name while you're kissing me.”

“I have something to confess…” Suddenly, you were terrified that Tim would change his mind about you. “I have been watching Jack have sex, I know it's totally weird and I thought I had a good reason— which it was not. But like I'm sorry, I know that's cheating because we're married. And oh my god I cheated on you. Like technically we weren't together together before tonight but I would've been upset if you did something like this for a job—”

“I know.”

“—Like I couldn't blame you obviously because we didn't even know that we liked each other but still.”—Your rambling came to an abrupt stop—“What do you mean you know?”

Tim pulled you down to lay next to him again, as he propped himself on an elbow to look down at you. His fingers gently tucked the strays of your hair behind your ear, thumb reaching out to wipe away the anxious tears you unwittingly shed.

“I felt bad for cancelling on you all the time…” His fingers fiddled with the lobes of your ears, coming down to caress your jaw, “Remember that one time you wanted to go to a shooting range? I said I'd go, but then I talked myself out of it at the last minute and cancelled on you—”

“Yeah, you said you had too much paperwork.”

“—Well, I felt horrible because you would've been alone there and I never wanted you to feel alone so I showed up anyway. And I saw Jack walking up to you and I was glad you were with a friend.”

“So you left?” He'd come all the way there and had turned around and walked away anyway?

“Yes, I know… But then that guy was everywhere with you. Thought you’d made a choice.” Tim shrugged off his comment but it didn't ease the ache that remained when he thought you had chosen Jack.

“So, I may or may not have followed him whenever you made plans to meet him.”

You tried, and failed, to suppress the giddy smile that spread across your face.

“You just, what? Stood there in the shadows somewhere, watching me watch Jack have sex?” Both of you burst into giggles at the scenario.

“My favourite was when he was with Jackie”—Tim couldn't help but laugh through his words—“and I saw you pull out this tiny pocket notepad like you were a critic taking notes. I don't even know how he performed under all that pressure.”

“Well, I probably didn't want to forget what I'd just come up with. Did you know he's helped me write out a mini-series of cowboy romances? Surprisingly good at coming up with angst.”

“That notepad was mine by the way, I’m gonna need it back can't investigate a crime scene without it.”

“Oh, yes, of course, did you want me to leave in the sexy notes I took or…?”

“Leave those in please, you never know. It's how we found Jack had some of the answers to the case. He’s all over the place, he slept with Jackie who had some scoop about the Boulton case, Isabel who worked on the Boulton mansion as an architect, Victoria who wants to buy the estate, and—”

You didn't know why Tim was obsessed with Maddie’s grandma and her case.

“Jack said he knew Maddie’s grandpa Charlie from when they were both working for that alcohol company—”

“Statesman.”

“—yup, something about Charlie being his mentor and friend.”

You burrowed into Tim’s chest feeling the vibration when he hmm’ed at your words, and pressed your lips to his warm skin. You hadn't imagined the evening would play out like this but you sighed in contentment as Tim ran his hands along your back, appreciating the soft planes and hills of your body before his hand came up to cup the back of your head and aligned your lips with his.

“I need to get into these books of yours, figure out how to star in one of them.” You chased his lips with a whine as Tim left you needing more.

“Please don't, it's embarrassing. If it helps, I do write about you.”

“Yeah?” Tim slotted a leg between the both of yours leaving you dazed at the feeling of his thigh pressing against your pussy. You gave an experimental grind of your hips, moaning at the exquisite feel.

“You’ll find”— You broke into a gasp when your clit found the patch of coarse hair on his thigh, adjusting yourself to rub the rest of your pussy across it—“You’ll find all my heroes take after you, Tim.”

He groaned, unsure of whether it was due to your words or because of the mess you were making on his leg. Perhaps both. He felt himself hardening again.

“Detective, will you please let me suck your cock?”

“Depends, be a good girl and get yourself off on my thigh baby, then I’ll teach you how to suck my cock the way I like it.”

Tim was tender yet strong, he could share laughs with you but also leave you breathless with his intensity. Sometimes, all he needed was a light touch to make you fall apart for him. And at times he would hold you together so tight in his arms, as if he had anchored your soul to his. It was no wonder he was the hero of all your books.

[anonymityisfunwriter]

Hi, i want to start this by saying i absolutely love your work and you are one of the few writers i would trust to write this request. Recently i experienced whats called chemical pregnancy. A chemical pregnancy is a pregnancy that usually doesnt make it past about the first 2 months of pregnancy. I miscarried at 5 weeks, the night after i found out i was pregnant. It was an unplanned and frankly unwanted pregnancy due to multiple reasons so its a conflicting situation for me. I was wondering if you could write a fic with Bf!Bucky where reader has to tell Bucky about the situation (minus the unwanted part but still unplanned) and he comforts her and her unusual and confusing (due to the circumstances) grieving process. I would really appreciate this fic as this is something that has been really hard for me but please do not feel pressured to write this if it makes you uncomfortable. <3

Hi,

First and foremost, I am so very sorry. Regardless of the situation, this must be so incredibly difficult for you.

Thank you for trusting me with something like this, I can really only hope I do it justice or offer you the smallest amount of solace or distraction. Please let me know if you need anything or if I can pray for you or simply send you some good thoughts and love. My inbox is always open.

And if you are just apart of my usual audience, this is NOT part of the Grumpy x Sunshine series or any of my usual series, please heed the content and trigger warnings, while there is nothing graphic in this fic, there are some very heavy themes.

Proceed with caution.

CW/TW: Discussing child loss/miscarriage, pregnancy, and other related content

--

A Different Type of Grief

Grief.

Grief was familiar.

This was an entirely different type of grief.

It settles in the depths of your bones. Wrapping around your ribcage like a python. Not necessarily suffocating you, but just constricting enough that you felt the pain with every breath.

Every single breath was a reminder.

There were moments that you weren't sure what you were actually grieving.

An idea of a future that you didn't know you wanted quite yet. Of a person that you didn't know. A person you would now never get to know.

You'd known for less than a day.

Admittedly, the little pink plus sign was a surprise.

You never would've known if it weren't for the fact that you had to take a pregnancy test before changing birth control.

You highly doubt you would've known anything was wrong otherwise. Knowing that, makes it all the more painful.

That one day was filled with the most heightened emotions you'd ever known.

First, intense surprise. Followed by intense anxiety. And then, complete, total, unbridled happiness.

You suppose that it only made sense that this suffering was also intense. Unimaginable. Unfathomable.

When you found out, Bucky's return was still 48 hours away, but you were already planning on how you could tell him the second he got back.

You'd talked about the possibility of having a family before. And while this would be deviating from the plan you talked about before, it was still something you both ardently wanted.

You had so many ideas on how to tell him the joyous news.

You had not a single one for how to tell him this.

For the 24 hours that you knew, you spent it reimagining the future you thought you wanted. You dove in head first, embracing it in spite of all the reservations and reasons that you once held.

Chemical pregnancy. Those were really the only words that you heard. Just like that, your new future was gone, ripped away like it was nothing.

The last 24 hours were something that you would not wish upon your worst enemy, a suffering too terrible to name.

Your heart clenched every time you thought about it. About taking that away from him like it'd been taken from you. The idea of being parents. The excitement that would build over those nine months. It hurt.

It hurt so much you didn't know how your bones hadn't crumbled under the pressure.

"Doll, I'm back," Bucky announces. You wince when you hear his voice echo down the hall. Normally, you'd be waiting for him or you'd bound into his arms and showering him with affection the moment he opened the door. He frowns at the peculiarity, ambling into the apartment with his duffle bag in hand. "Doll?"

He finds you in the kitchen, obsessively cleaning and rearranging one of the spice cabinets. "Doll?"

You can't bring yourself to look at him, instead, you hyper fixate on the cabinet. Barely sparing Bucky an acknowledgement, you mumble, "Hi."

"Is everything okay?"

No, you think to yourself, none of it was okay.

You fervently shake your head, "No. This is wrong, it's all wrong!"

In spite of the last 24 hours you spent obsessively cleaning your apartment from top to bottom, you sweep the first row of spices with your hand. They scatter and smash all over the pristine floor.

Bucky jolts at the shock of the abrupt action, "Can you please talk to me? You're scaring me a little bit."

You look down at your shoes, the same ones you'd worn for the last 24 hours, not having changed once since the doctor uttered those awful words, now covered in little shards of glass.

Bucky steps to the side of you, the sound of glass crunching underneath his shoes not even registering in his mind.

Your eyes remain downcast, still staring at the floor. Your eyes flicker over to his boots. "We should stop wearing shoes in the house."

"Can you please talk to me? What's going on? Did something happen?" Bucky desperately pleads, trying to catch your eye.

You side step him, walking to the front door to place your shoes on the shoe rack, quietly murmuring, "We really should stop wearing shoes in the house."

Bucky trails right behind you, slightly disturbed by the zombie like state in which you were operating.

"What's-" he trails off, his eyes flickering to a white card on the coffee table.

On it, a small cartoon stork is carrying a little bundle in its beak.

His sharp gasp stops you in your tracks.

You squeeze your eyes shut, striding over to the table as quickly as you can to get rid of the reminder.

"I'm sorry, I meant to throw this away," you blankly mutter, taking the card you made for Bucky off the table.

"Can you please just sit down and talk to me? Are you- Are we?"

You turn back to him and it doesn't take him much to deduce the answer from your glassy eyes and the pained look on your face. "No, we're not. Not anymore."

"Not anymore," Bucky quietly repeats to himself.

Hearing him repeat the words hits you like a ton of bricks. You feel yourself unravel, no longer able to push away the unimaginable.

"I'm - I'm so sorry," you apologize, your voice cracking as you feel yourself dissipate into a puddle of tears.

Unlike the last 24 hours, this time, Bucky is there to catch you. He braces his arms as you crumble into him. You feel your knees give out and suddenly, he's the only thing holding you up, only thing holding you together.

You clutch his shirt, balled up in your fist like it's your lifeline.

"It's okay," he promises, stroking the back of your head as you sob into his shoulder. Even as tears burn and well in his eyes, he focuses on the heart ache you must be feeling. "It's okay."

"I didn't do anything wrong," you brokenly whisper.

"Oh, I know, I know you didn't," Bucky consoles you, embracing you as tightly as he can. The two of you holding onto each other as you both fought the urge to swim down into the sea of despair. "It's not your fault."

"I didn't do anything wrong," you swear over and over again.

"It's okay. We're gonna be okay," Bucky promises.

AnonymityIsFun Masterlist

General Taglist: @ludicbouquetfromearth @famousbreadcherryblossomsstuff @geminigengar @@melsmelsmels @ecolle @ybflkmj @mediocre-daydreams @thegirlnextdoorssister @toomanyfanficsbruh @mirikusashes @infamouslyclumsy

[vanlegion]

Through the Looking Glass, Darkly

Some thoughts and theories about Juane on RWBY Vol.9 OP, Episode 1 and onward.

But also something about the OP no one has mentioned yet. Could be minor, or it could be huge.

This contains spoilers, so I’ll do a break and tag accordingly.

So since the teaser and moving forward, and with everything that has been giving to us so far, one of the biggest things I see, and *partially* agree with is:

This is our White Knight, Possibly also the/connected to the White Rabbit (this character is seen with a JACKALOPE towards the end of the OP) and hinted to be Juane.

I agree . . but I do not believe this is ALL of Juane. I think this is only HALF of Juane.

So far, a lot of speculation about this season is about what’s INSIDE. The Within. “What are you?”

In fact, these scene during the OP has the lyrics ‘Inside’ framed on it. Looking in, seeing darkness, seeing nothing. And as pointed out by many others which I did not see before, there is no 11th hour. Hope is lost.

This man is broken. Fractured. Much like his sword.

This card, along with Ruby’s own card, are the only characters to have any other color on them that’s not a hue or tint of their predominate color.

Juane has the red of the blood from Penny, Ruby has white for emptiness, nothingness.

We see Ruby slowing down, loosing her light, lossing her way. She is slowly becoming undone.

But Juane, is already broken, and his mind is fractured. He has had no time to process the fact he had to kill someone dear to himself and even more so to Team RWBY - to Ruby herself. Ruby who is his very dear to him. His first friend at Beacon. His Team Leader buddy, who has helped him through so much.

 It does not matter it was war. It does not matter the sacrifice was necessary.

That scream he let go of when he had to do what was asked of him, was the scream of someone breaking, and then smbolically, so too goes his sword.

And so he falls, he shatters.

So then. . . “What are you?”

Juane no longer can feel like he’s a Hero. Juane can no longer feel like he’s going to be there to save people.

Because now Juane feels like a monster. A killer. A murder.

So now this place takes that fractured mind, that broken boy and makes him into what he feels he really is, a monster:

“. . . or could I lose my mind?” The first time we see the Jabberwalker, it is ‘Seeking, Searching, Scouring, Stalking.’

It then listens, senses danger and after accessing attacks. It then sizes up its target. Then, when it analyzed the battlefield and sees it is outnumbered, it makes the call to Retreat.

A creature of high intelligence and battle field tactics. Voicing its actions as if voicing commands to others, but no one is there except itself. Was able to show great strength against Blake, and then took evasive action.

I think this is actually the real Juane, or rather his mind and soul. I think the White Knight is his empty body, a vessel and little else. A malleable puppet.

Or perhaps the WK part of Juane is what is left of the hero he was suppose to be, and this creature is what he feels he’s become. A danger. A monster.

The Chevrons on the tail seem an interesting choice, and what are Chevrons is just a pointed arc?

Then lastly, the OP - At the end as Ruby falls, she falls downward and passes by all the important highlighting motifs. . . except. . . I saw something peculiar. She’s falling in front of every thing as she descends. .  making this seem like a flat image. Making it seem she’s beyond their reach.

Except. .

This creature is not reaching UP the graphic, it’s reaching OUT of the graphic.

Ruby falls BEHIND this creatures hand.

That is an Animation CHOICE. To me that is SIGNIFICANT.

Also to me the significance of the broken mind is the placement of these two -  the high standing hero figure (top) looking towards the horizon, and the other the demon/monster (bottom) look up towards where it’s trying to reach

But I will stress all of this is just my crazy brain putting little tiny things together, exploding those into a macro level of thoughts and feelings. I feel the WK/WR is a huge subversion, a great one, and no one has questioned what the sanity of an already broken mind could look like. .  because we are instead watching the possible fall and break of another one.

[bertytravelsfar]

Only Yesterday Part Two (WIP)

And of course, now I have realised that I wrote the whole thing longhand, so I have to edit and type it up at the same time. Hey ho!

A little more angst for your Sunday night, my lovelies?

Only Yesterday - My WIP being posted on Tumblr only until it’s actually finished when I will post it to AO3 (she said boldly!) No warnings other that John Watson being an angry man and a few non graphic injuries.

Part Two - A New World Order

“...and friction burns all down the left side of your torso and hip, concussion, severe bruising to your coccyx, ribs and left hip, two fractured ribs, abrasions to your brow, left cheek and jaw, you bit through your bottom lip but your teeth are okay, dislocated knee, hairline fracture to your right… wrist…”

Mike’s voice falters and he must catch something a bit desperate in John’s expression. Either that or he suddenly remembers that John is the human recipient of the lengthy list of injuries he is reciting. He winces a little and forces a smile and a more upbeat tone.

“So… how are you feeling?” He ruins the solicitousness by stealing some more of the grapes that he’d brought for John.

“Like I got hit by a bloody taxi,” John deadpans.

It’s bright in the hospital room and much too warm. John’s painkillers from breakfast are wearing off and lunch, and his next dose, are still an hour away. Mike Stamford has been in both days since he woke up here, jovial and chatty. Being a doctor has its perks - John has a private side room off the main ward, so he’s been able to get some sleep but between the pain from his injuries and the noise and hustle of a busy London hospital, he’s tired and aching, and people keep wincing when they see the tarmac burns across his face.He sighs and very gently shakes his head which turns out to be a bad idea.

“Tell me again what happened.”

“Again? Fine… fine. The lights went out. Everywhere. All over the world. Just for eleven seconds. Everything. Everywhere. Anything electrical just stopped. The media went absolutely mad for it. You missed all of that because…”

“...I was in here, unconscious,” John finishes for him. He frowns. It hurts, so he stops.

“And why did…?”

“No one knows,” Mike interrupts. To be fair they have been over this several times, but John feels like he’s missing something.

“Some people say solar flares, some say it’s magnetic north shifting or radiation or an EM pulse or just a coincidence. But it affected everything. You remember when the Y2K thing happened and they predicted pandemonium, that all the planes would fall from the sky as midnight struck? And then nothing happened? Well it was like that, but this time it really did happen.”

“Coincidence?” John asks, latching on to one word in the flood. Mike’s a good guy, and a good friend, but he could talk the hind legs off a donkey. “You know what he always said about coincidences.”

John waits for a moment of connection, of recognition and loss to flow between them. He doesn’t often talk about Sherlock but Mike was the one who introduced them; he was Mike’s friend before he was John’s.

“Who says what?” Mike asks, frowning. He looks around for a bin to throw the grape stalk away into, but there isn’t one so he carefully wraps it back in the paper bag and leaves it on John’s sheets.

“The universe is rarely so lazy,” John says in the best approximation of a deep baritone that he can muster when laying in a hospital bed with his bashed up lip threatening to split again and his ribs singing merry hell at him.

Mike smiles and again looks a little confused.

“Who’s that supposed to b… oh crap!” He catches sight of the clock and picks up his coat. “I’m late again… crap! I’ll try and pop in tomorrow. Take care of yourself - no picking fights with any Hackney Cabs!”

And with a quick pat on the shoulder (which hurts) he bustles off out of the room, a small whirlwind of geniality and grape juice stickiness.

“What do you mean, “who?”’ John calls after him, thinking he’d done a pretty good job of it,  but Mike’s already out the door and off to whatever it is he’s late for.

&&&

As a concept, the idea of a celebratory drink with his colleagues from work is a good one. In practice, it’s less so but John acknowledges that he’s not the world’s most sociable man and leaves it there.

The pub is a great choice (Molly’s), and one they know quite well from weekend catchups. It’s close to the river but doesn’t feel as surrounded by city as it is; a little patch of quiet while the rest of the world goes on around it.

John is glad to have been discharged from the hospital; he’s feeling stronger by the day, the evening is warm and still sunny and the company is pleasant -  there’s a small but choice group of colleagues from work but still John feels this sense of disconnection which he puts down to the painkillers and ignores.

He’s been working at Barts since he gave up his locum work. Mike had dropped John’s name into a few conversations when a part time position on the teaching staff had come up. Trauma medicine is something that John knows a thing or eighty about, and he was grateful for the opportunity. He’s surprised to have found that he genuinely enjoys interacting with his students - bright eyed, bushy tailed young things that they are, all convinced that they can make a difference. Being around them keeps his instinctive scorn and skepticism at bay, John finds. After all, this is where he is now and it could be a lot worse. It’s not where he belongs, of course, because that place was snatched from him on a cold day in April a couple of years back.

A handful of his friends and colleagues have turned up to celebrate his survival and liberation from a rival hospital, and although John isn’t exactly healed yet, the sight of his (slightly inebriated) co-workers gives him a genuine flush of warmth. In addition to Mike and Molly, there are Molly’s boyfriend Rob, Karen, who is a fellow lecturer, Diarmuid who works in admin and Marius, who is head of the teaching staff. They all cheer as he hobbles to the table they have bagged in the beer garden, Mike walking slowly and solicitously at his side.

There are backslaps and a couple of kisses and enquiries after his recovery. A round of drinks magically appears, which will later be followed by several more, no doubt. John will be sticking to soft drinks - his head stil aches slightly from the knock it took but he is touched by the enthusiasm with which he is greeted.

“Oh John! Your poor face,” Molly coos. “It’s not as bad as Mike said, but… How are you feeling?”

“A bit bashed up, but improving,” John nods to a chorus of encouraging noises.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Rob laughs and John tells him to piss off. Rob’s nice enough but he can be a bit much sometimes, something that John thinks Molly knows only too well as she often has to step in and distract from the latest boorish thing her boyfriend has spouted.

“We were just talking about the blackout. What do you think it was?” Diarmuid asks once everyone is seated and in possession of a full glass. He’s a nice guy with a soothing accent and a peaceful vibe. John has a lot of time for Diarmuid.

“I read online that it was a weapons test that had gone wrong,” Karen begins. “Some sort of foreign power’s satellite system that uses pulses of EM…”

“That sounds like bollocks,” Rob hoots. “They would know if it had come from a satellite and besides, an EM pulse wouldn’t have taken out electronics on the opposite side of the world. It was everywhere - the whole world - all at once.”

He gets a few nods of agreement but no matter how much sense he is making, his manner is dismissive and several people at the table take a sip of drink to cover their discomfort.

“What about sun spots or solar flares?” Molly says quickly. “Several scientists have suggested they might have had something to do with it.”

There are general shrugs around the table and Rob looks like he’s about to squash that idea too, but John is saved from acting by Mike who quickly puts in his own suggestion.

“Nobody’s clocked the obvious reason,” he says with a grin. “Aliens!”

Molly rolls her eyes good naturedly and sits back from the table. “Well it’s been over a week and they are no closer to having an explanation. Why not aliens? It’s aliens or it remains a mystery forever.”

“There’s only one person who could have worked out this one,” John says with a quiet smile that he’s still not used to even after all this time. He’s surprised when everyone turns to look at him expectantly.He doesn’t speak about him, but John knows they all know what happened - the twitch of an eyebrow when he’s introduced to new people as they recognise his name. He wouldn’t mention him now either but he’s been on John’s mind a lot (even more than usual) during his recovery.

 “Oh come on!” he says to the ring of watching faces. “He’d have loved this one.”

“Who would?” Mike asks, ready to laugh, a smile already quirking one side of his mouth.

“What do you mean, ‘who would’? Sherlock, of course.”

There’s a beat where everyone just waits to see who is going to speak

Is that someone’s name?” Rob asks inevitably. “Odd bloody name if you ask me.”

John gives Rob a withering glance and takes a deep sip of his lemonade. His gaze flicks from one colleague to the next and every one of them is watching him, like they are waiting for a punchline. He puts down his glass, frowning.

“Sherlock Holmes? You remember him, tall, thin chap, bit of a dick but also the world’s only consulting detective?” John waits to be let in on the joke, whatever it is.

He watches as those who don’t look confused, smile politely and sip their drinks. They are all very careful not to make eye contact with each other or with him. It’s like they think he’s raving, they’re embarrassed by his words. They must think they’re doing him a favour by avoiding the topic of Sherlock - they’re trying to be kind but John’s a grown man. He’s a bloody doctor and a soldier! Yes, admittedly he was a mess at the time, but he’s had the therapy and he’s moved on physically and mentally to all but the keenest observer. John knows how to hold it together when he has to.

“Listen, I know what you’re doing. You don’t have to. He was a big part of my life for a while.” The understatement of the decade right there, rolling off his tongue.

More shrugs and headshakes greet his words.

“Sorry mate, not a clue who you mean,” Marius offers cautiously.

“Seriously? Sherlock!” John can hear his voice becoming strained and too loud. He blinks and waits again - this is a really shit joke and he is beginning to get suddenly very tired of it. He turns to Molly who had had a crush on Sherlock that had been visible from space, but she’s tapping away at her phone and doesn’t look up.

“Mike, you introduced us!” John insists, appealing to his friend.

Good natured and as gentle a man as you might ever meet, Mike frowns. “I don’t remember that… it’s a pretty distinctive name, I think I’d remember if I’d known anyone called…” He trails off looking disappointed that he’s let John down.

Shaking his head so sharply it aches, John sits back from the table.

“This isn’t funny you know. Stop taking the piss. I’m not concussed anymore, so you can just… give it a rest.”

The tense silence that falls is broken only a few seconds later by the arrival of Chaz, another colleague come to wish him well, who has her new girlfriend in tow.

“Sorry we’re late. This is Ash, Ash this is everyone. Can I get anyone a drink?”

The chorus of greetings and alcohol orders overcompensates for the awkwardness of before. Several of them head off to the bar and Karen leans over and asks him how he’s been sleeping, if the pain is keeping him awake and John realises that they are glossing over his outburst, that for some reason, they don’t want to talk about Sherlock or about John’s past, and for the life of him, John cannot think of why they are so clearly rattled by his behaviour.

He clears his throat and pushes on, not wanting to ruin a gathering thrown in his honour. He fills in the gaps as Ash is told the story of his misadventures with the cab. He accepts another drink - they’re beginning to pile up a bit now and there’s only so much lemonade a man can drink - and he puts the strange moment out of his mind for now. The sun on his head and the chatter of the beer garden is soothing after being in hospital and he decides to lets it all wash over him.

He doesn’t think about the weird moment again until he is back in Mike’s car and on the way home.

“You’re not being serious about not knowing who Sherlock is?” John asks, watching as the sunlight turns redder and the evening settles over them.

“Seriously, mate,” Mike says. “No idea.”

“You knew him, you introduced us a Barts. Posh guy, curly hair. Smart. Was in the papers a lot…”

“Sherwood what was it?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” John offers, but Mike just pulls a bit of a clueless face and shakes his head. “He was my friend, my best friend.”

Mike  glances across at him and looks as if he wants to agree, but clearly has no clue what John is talking about.

“When was this?” he asks carefully.

“When I came back from Afghanistan. I was in a bit of a bad place and he was looking for a flatmate. I ran into you one day in Postman’s Park and you introduced us.”

John stops to breathe for a minute when he catches Mike’s sad, worried expression. Why is he doing this - they’ve had their little joke. John’s certain it’s not him - he’s had all the scans and the tests they could throw at him in the hospital because of the concussion. He’s fine. He’s clear. Sherlock’s only been gone a couple of years - they could not possibly have forgotten him, even had it been twenty years. God knows, he wasn’t the kind of person that people forget. So it must be some sort of joke that the others are playing on him… but why? None of this makes any sense.

Mike signals and waits for traffic on the road they are joining.

“John, when you came back from Afghanistan Harry helped you find your place as far as I know. The first thing I heard about you being back was when you took the job at Barts. That was in the May of 2010.”

“What? No, I… we lived in Baker Street… and I did some locum GP work when we weren’t…” John trails off. This isn’t like Mike at all. He’s a kind man who wouldn’t know how to be cruel even if he wanted to.

“Listen,” Mike says, “you’ve had a hell of a week. They’ve signed you off for the rest of the term, so you should take it easy for a bit. A few days back at your place, a few good night’s sleep…”

And John can’t listen to this. It’s madness. It makes no sense. He feels fine. He is fine. But something like anger, like fury, is rising inside him and Mike doesn’t deserve that. He needs to get out of the car now. He doesn’t know if he’s going to be sick or fly into a rage or sob uncontrollably.

“Just let me out here, Mike,” he says, holding onto his temper by the thinnest thread.

“What are you talking about, man? We’re still miles from yours. What are you going to do? You can’t walk on crutches all the way back to your…”

“Stop the car,” John insists. “I… I need to walk…”

“I can’t do that! It’s getting dark and… John it’s miles!”

“Now, Mike!” John snaps,  one hand on his cane and the other already fumbling for the door handle.

“John… for god’s sake!” Mike gulps as John unbuckles his seatbelt. “Alright… just…. Alright!”

He indicates and pulls into the kerb abruptly, waving an apology to the couple of cars behind who lay on their horns and steer around them.

John already has the door open and is struggling out of the car, his head pounding and half mad with confusion. He plants his cane and gets his feet under him, then gritting his teeth, pushes up and out, using the momentum to hobble a couple of steps before turning to Mike who is leaning across the car and looking up at him.

“At least drop me a text and let me know you’re home safe,” Mike says resignedly, obviously seeing no softening of John’s expression.

John nods and mutters a graceless ‘thank you’ before swinging the door shut. He turns and starts walking without waiting for Mike to pull away again. He is a good way away from home, he recognises. His leg and back are both aching, reminding him that he’s due another painkiller and it will be nearly dark before he gets it, but John needs the quiet.

This situation makes no sense and as far as he can see, it’s not going to while people are telling him that they don’t remember Sherlock Holmes - a media darling, the newspapers were full of him and the cases he’d solved for months leading up to his death. And after he’d jumped it was as if there wasn’t another story in the world for a few days. John had loathed it, but then found it had been worse when eventually entire days would go by without a mention of him in the press or in his life. Even if he didn’t like to talk about it himself, he knew what debt the country owed Sherlock and he’d wanted them to acknowledge that.

He hadn’t been thinking straight for a couple of months afterwards. Perhaps that’s what was happening to him now. Perhaps the shock of his own accident was distorting his memories of his friend. John knew that PTSD could have some strange effects on memory recall but he’d never heard of anything quite so precise as misremembering someone that had made such a huge impact on your life.

As he walks, or limps, really, he passes the time by testing himself, and he pulls together an order of their time. How they met, the flat, Mrs Hudson, the cabbie, his job, the circus, Moriarty, the pool. It sounds like a film plot or a series of thrillers but each piece is bright and sharp in his mind - nothing wobbles when he pushes at it a little and the detail he recalls cannot be anything but something he lived. He adds in the few things from that period that were only his, smiling to himself when he recognises how few there were, and how much of John’s life Sherlock had inhabited. It passes the time and it keeps his mind off the ache that has become a shrieking pain leaving him feeling like there isn’t an inch of his body that isn’t bruised or abraded.

He’s almost sick with relief when he finally steps through his front door. He locks it behind him and hobbles to the kitchen, finds his tablets and pops two, washing them down with gulps of water from the kitchen tap and watching out the window as night begins to fall on the world outside.

His flat is at street level, but there are two others in this converted Edwardian redbrick house, one above and one below with a garden. They all have separate front doors, so there’s not a lot of interaction between him and his neighbours. The woman downstairs is in her mid sixties, a ceramic artist. It is she who looks after the pretty garden that John can see out of the windows at the back of his flat. His living space is one long room that stretches from the street to the back of the house with his kitchen at one end and his sitting room at the other. Across the hall there is a double bedroom which also overlooks the garden, a small, chilly bathroom and a tiny box room that John uses as a study. It’s not exactly Buckingham Palace, but when all John had wanted was to not be at Baker Street, expecting himself to blow in at any moment with a sly smile and a new case, this place without memories or ghosts had been perfect.

John half sits, half falls onto the sofa. He’s exhausted but his mind is still full of swirling coat hems and eyes that can’t decide on a colour, on dark chuckles and quick fingers on violin strings. He clicks on a lamp, pulls his laptop off the coffee table and wakes it up. He doesn’t often allow himself to revisit those times online, and without the filter of his own memory he’s found they hurt more than he can put into words. But tonight, with the hospital and the long walk and the weirdness he decides to search for what comfort he can find there.

He opens the browser and types Sherlock’s name into the search bar.

The first hits are all businesswomen who go by Sherl, then there’s an American country singer, an animated character and an IT solutions firm. It asks him if he meant to type ‘Shrek.’

 It feels like the world has lost all colour and sound instantaneously.John stares down at the keyboard and notices that his hands are shaking and realises with a tsunami of sweet relief that he must have made a typing error - Sherlock always did tell him he should learn to do it properly.He takes a calming breath to steady his hands and types the name again, watching each keystroke to ensure that the correct letter has been selected.The monstrous green face appears again alongside the LinkedIn profiles and Wikipedia entries and adverts.

“What the fuck is going on?” he asks into the silence of the flat.He types it again, backspacing when his fingers stutter and stumble over the familiar letters. He tastes bile, opens a new page and types it again.

And again.

He scrolls through three pages, four, five. It’s impossible.

It’s too huge for him to grasp. He must be doing something wrong, but he can’t catch what it is. The country, the world, cannot have forgotten the greatest consulting detective who has ever lived. There are thousands and thousands of pages dedicated to his methods, his exploits, his wardrobe, his legacy, the rumours and the conspiracy theories - he knows there are. So why can’t he find them?

After a moment or two John realises that with his hands pressed to his lips hard enough to hurt, he’s hyperventilating, his thin, wheezing breaths sounding like an injured animal, keening and high pitched.He forces himself to breathe slowly. Opens another window.

S-h-e-r-l-o-c-k

Same results. He shuts it down.

H-o-l-m-e-s

A village in Cheshire.

A hotel.

A beer hall.

A footballer.

A company that sells air purifiers.

A seafood wholesaler.

A skip hire company.

A Shakespearean character.

It takes a moment for his brain to reboot and all the while, the keening noise is right there, trying to escape his lips, trying to scream about pain and loss and the wrongness of the whole fucking world until the very bricks and mortar of London are shaken down to nothing.

He types 221B Baker Street.

He types The Lost Vermeer.

He types James Moriarty.

Faster and faster, barely waiting for the pages to load before he discards them and tries something else.

The date of Sherlock’s death.

The Science of Deduction.

Barts Suicide.

Geoff Hope.

There is nothing even remotely connected to the man who made such a profound impact on John’s life that he’s been grieving him for the last two years.

Through the numb howling in his head a thought unfolds. He can barely type in his own password as he opens up his blog. He’d hated it when he’d started it on the advice of his therapist all those years ago. To begin with it had been a sporadic and bitter record of a man who hadn’t known where he’d fitted anymore but as he’d become involved with Sherlock and begun to write about the cases they had shared, he’d come alive, words pouring out of his fingers and onto the screen, bright and vibrant and mad and wonderfully, wonderfully real.

He should have tried this first, of course. He’d documented their life together first hand… well, a lot of it. Some had been classified, some had been tactfully omitted and some of it John still hadn’t found the words to explain and now most likely never would, but…

His most recent blog post pops up and he navigates his way back to before that day at Barts when everything had stopped. There are posts there - dozens of them, but relief sours in seconds when he begins to flick through them. Post after post, dates that should have been commemorated, not a single one of his posts is how he remembers them. A few lines each about London or his training or his new job - some of them have a couple of comments - none of them familiar. And not a single mention of Sherlock Holmes anywhere. No cases. No consulting detective. No snarky commentary by the man himself.

“No,” John says simply. He forgets (refuses) to breathe until the only other choice is unconsciousness, when he drags in a ragged, wet gasp. Then he does it again. And again, until his ears are full of  a whining buzz and there are dots in front of his eyes.

He pulls his phone from his pocket and scrolls for Greg’s number but it isn’t there. He doesn’t let this register for fear he will start hyperventilating again and instead pulls up a number from the internet for New Scotland Yard. He has to go through three switchboards to get to the right department where they at least seem to recognise who John is asking for. He then has to explain that although it’s not office hours, and he is aware of that, it’s vital that he speak to Lestrade.

“Who’s calling?”

“John Watson… Doctor John Watson.”

“And you say he’s expecting your call?” John has, in fact, not said this but he has implied very heavily that that is the case.

“Yes, it’s to do with what he’s currently working on. I’m from Barts.”

He doesn’t feel good, twisting things like that, but he hasn’t time to consider the moral implications of it right now.There’s a click and a muffled rumble of voices and a long sigh.

“Lestrade.”

John has never been so glad to hear a familiar voice, even one as weary as this.

“Greg, it’s John. Look I’m sorry to bother you… and that I haven’t been in touch lately but it’s about Sherlock.”

John doesn’t sound like a crazy person - he’s speaking fast and he’s a little breathless and thick, but he doesn’t sound crazy. He makes sure he doesn’t.

“Sorry?

”“It’s Sherlock, Greg. Something has happened and… I don’t know how to explain this really, but he’s… everything’s gone. There’s no trace of him anywhere online and it’s almost like he never… like he never…”

“Listen, Dr Watson is it? They said you were from Barts?”

John manages to make an affirmative grunt.

“You’re part of Dr Hooper’s team I assume? I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about and I’m not waiting on anything from you, so unless this has something to do with the poor bugger we’ve just pulled out of the Thames, then I suggest you dial 101 and give them the details of your… cat, is it? Your Sherlock or whatever and they can take it from there, okay?”

“No, you don’t understand…”The call goes muffled and John can hear Greg shouting to someone who shouts back even more faintly. There’s a couple of concise swearwords and Greg is back, his Estuary accent strained enough to sound Cockney.

“I hope you find her, mate but do me a favour and don’t call Serious Crimes unless it actually is one.”

For an indeterminate amount of time, John sits, mobile still in hand. It gets quiet outside as even the drunks make their way home to bed.And then John sniffs. He picks up his laptop, wakes it up again and begins to type.

[lovelessdagger]

Starlight - Chapter Thirty-Three: The Fruits of Sin

Pairing: Din Djarin x OC, Din Djarin x OFC

Rating: Mature

Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Canon Divergence, Smut

Warnings: Explicit Language. Graphic Violence. Torture/Whump. Imperialism. Drugs and Alcohol

Words: 7.7k

Summary : “Mayfeld at least, finds the humor. “I guess that’s how you know it’s real love, huh? Neither of you know who the fuck the other is and you still care bout each other. Secrets be damned.”

Starlight Masterlist Here

Read Chapter Thirty-Two Here

Read on AO3 Here

The anger comes the easiest, therefore it is also the most difficult. It infects Din Djarin like a slow moving parasite, crawling up his nerves and spinal cord before settling in the back of his head. It makes camp inside his psyche, a heavyweight champion of grief.

The dark lost all its comfort. Shadows which were once an escape are filled with void.

Things don’t improve with the helmet on, orange data displays induce headaches. His beskar, reflective, repellant. It has nothing to shine for here, in whatever remains of the Mandalorian covert on Nevarro. Din confines himself to its cut stone in the early morning and late nights. He avoids what he can of stars, the vision an insult.

“I would have never looked at her if I knew this would come from it.”

 In making the statement, Din believed it. How could he not? No one in their right minds would actively choose this path, this way. But with the passage of six days and the growing infection, somehow he’s always known this would happen. From the very beginning she did nothing but warn him against her. The results were always going to be devastating, they knew no other way to exist.

Din willingly gave himself from that very moment in the hangar. He wanted to, so he did. And he liked it. He wanted more than the Creed would ever allow, so he took it, accepting any excuse from himself.

He can’t think of it for too long without the on-surge of a migraine paired with sickness in his gut. He gets spacey when asked of it, any of it. He becomes irrational, on the edge of a tantrum like a spoiled child.

They all notice he’s different. Stalking Nevarro half dead and possessed. They give him attempts of disguised altruism to mask pity.

Greef Karga tried, approaching Din by the town’s square in front of the IG-11 statue. “Dune told me about your kid. Sorry to hear it. We’ve got a spare room for you and your girl at the inn… where is she?”

Fennec offered him the floor of the Slave I. Boba retracted it.

Cara has food prepared and ready for him to grab from the cantina whenever he wants. After the third day she started including a bottle of liquor. Din never considered himself a drinker, but he always takes until the last drop.

He and Fett can’t talk without an argument starting. Over nothing. Everything. So they don’t.

The Child’s absence, Grogu, is the worst. It is without debate and only experience that Din claims the loss of a child is far worse than a parent. He can’t remember the last time he’s cried the way he has.

Din’s helmet sits across from him now, the unwelcomed guest to dinner. Taking a swig of cheap beer, his hand runs over his face. He needs to shave, a hair cut, a shower.

He needs to get away from himself.

-

“Su’cuy gar.” The voice echos from behind, Boba Fett. “I was told I would find you here.”

“Nar’sheb.” Din scoffs, tension rising in his shoulders. With his back turned, he makes no move for his helmet. “What do you want?”

“Your friend, Marshal Dune. She says her clearance was approved to pick up your contact.”

“You’re talking to Dune now?”

“Fennec is.” His footsteps sound closer, two behind Din. “You know, I’ve never seen it last this long. I hate to say I’m impressed.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Boba shrugs. “You’ll learn. Are you still against bringing her back?”

“I told you. She won’t come back. She’s on their side, deal with it.” Din scoffs, shaking his head. “I know you aren’t here for small talk. So why don’t you say whatever it is you want and get out.” 

He waits for Boba’s punch or other threat of violence. Instead there’s a reach over his shoulder, a holoframe set by Din’s food. It powers on, edges are old and worn from frequent handling.

Din leans forward, grabbing the metal. There’s a teenager, dark hair, curled at the end, and skin overly tanned. He’s annoyed in the way all children are at the delicate age. Din recognizes the second from the photo on the ship. Now matured into a young woman, hair dyed dark with blonde roots. To the third he frowns, blinking away emotion. “Who is that?”

“Who do you think?”

“Not Lumina.”

“No?”

Din’s head shakes again, jaw clenched. “No.” His tongue clicks the roof of his mouth. “Looks nothing like her.”

Boba snorts. “I think you’re the first person to ever say that.”

“So who is it?”

“Photo’s almost fifteen years old,” Boba says. Din doesn’t think when he turns, and Boba doesn’t comment. “Take a guess.”

“Fett—“

“When my sister discovered I worked for the Empire, she cut off all communications with me. She was scared my involvement would hurt the boy.” He chuckles. “He’s the same as yours. She dedicated her whole life protecting him, just as I did with Adi.”

“He’s the same?” Din repeats, slow.

“So is she.”

“Your sister?”

His head bobs. “Her too.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Din asks. Quiet, fearful of the cave’s echo.

“When I said she was back to how she was, my meaning wasn’t of her morality. That has always been strong. If she wanted to steal your child she would have done so a long time ago. That girl has no regard for her own safety, but she cares for her own. She’ll do whatever it takes to protect the Child, you must know that.”

“That’s what I did. Sometimes, the best place to hide is in plain sight.”

“What if her intentions with them are true? What if you’re wrong, and this is just who she is? She admitted to conspiring with the Empire, with Gideon.”

“If you believe that, then your child is already dead.” Boba retrieves the frame, slapping its back to his palm. “We leave for your contact first thing. I recommend you pull yourself together before then.” He turns on his heel, walking away from Din. “K’atini.”

“Fett!” Din shouts after, Boba already down the hall. “Who was that?”

“You wanted to know what I know,” Boba calls. “That’s what you get. Put your helmet on before the rats see you as well.”

Snapping to the beskar, Din imagines it laughs at him.

---

Lumina finds herself to be seventeen again. She lands crouched, one hand pressed on the ground. Her eyes squeeze shut to ignore the pounding in her head and the ringing in her ears. Everything is suffocating, the air, the voices, the electricity.

“Again,” she hears the Machine say.

Sweat beads across her forehead, wiped with the back of her hand holding a training blaster. Deactivated droids double her size stand scattered, metal heads dropped to chests. Except one, a foot taller and—debatably—more human than the rest.

In the months since Yavin, her training increased tenfold. She grew new muscles, eating more only to make up for the extra calories burned. She preferred her hair then in these situations, shaved sides and longer at the top. Now her bun breaks and front pieces create a horrific halo. She’s lost all control.

Standing on wobbly knees, she stumbles to the only table in the room. She grabs a canteen, chugging room temperature water until the mechanical breathing fades away with the rest of the hallucination.

“Impressive,” Moff Gideon says, replacing the vision of the Machine.

Lumina bends until her head rests against the cool surface. “What was my time?”

“Twenty-three,” Ghost says. She stands beside the Moff, opposite Lumina. Her arms cross over her chest. “Fastest time yet, right Doctor?”

Pershing nods. He sits behind some computer, attachments on Lumina’s arms and chest sending her vitals. “Her performance improved by one second exactly.”

“I can do better,” Lumina says. She stands, tapping the barrel of the gun to her head. “Reset the simulation.”

As a teenager, she would have thrown her blaster to the ground; march to the Machine with the ferocity of a dragon. In his armor she would see only herself in her fight.

“You’ve gone six time already,” Ghost says.

“I have failed six times,” Lumina says, echoing him. “I’ll go until I get it right. Reset the simulation.”

“You’ll injure yourself.”

“I’m too slow.”

“Because you’re tired.”

“War, does not care for your weakness,” the Machine said to her. “You are not allowed to be tired.”

“I’m fine. Reset it.”

“Using your lightsaber would lead to faster success,” Gideon says. Its on the table, by the now empty canteen. “The dark troopers are built to withstand assault from regular men and weaponry. Not magic.”

“He’s right,” Ghost agrees. “This training does nothing substantial for you, or us. If they were fully activated you’d be dead with that gun.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“I don’t think that’s something you want to test,” she laughs. “You proved your point. You’re fast and you know how to shoot. Are we done here?”

“I don’t recall inviting you to this,” Lumina snaps. “If you’re so bored you’re welcomed to leave. You can make yourself useful for once, clean the mess hall.”

“Don’t be a bitch.”

Lumina’s lightsaber flies into her hand, marched steps stopping two feet from the Inquisitor. “Don’t test me,” she challenges.

“Stand down,” Gideon says.

“Bite me,” she answers, then and now. A patch on the back of her neck shocks, bending her to her knees. She glares upwards, Ghost stifles a laugh with the back of her hand.

“Control yourself, 318.”

Lumina’s face pinches, head twitching. “Yes sir,” she mutters. When it stops, she stands again.

“Drop your weapon.”

She does, lightsaber falling in Gideon’s hand.

Gideon nods to Pershing. “We’re done for the day,” he says. “Remove her wires.”

“I’m not—“ Lumina argues.

“You are when I say you are. Is that clear?”

“Yes sir.”

“Return her to her quarters,” he instructs Ghosts.

“Actually, Moff Gideon,” Ghost says. She places her hand over his bicep, turning inwards to face. Her fingers lightly massage, she almost looks sweet. “I was hoping you could clear her for a little mission I have planned.”

“A mission?”

“Yes,” she answers. “I believe it would help her acclimate to her position if she could leave the ship for once.”

“Out of the question.”

“Don’t be so dull, Gideon,” Ghost drags, taking the lightsaber. “I’ll have her on my leash like a dog. Besides, where would she run? Home?”

As if it were an option at all.

---

Bass rattles the inside of Club Kasakar, footsteps stick to the floor coated in spilt liquor. Humidity comes from sweat and sex, over a hundred bodies half naked and high.

A head of spiked auburn hair bobs through the crowd. Three Trandoshans follow her, one in front, two in back. The crowds don’t part the way they should, crashing waves of rejection and lust all around. Strobe lights make vision impossible.

Coming to the back, the elevated platform holding a stained leather couch is occupied. Realistically, Relena O’Menfe should have expected the guest. Sat on the edge, legs spread. Smoke clouds her face, falling from her lips and the roll of origin between her gloved fingers.

The Trandoshans leave, taking position on the perimeter. A guard for her instead. Relena scoffs. “Who the fuck let you in here?”

The girl smiles. “Surprised?” She sounds sweet, like honey. “I was in the area, figured I’d stop by.” She takes a drag of her cigarette, dropping her head back to blow. “This place smells like shit.”

“Cleaners got sloppy.”

She looks down. “Sure.”

“You’re not welcomed here anymore,” Relena says. “So I suggest you go back to the hole you crawled out of before I make you.”

She laughs. “You don’t scare me. We both know I could turn you inside out if I wanted to, and it’s tempting.”

Relena steps forward, her hand falling to the blaster on her hip. “Last warning.”

“Or what?”

“I tell your little Imperial family where you are. They’ll be here in no time.”

“Cute. You thinking that scares me.”

“You shouldn’t have come here alone. Your boyfriend can’t protect you now.”

“Actually, it’s more a shame for you that he can’t be here.” She stands, walking until she drops off the platform. Smoke blows in Relena’s face. “Now I have nothing stopping me.”

“Back away,” Relena warns. Her blaster lifts, pointed to the girl’s chest. “You don’t want to do this in public.”

“Oh yes I do.”

“That lightsaber goes off and there’s New Republic up your ass in minutes.”

“I don’t need a saber to deal with you. We both know that.”

“Atikya, this is your last warning.”

“You know what’s funny?” Suddenly, she sounds from behind Relena. Her figure, a duplicate, steps into view from the left. She wears a uniform, Imperial, and her eyes are brown. She swirls a glass of liquor, taking a sip. “That’s not my name.”

Relena double takes. The girl in front, to the left, in front, and to the left again.  Eyes widen, she steps back. “What’s going on?”

“Never has been,” Lumina continues. She steps through the one in front, its image fades into the air like it never existed. “When I introduced myself to Sully, I said my name was Adi’ka.” She hops onto the platform, sitting like the phantom had. “There’s a difference in the accent when you pronounce it,” she waves, “It’s a cultural thing, I don’t expect you to understand.”

“How did you do that?”

“It was actually Neri who said it was Atikya, but he thought it was ugly so… Ayy’Numa. Really I should have just stuck with Tracker, or Echo—that’s what my dad called me. It would easier for everyone, good branding too.” She looks at Relena, head tilted. Challenging. “Keep pointing that blaster at me and I’ll break your hand.”

It returns to Relena’s holster, wordless.

Satisfied, Lumina grabs a loose cigarette on the table, lighting it. She stares at the burning end. “I quit years ago,” she says, killing it in the tray. “Bad for the senses, smell gave me headaches.” She takes a sip. “Not opposed to a drink though. ” She looks at Relena, eyes rolling. “It’s an illusion trick, takes years to master.”

“That’s new.”

Humming, Lumina waves mid drink. “Mm, no not me.” She points across to the bar, to a figure in similar costume. Black and red. White as a ghost, staring at them. “Her. So, what was that about calling the Empire? Again, right? I mean, there’s no other way they’d end up on Daro.” She sets down the glass, leaning forward. “Or gain access to my confidential reports.”

Pink lips purse. “You went back to them.”

“Not like I had much of a fucking choice, did I?” Lumina pats down her kama, tapping the armorweave. “Got a killer upgrade out of it though. I’d take this over cargo pants any day, they never fit right.”

“Why did you come here?” Relena asks. She stands straighter. Less proud.

“I had to take a trip to the compound,” Lumina says. “My friend over there said she’d keep you busy while I checked on things. It’s nice of you to keep my room intact. Glad I got these boots back too.” She kicks out her foot, showing off the worn leather. “Imperial grade ones are uncomfortable and I don’t have time to break them in.”

“Atikya if you’re going to threaten to kill me just do it. I don’t have time for you.”

Lumina beckons towards herself, dragging Relena forward through the Force. “I should,” she says. She doesn’t stop until shins hit the platform. “Hell, I should do a lot worse than kill you. As far as I’m concerned, death is mercy.”

Lumina stands, she walks until they’re inches apart. She cups Relena’s chin and bends so their eyes meet. “You should’ve seen what I did when they found me,” she whispers over the music. “What I did to the Mandalorian. He—” She laughs. “He really got the shit end of it.”

The statement grabs attention, tangible fear making home inside. The Mandalorian? The same she herself committed danger to whomever harmed him? Surely not.

“I turned his brain to mush,” Lumina goes on to say. Though her vision stays locked on her companion. “I saw his pretty little face and took everything away from him. He has no idea who he is anymore. I ruined his life.” She tracks back to Relena, leaning in. “All because he got in my way.” Her eyes flicker back and forth, she sniffs. “All because… you got in my way.” She lets go. “Do you know where he is right now?” Lumina shrugs to her own question. “If he’s not dead, I assume… he’s back on Nevarro. Getting a sorry little team of misfits together to save his kid, from me. Except…” She chuckles, eyes meeting Relena’s again. “I have no fucking clue where he is. And the bitch at the bar thinks I’m an idiot and won’t tell me.”

“Ati, I don’t know what happened to your kid,” Relena whispers.

“I know,” Lumina coos. “But the issue with that is—well without him or his dad… I really don’t have anything to lose. Which means I could do anything to you and, I won’t care. And then it’s no longer fun for me. You’re not an accomplishment on my list.” She jumps off the platform. “In fact, you’re at the bottom.”

“So you won’t kill me?”

“No,” Lumina says. “I won’t kill you. I need you.” She walks away, towards a door in the corner and disappears inside. One of the guards shoves Relena’s back so she follows. 

-

Stairs lead to the upper level, the business end of Kasakar. It’s a long decrypt hallway, wood rotten under feet. One door stands opened, across the office. It’s hers—Lumina’s.

Walls are lined with various blasters, rifles and pistols, the whole lot. Open drawers hold knives of various lengths, ropes, grapples, detonators. On one end, a small holoscreen on a dresser. Heels lined on its bottom. Across from that, a lounge chair sits by a boarded window, street lights peaking through.

This is where she sits, looking outside to the muddied streets. Her hand reaches behind, she flicks her wrist and a chair resting by the workbench covered in tools moves to the rooms center. Relena sits.

“I should kill you,” Lumina says, closing the door. It locks. “I killed Neri, blacked out when it happened though. I could do the same for you, it’d be easier.” She looks back, stands. “I was talking to the boys earlier. They say you’re nicer than he was. Better payment. Pensions. You actually give a fuck.”

“They were my friends before they were yours,” Relena says. “I’m not in the business to screw them over.”

“Aren’t I special then? Do you know what I love about Trandoshans?” Lumina asks. “You can cut off a limb and in a weeks time it’ll be like it never left. It’s a shame that’s not the case for humans. My father was a torso on stilts. Maybe if he grew back his legs he wouldn’t have done what he did.”

“Atikya—”

“I think we got off on the wrong foot Lena.” Lumina’s lightsaber ignites, red filling the room. “Why don’t we try an arm?”

“Ati, think about this.”

“I have. I’ve spent the past week as an Imperial hostage thinking about this.” Her saber swings out, inches away from Relena’s left. The heat and buzz warms her skin so she recoils. “Don’t worry. It’ll cauterize.”

“I’ll give it to you,” Relena says, a sheer layer of panic. “Anything you want. Name it. It’s yours.”

Lumina pulls back. She spins her hilt, pacing the room. “Anything?”

“Anything. What do you want? Money? A ship? One of the guys?”  Her thumb juts behind to the door. “You wanna take Sully? Take ‘em. He’s yours.”

Her lightsaber powers off. “I don’t want Sully,” she says. “What I want, is for you to work that magic you have with N.R.”

“What does the Empire want with the New Republic?”

“Not the Empire. Me. Now I need you to listen very carefully. If I’m keeping you alive, you’re going to do exactly as I say. Understood?”

“Yes.” Relena nods.

“You’re going to contact that little journalist who discovered Corellia. Tell her, Red Axe has a new scoop. There’s a newly discovered base of operation on Arkanis. Underneath the old school. Tell her that you have evidence of children being held captive. Tortured. Whatever. Make it sound like hell. She thinks she’s a savior, she won’t be able to help herself. She’ll do all the investigating. After her story drops, you’re sending a message to Mon Mothma. I don’t care how. Point is, you let her know the Inquisitors aren’t dead. You give her this file.” Lumina throws a data stick to her lap.

“What is it?”

“A log of every surviving Inquisitor, save a few I have personal use for. It has everything anyone would need to know, including identification photos.”

“Including you?”

“I’m not an Inquisitor, don’t insult me.”

“You hate the New Republic,” Relena says. “Why give them this?”

“Because I don’t have enough time or resource to take care of it myself. I don’t know where they’re currently hiding, I don’t know if I will. What I do know is what they’ve done in the past, and what they will continue to do if they aren’t stopped. Inquisitors are the Empire’s first line of defense. Take them down, I only have have to deal with uninteresting, unassuming, and frankly below average men. That, I can handle alone.” 

Relena spins the stick in her hand, passing it from one to another. “What do I get out of this?”

“Your arm. I didn’t come here to negotiate, I came here to tell you what to do.” Lumina takes a breath. “I know what you’re thinking. Ati, I can just go right back to the Empire. Tell them you’re doing this, I don’t have to listen to you. Wrong. You do. Because if you don’t, Sully calls the New Republic and they raid the compound, shut down the club. You get thrown in prison for the rest of your life, they get immunity for giving you up for Imperial conspiracy. They all have several copies of your dealings. You’ll be a forgotten embarrassment. The second leader to fail in less than a year. The choice is yours, what’s your legacy?”

“And when it’s done?”

“I leave you alone. We go our separate ways.”

Relena scoffs. “Don’t have much of a fucking choice, do I?”

Lumina pouts, bottom lip jutted out. “Did I? You were happy being Gideon’s lap dog, be happy you’re mine.” 

Relena frowns, her head shakes. “Gideon? As in Moff Gideon?”

“Obviously.”

“Why are you working for Gideon? I thought he was dead.”

“Lena don’t act stupid. Not now.”

“I’m not,” she defends.

“You have files on files of contracts and communications about me with the client,” Lumina snaps, hands turning to fists. “Do not sit there and tell me you thought Gideon was dead when he is the one receiving every goddamn piece of information about me. When he has been the one to steal and keep my child. Do not.”

“Atikya, I never spoke to Gideon,” Relena says. “He’s an obsessive cloner who nearly got fired from the ISB. Everyone knows that. Why would I hand you over to him?”

“That’s a great question. Why don’t you answer it?”

“I didn’t. I did what I did for you. Because you told me when we met that all you wanted was to go home to the Empire. When I was contacted by them, I took the shot. They knew you were here. They knew everything.”

“Like what?”

“They knew shit about you that no one else did.” Their eyes meet. “Your numbers. They wanted to know a million more things about you, and I told them you like clones to get them off your back. Then they send over a hundred thousand credits for you to go to a run down clone bar in Ord Mantell to have fun. Corellia happens, your work is all over the news. They call again. They say you can come back, they need you. A million credits. I say deal, they say it’ll be tripled if you can do something for them first. Prove your loyalty. Sure. I get a recording of your pretty ass in a ballgown, dancing with a Mandalorian in Canto Bight. The same Mando you bitched about for months. He has a kid, they need it. And what do you know, right when I’m about to say you have no contact with that rust bucket, you actually cry over him like he meant something. I get a ping. He’s in Trask, with your card. I tell them, and they say all you have to do is go to Arkanis, keep me updated. They’ll handle the rest. And they did. Gideon was not once a part of anything.”

“Then who was?” Lumina asks. “If Gideon didn’t ask for me, who?”

There’s a stupid smirk on Relena’s freckled face, she shrugs. “You don’t even know who the fuck you’re fighting. You’re a little kid playing dress up in a grown up world.”

Lumina’s lightsaber ignites again. Without thought it presses against Relena’s arm. Screams don’t phase. It turns off. “Who?”

“I only met her once,” Relena gasps, skin charred. “You’re a fucking psycho—“

“Want more? Talk.”

“Shit,” Relena mutters. “I don’t know. It was dark, we were in the club. She was tall, my height. Thin. Whitest bitch I’ve ever seen. Looked like a goddamn ghost.“

Lumina laughs, actually laughs deep in her chest. She looks at the ceiling, her hands clap around her hilt. “We’re done here,” she says. “Get that stick to the N.R.”

“You fucked up my arm,” Relena says. “Do you know how much bacta it’s gonna take to heal this?”

Lumina quirks a brow, her saber turns on again. It spins. “Don’t worry,” she says. “Bacta won’t help you.”

---

Din can’t understand how she spent every day on the Slave I. It’s uncomfortable, empty. Decidedly not the Razor Crest. Back where it began, he’s trapped inside the ship, watching Boba and Fennec speak amongst themselves. Only now with company. Cara—Marshal Dune, and Migs Mayfeld. The joy he is. Travel to Morak was simple enough, if not for the incessant need for Din to bash his own head in. 

“I figured you didn’t want to talk about it, all things considered,” Cara whispers, leaning over. She’s been good about leaving him alone, but all good things must come to an end. ”But why isn’t your girlfriend here? If anyone can get us Imperial coordinates it should be her. Would’ve saved me the trouble too.”

Din’s sigh is exasperated, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Doesn’t matter.”

Cara turns to him, her arms cross and her face etches in a concern he’s never seen. “Did she not make it? After what happened, Karga and I— we didn’t think that it was that serious.”

“No. Just… went back to work.” His weight shifts. “They needed her.” 

“Red Axe?”

“Yeah.”

“Does she know what happened to you?”

“She’s got her hands tied,” Din says. “Don’t wanna worry her.”

“That’s a shame. If she were here, we could’ve left the comedian behind.”

“Are you guys talkin’ bout me?” Mayfeld perks up, lazily slumped across the way. “Cause it feels like you guys are talking about me. And if that’s the case,” he says, standing, “I wanna hear it.”

“Can we at least try to call up your girl?” Cara asks, rolling her eyes. “I don’t think I can stand Sergeant Scrapper much longer.”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Mayfeld says on defense, waving his hands. “Did I hear that right?” He laughs, walking towards them. “You got a girl Mando? Boy, what kinda misfortuned broad did you have to trick into lovin’ that metal mug?”

“I don’t have time for this,” Din says.

“I’m only saying. X’ian, now that mess I could picture. You both got that radically insane schtick. But a real girl? She’s gotta be the most horrendous—“

“Hey genius,” Fennec interrupts. “His girl?” She nods to Din, then Boba. “His kid.”

“And I bet she’s beautiful,” Mayfeld says, full of teeth. “Just gorgeous. I’m jealous, I really am. You’ve got a whole Mando family,” he chuckles, hand to heart. “That’s just—that’s great, really it is. Can’t wait to see the little ones runnin’ round. Well, I guess not see.” He waves over his face. ”Am I right?”

“Someone shut it up,” Boba says. 

“No, no. I’m happy for you big guy,” he tells Din. “Clearly you and dad get along, good to keep the in-laws happy. I bet she’s a real piece too. Gotta be if she’s keeping you satiated.” 

In a second he stares down the barrel of Boba’s blaster, aimed between his eyes. “Last warning.”

“Yes Sir,” Mayfeld coughs. “Shutting up.”

“She’s his kid?” Cara whispers.

“Something like that,” Din mutters.

“They’re refining rhydonium,” Boba says, holstering his gun. He points around a holographic scan of Morak’s facility, speaking more to Fennec than anyone else. “Highly volatile and explosive.”

“They have anti-aircraft cannons protecting it,” she responds.

“And a platoon of security forces.”

“So we go in quiet,” Din says. “In and out.”

-

“I don’t know how you people wear those things,” Mayfeld says. Uneven terrain shakes them within the transport. Din wants to crawl out of his skin, trooper garb scratching and set-in sweat causing a stench. “And by you people, I do mean Mandalorians.”

It’s a shit plan. Sneaking into the rhydonium facility, disguised as Imperials. But somehow, it’s working. Sometimes the best place to hide is in plain sight. Boba might have a point. Unfortunately. 

“The missus wear her’s all the time?” Mayfeld asks. He snorts. “Sure gotta make things interesting. Me? Never been the type, too much work. More of a one nighter, you know? In ’n out, onto the next. Long term… Girlfriend? Nah… you know, with these guys,” he motions around the vehicle, “they grill into you that it’s a betrayal. Can you believe that? A betrayal.” His head shakes, amused. “Can’t love nothin’ but the Empire. Fuck all you want sure, but love?” He whistles. “Forget about it.”

“Juggernaut Four,” comes through the radio. “You’re running hot. Be sure to watch your cargo heat limits and speed.”

“Copy that, Three. We hit a couple bumps. Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Don’t worry about the rhydonium,” Din mutters, hands as fists. “As long as you drive steady, you’ll get us to the refinery.”

The drive through a village, if that. Children run from the open road, their half deflated ball is almost left behind. They all stare at the transport. Din stares back.

“Yeah. Empire, New Republic,” Mayfeld says. “It’s all the same to these people. Invaders on their land is all we are.”

“We’re all lazy slobs to them,” Din hears her say. “They don’t care about people, they care about being right.”

He may need another drink.

“I’m just sayin’,” Mayfeld goes on. “Somewhere someone in this galaxy is ruling and others are being ruled. I mean, look at your race. Do you think all those people that died in wars fought by Mandalorians actually had a choice?” With no answer he asks, “So how are they any different than the Empire?” He scoffs. “If you were born on Mandalore, you believe one thing, if you’re born on Alderaan, you believe somethin’ else. But guess what? Neither one of ’em exist anymore.”

Right.

“Hey, I’m just a realist,” he says. “I’m a survivor, just like you.”

It shouldn’t strike a cord. Not if Din knows who he is. “Let’s get one thing straight,” he says. “You and I are nothing alike.”

“I don’t know. Seems to me like your rules start to change when you get desperate. I mean, look at ya. You said you couldn’t take your helmet off, and now you got a stormtrooper one on, so what’s the rule? Is it that you can’t take off your Mando helmet, or you can’t show your face? ‘Cause there is a difference.” He looks over. “Your girl ever take off her helmet? You ever even see her?”

It’d be easier not to answer. To correct or deny. But he can’t. “No.”

Mayfeld at least, finds the humor. “I guess that’s how you know it’s real love, huh? Neither of you know who the fuck the other is and you still care bout each other. Secrets be damned.” Dirt road shifts them. “So, holier than thou. Seeing as you’re so particular on moral standings. She a good person? I mean, her dad seems like a piece of work, can’t imagine Life Day is any fun with that guy round. But she good?” He looks over again. “With your kid an’ all that?”

Din stares out the window, avoidant. “Kid loves her,” he mutters. Then, he takes a pause. “She’d do anything for him.”

“So how come she ain’t helpin’ out? What the old man could spare his time and not her?”

Knuckles rap against the door. He sighs. “They took her too.”

“What?”

“Gideon. When he grabbed the kid. He grabbed her too.”

Mayfeld looks the most human he has since pickup. “What’s she got that he wants?”

His mouth goes dry. “I don’t know. Pissed him off.”

“Why?”

Din shrugs. “Pissed her off first.”

“Yeah…” Mayfeld says, nodding. “We’re all the same. Everybody’s got their lines they don’t cross until things get messy. As far as I’m concerned, if you can make it through your day and still sleep at night, you’re doin’ better than most.”

Din thinks to ask more.

He resolves against it.

-

“…Where you from, Brown Eyes?”

It should impress Din that his list of regrets has grown substantially in the past week, yet here he is. In a failed disguised as an Imperial operative, his face shown to everyone within a thirty foot radius. Sat at a table for a drink with a general of the Imperial Army. His foot bounces under the table, looking like a kybuck in headlights.

“How ’bout a toast to Operation Cinder?” Mayfeld interjects. Not that Din would’ve said anything anyways.

They go on about Burnin Konn, some battle he’s never heard of. He thinks he should, though with his track record knowledge of Operation Cinder at all is considered a feat. Ten thousand people dead, killed with no remorse.

Mayfeld is emotional, Din can see it in his jaw. He’s letting things get personal and he shouldn’t. This is a job, a not so simple extraction, they can’t afford emotion. 

“All heroes of the Empire,” General Hess says. He wears a bastardized grin, sick with pride. He believes it too. Everything done, everything that is yet to be done, all for the best. For the Empire. For order. 

Lumina, he knows, would fair better here. She could talk politics and strategy, every single lie in her deck of cards ready for play. Brainwashing, that’s what she called it. From Mayfeld’s description on the transport, it seems to be universal. He wonders if they’ve met, her and the general. Or if he’s heard of her, from her, at all.

The headaches come back, he wishes to forget it all.

Mayfeld’s starting an argument. He should say something, change topics, leave. He can’t.

“All those people, the ones who died, was it good for them? Hmm? Their families? The guys I served with? Civilians, those poor mud scuffers, died defendin’ their homes, fighting for freedom. Was it good for ’em?”

“But we’ve outlasted them, son. They’re eatin’ themselves alive. The New Republic is in complete disarray, and we grow stronger. Hell, with what Moff Gideon’s got cookin’ up, they won’t stand a fucking chance.” 

It wouldn’t be hard, Din decides, to hurt him. He wants to. Hell, he wants to do far worse than that.

“And with the rhydonium you’ve delivered,” he goes on to say. “We can create havoc that’s gonna make Burnin Konn just pale by comparison. And then they’re gonna turn to us once again. You see, boys, everybody thinks they want freedom, but what they really want is order. And when they realize that, they’re gonna welcome us back with open arms.” He raises his glass. “Ah. To the Empire.”

---

“Cheers,” Lumina says. Stolen shot glasses clink together, she downs liquor without so much of a flinch. She drops into the co-pilot chair, releasing her hair from it’s tight up-do. Her head drops back, eyes closing. Hyperspace rumbles around, the smaller ship overtaken in blue.

“You have blood on your foot,” Ghost says.

“It’s not mine,” she mutters.

“Did you kill her?���

“No.” She sighs. “Lena did me a favor. Don’t think I would’ve found a way back without her. I don’t know if I would’ve left that place at all.”

“I can’t believe you used to work there. It’s disgusting.”

She shrugs. “Welcome to Coruscant.” Lumina places the glass on the console, sitting up. “Your skills are impressive. I remember when duplicating rats was a challenge for you.”

“I’ve had time to practice.”

“Can I see her again?” Lumina asks. “The me you created. It looked accurate but—”

“You like looking at yourself,” Ghost teases. “I would too.” Her chair turns, hands waving in the open space. Lumina’s figure appears, two feet away. It stands mindless, dressed how she was found, only clean, tank top without blood. “I like you better with the lenses,” Ghost says. “Brown makes you look normal.”

“Do I not?” Lumina asks, standing. “Look normal, that is.”

“Not according to Pershing.”

Lumina circles her ghost, stolen stares marking it up and down. “Why?”

“He thinks you’re too pretty. He told Gideon that it’s unsettling.”

“I’m unsettling?” Lumina repeats.

“Something tells me Pershing has a lot of lonely nights. You make him nervous.”

“Good.” She looks over. “Do I make you nervous?”

Ghost snorts. “You’re not my type.”

“No, Gideon is,” Lumina says. She recognizes defense mechanisms, the posture, the hands, the jaw. All tightening. “Don’t be coy. I see the way you are with him. The way you touch him, how you speak. How he looks at you.”

Maybe Ghost doesn’t intend to snap, but she does. “And how is that?”

Lumina shrugs. “You mean something to him. By the looks of it, he means something to you too.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I don’t know if it’s love. I don’t know if either of you are capable of that.” She turns back to herself, speaking into dull eyes. “But it is something. He’s protective over you. You’re sweet on him. It’s not for nothing.”

Ghost, she realizes, turns to insults when in a corner. “Just because you lost your boyfriend—”

“I didn’t lose him,” Lumina interrupts. She doesn’t sound like herself. More of the her that used to be before him. Like nothing. “I got rid of him. It wasn’t his choice, it was mine. I probed his mind,” she says. “I made him believe he hated me so he would move on. Forget everything that happened. It was the only way he would let me go with Gideon without getting himself killed.”

“And it worked?”

“I’m here aren’t I?”

“Did he actually care about you? I mean, genuinely love you?”

Lumina nods. “I believe so.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Mind probes don’t last forever,” Ghost says. “They only work until the probed mind is met with conflicting beliefs. You tell someone the sky is yellow, they’ll believe it until they see it blue. I only wonder… well, you tell a man who says he loves you, that he doesn’t. If he’s convinced to hate you,” she says. “The belief that he really loves you should be there regardless. The probe shouldn’t take.”

Her chair turns back to the front, adjusting micro mechanics. “If he’s so easily convinced that you mean nothing to him, I wonder if he ever loved you to begin with. You don’t have to worry about me and Gideon, it’s physical, that’s it.”

Lumina nods.

  Ghost waves to the phantom. “Did she pass your test?”

Her eyes refocus, a hand passes through it’s core, waved back and forth. “I thought you could make it physical.”

“Takes more energy, but it’s possible.”

“Move her hair to the front,” Lumina instructs, circling again. The image does so, quickly returning to stasis.

Lumina stands behind it, lost. Her eyes burn holes into its skin, its right shoulder. Clean. Perfect, without any scar. She feels a twitch in her own. “It’s perfect. You’d fool anyone.”

“Even your boyfriend?”

“Especially him.”

---

“Moff Gideon. You have something I want,” says the Mandalorian. Hologram flickered in the lightcruiser’s bridge. “You may think you have some idea what you are in possession of, but you do not. Soon, he will be back with me. He means more to me than you will ever know.” 

“You should have killed him,” Moff Gideon says.

Ghost responds, “I told you.”

“How long do you give it?”

“Day or two at most. If he got a holo here, he can track us from anywhere. Better to stay put, prepare.”

“She’s not ready.”

“She will be.” Ghost ignores his stare. “You have her kid, she’ll do whatever you want.”

“It’s interesting,” Gideon muses. “The Mandalorian gave no mention of her. Only the Child.”

“At least we know where priorities are.”

“Should she be brought in to see this? The revelation could assist in her attitude.”

“That’s not necessary,” Ghost says. “Something tells me she got the message loud and clear.”

-

The red fabric from Lumina’s arm ties over her eyes, knot digging into her skull. The ground feels the same as it did on Mustafar, cold, electric. Her palm, faced down grips at the smooth linoleum. A burst of energy fills her, robotic movements incased in the room.

She hears Boba in her ear as she clutches the vibroblade. He tells her he should have known she’d prefer a blade. Of course the use of a blasters wouldn’t come naturally.

“There are parts of you that don’t depend on the Force,” he told her. “Use it, ignore everything else.”

There are ten droids. Three directly in front, four on each side, three behind. Doctor Pershing stands at his computer, manning the timer, without the wires he is only an observer. He argued against her, saying it was too much of a risk. To practice while the dark troopers stood at full activation. In compromise, he holds the kill switch in a shaky grip.

Lumina senses the moment the stopwatch goes off, milliseconds flying by. She should have known what the prototypes she fought against on Mustafar would come to. That the advancements from the trainers on Kamino would have some purpose.

The Machine always said when she was ready she would practice on real men. With hearts and blood and bone.

They were never a greater threat than droids. Men have limitations, they have fear. The droids… they may have been created in Vaders image. As tall as he was, with the same shining black exterior. They don’t require thought and have no qualms of suffering.

They are designed to assassinate and rest until needed again.

This is why she destroys them so easily. They are jumbles of wire and gear and rod.

They are not alive to begin with and she has been told time and time again mechanics are no match to the Force.

They are no match for her.

The vibrations of the knife in her hand send tingles into her muscles, stimulating them. They shoot at her all at once, and she leaps over the nearest, slicing it’s forearms.

She can feel every movement before it’s made. Gears turning inside, metal joints shifting in step, integrated blasters preparing to fire.

The next three are simple. Her speed quickens, dancing on air. Chest. Abdomen. Neck. 

Electric bolts have no time to consider singeing her hair or electrifying her shoulder. She kicks the head of one off and uses its body to launch herself to another.

Platforms of their exterior are her catapults into the air. The aid of the Force is minimal but necessary. With it, both now and then, only at seventeen, she is stronger than grown men. Faster.

They are no match for her.

The tenth droids falls to the ground, cut wire sizzling, a light smoke exiting. Just as it had, then and now.

Lumina stands in the middle of the room, she pushes the band up her forehead. She pants, looking at the mess of droids, half expecting to see him. The knife inches from his helmet. The eleventh machine she could never conquer.

He isn’t. And the vibroblade remains in her hand, buzzing. She shakes, filled with a rage she hasn’t felt in years.

Doctor Pershing turns the screen to her, showing the time.

Fifteen seconds.

It shatters.

---

“Mando,” Cara calls for him, waving from her seat in the Slave I. He trudges over, relishing in the missed comfort of beskar. “You might wanna call your girl.”

He should tell her, it isn’t fair for Cara to be the only one operating without the truth. And he would, were it not their competing histories. None of this would work if she knew the truth.

So he swallows his words, takes up his usual arrogance. “What?”

She raises her wrist, New Republic certified communicator stupid and shiny. “Word came in from Coruscant. It’s bad.”

He reminds himself she isn’t there. She can’t be, there’s no reason to be. He can’t worry, he can’t even acknowledge the worry.

Lumina is fine.

Even if she isn’t. He can’t care.

“Show me,” he says.

A hologram of an official, sealed by the New Republic faces him.

“A being identified as Relena O’Menfe, leader of the Coruscant’s underworld Red Axe Syndicate found dead. O’Menfe’s body appeared outside Club Kasakar with several lacerations to both head and body, making her unrecognizable. O’Menfe was only able to be identified through reverse blood print analysis found in the New Republic registry. It is currently unknown who or what could have done such a thing. All surrounding CCTV cameras were mysteriously deactivated during the time of attack…”

---

Next: The Repetition of Poetry

Taglist: @lexloon @jay-bel @xsadderdazeforeverx @spideysimpossiblegirl @sarahjkl82-blog @annoyinglythoughtfuldestiny @hello-th3r3

[saintcahara]

THE LAST OF US SEASON 1 : A RANT

Content warning : major spoilers. I discovered the TLOU PART 1 game when it had just been released on Steam, finally adapted for PC after years of waiting. It wasn't exactly glorious with all the bugs (like scenery not loading, unexpected freezes or the gameplay on the controller simply impossible to use when I like to lie down in my chair instead of hunching over and looking like a shrimp just to reach my keyboard).

But overall, TLOU is a game that I loved playing, in particular due to the atmosphere which oscillates very neatly between danger and contemplation. Not to mention the relationships between the characters felt extremely organic. It is rare that we achieve this result, something authentic. And then, the graphics are very beautiful, no offense to the snobs who think they are dissidents and proclaim loudly that ghhhh... photorealism is overused... I prefer pixel art... the cartoon style... hmm I'm so subversive … I congratulate you, you've just discovered tastes and colors.

It goes without saying that after the slap in the face the game gave us, I expected a lot from the TV series. Yes, I'm more than a year late... I don't really like watching series... I get bored quickly... Anyway, according to the notes and scores, it looked pretty good!

So, I watched the whole thing. But I have to admit that I spent half of it scrolling on my phone because i was so bored. Ah…

I found the series to be deadly boring. In fact, I'm convinced the producers relied on the success of the games and crossed their arms behind their heads thinking that its reputation would carry the project. Which, in itself, was the case... There is a terrible lack of effort: Ellie's bite mark is ridiculous 0/10 to the makeup artist since it is one of the key elements of the story, the characters are too distorted in favor of a whole lot of nothing, the pace of the episodes is boring...

In fact, all this stuff pissed me off so much that I started writing about it. Even if I have never done that. That’s saying something. Since I have to start somewhere, let's start with the most obvious.

1. Bella Ramsey as Ellie

I'm sorry, what was that ? Who thought it was good ? There are two things bothering me but not in the way you'd expect.

First off... this isn't Ellie. Don't get me wrong, Bella Ramsey is pretty, but she absolutely does not radiate Ellie energy. I get the looks should NOT get in the way of acting, but... I dunno, i didn't get the vibe. Probably because Bella was almost an adult when filming and Ellie is litteraly a child. That's the issue when you adapt from a video game character, I guess. This is aggravated by the second thing that pissed me off :

Ellie is written to be an absolute cunt. Look, I hear ya booing from your seat, but that doesn't take it away. I think the scenarists looked at some cinematics of the game and went like "Oh alright this girl swears a lot" then called it a day when they made it her personnality. Also, why so rude ? I was flabbergaster when Ellie was almost like "womp womp" after Tessa's death. Just why ? In the game, she felt genuinely sorry and guilty so why would she be t-bagging on Joel at some point. We are not supposed to dislike her. In fact, we're supposed to be annoyed at Joel for being so cold to her. But we'll get to that...

2. Pedro Pacal looks constipated

This will be quick, but Joel looks like he's holding in a huge fart and cannot concentrate on the conversations he's having. What I'm saying is the performance is kinda poor and thus the interactions with Ellie suck. We do not see them bond properly. Sure, the series is trying to show us "warm" moments but they're just awkward. We do not feel the characters bringing themselves to like each other. And that's a huge loss, knowing their relationship is at the centre of the story. The reason we get such a climax at the end.

3. This meme

The kink is the zombie french kissing Tessa. I won't elaborate.

4. The pacing

Alright I'll be real I KNOW you have to compromise when adapting a media to another. TLOU game was made for people to play : this is why there's so many fights, otherwise everyone would be bored. In an episodic show, no need for so many action scenes. Thing is, we got barely any. And they were still boring / poorly done.

Episode 3 is the perfect example, in my opinion.

Now. The idea of showing the every day life of a couple in an apocaliptic world was beautiful. Wonderful. Amazing. Except it was the wrong moment and the wrong characters. Idk, episode 2 just got Joel and Ellie on their quest and then it's immediately put on a hold for a love story ? But we weren't even hooked on yet. That's just confusing if not frustrating as hell. I wanted to see how they were doing, not to wait for another hour.

[ Also, this was absolutely OOC from Bill and I'll be honest to all the show writers. We don't want to watch your fanfiction when adapting a game or cartoon or idk. We do not care. We want the source material. What you will write will probably suck because you think you're better than everyone. ]

The show lacked tension. It was underwhelming. I didn't feel like the characters could die at any moment.

They made weird additions that didn't make much sense since they didn't care to elaborate those enough. Why did we need Kathleen as an antagonist when clearly the other characters she was hunting weren't against her ? The leader of a resistance group ? Why tf would Ellie not say anything when she saw Sam got bit ? Why did we need to add pointless nuance to the cannibals ? They were being cannibals on purpose. Sometimes there's nothing more to it. I don't excuse it, but they wanted to survive and it can make people very ugly.

All of this threw me off a lot and I couldn't connect with the show.

Conclusion

This show is ass and overhyped.

[cherienymphe]

Twisted Devotion (Loki x Reader)

WARNINGS: NON-CON, DUB-CON, adopted sibling!reader, incestuous relationships, murder, violence, loss of virginity (m. and f.)

➥ banner by @maysdigitalarts​ | dividers by @firefly-graphics​

➥ playlist

summary: Loki was your guardian angel from the moment you were left at the palace doors. Angels fall sometimes, don’t they?

~

You were barely a few days old when you’d been left at the palace doors with nothing to accompany you but the basket you were laid in and the blanket that covered you. Or at least, that’s what you were told. Frigga had been the one to find you, her habit of rising before the sun paying off greatly. She constantly told you stories of how her heart simultaneously broke and soared that day at the sight of the abandoned baby. 

She loved Loki and Thor greatly, but she could not help but to often think of what it would be like to have a little girl. 

Thor was only about a year or two old at the time, Loki not much older than you as he was still a baby himself. Growing up, you thought nothing of the differences between you. After all, Thor and Loki did not look like brothers at all. The differences between them lied in more than just their personalities, but as you grew, so did your curiosity, and that was when Frigga sat you down and told you the truth. 

“So... I am not your daughter?”

You tried to keep your voice from cracking, but the truth was too much to bear for your 6-year-old heart. It shattered everything you knew, and Frigga pulled you into her lap as she tutted. 

“You are my daughter in every way you can be. That doesn’t change just because I didn’t birth you, but I have raised you and taken care of you and loved you. I am your mother and the Allfather is your father.”

Her voice was soothing as always, and you were tempted to accept this, but the knowledge that you were left on the steps like some stray bothered you. Frigga sighed and she touched your cheek. 

“I suppose Thor and Loki are not your brothers then…”

“Of course, they are,” you hurried to argue, looking at her with wide eyes. 

She gave you that knowing smile, and you sighed. 

“Then I’m sure they would be saddened to hear you speak in a way as if you are not...wouldn’t they?” 

You reluctantly nodded, and her smile grew. One of your own eventually found its way onto your lips, and you accepted the truth in her words. It certainly didn’t feel like she wasn’t your mother, and Odin could be just as hard on you as he was with his birth children. Thor and Loki certainly felt like your brothers, and your reaction as she suggested otherwise only proved that.

Everyone knew how you came to be in the palace with the royal family, and you were grateful that you weren’t treated differently for it. Most of all by Thor and Loki. Your parents were pleased with the nature of your relationship with them, that you got along so well, behaving as siblings should instead of allowing discord or ill feelings to fester. Truthfully, you didn’t think it was possible to hate them nor they you.

Growing up, Thor treated you like one of his warriors that he eventually found himself strolling around with. He wanted to teach you to fight and defend yourself and cut a man down without hesitation. You were his sister, yes, and he would protect you with his life, but he didn’t want any sister of his to be completely defenseless.

“Some guys deserve a swift punch to the nose,” he’d told you one day, making you laugh.

He constantly teased you and encouraged you to be just as jovial and boisterous as he. It became clear to everyone but Thor pretty early on that you were far outside of your comfort zone. You weren’t much of a fighter, and every time you were around Thor, his presence seemed to overshadow yours. This never bothered you, and it was fairly obvious as to why.

Loki preferred to remain in the shadows with you.

No one really spoke on it, at least not publicly, but it was apparent to all that your relationship with Loki was far different than that of yours with Thor. This wasn’t to say that you were closer with him than you were with Thor, and vice versa. No one would dare to say that, but at times, it seemed like the two of you were part of a world that no one else was privy too. Not even the blond prince.

While Thor was wrestling and sparring with his friends, Loki could be found perfecting his gifts with you as an awed witness, entranced by the magic. During feasts and celebrations, you and Loki would be in your own world in some corner or at the far end of the table, conversing with each other about what only the gods knew. It wasn’t uncommon to find both of you passed out in the library, surrounded by a pile of books. Anytime you felt even mildly uncomfortable, your hand would find his, and you’d conceal yourself behind his shoulder.

If Thor was your valiant warrior of a brother, then Loki was your guardian angel.

The raven-haired prince was your dark knight, sworn to protect you from the very first moment that he could, it seemed. He was your willing shadow, a threatening cloud hanging over anyone who dared to hurt you. If many didn’t know any better, they would swear that you two shared your mother’s womb, being formed alongside each other and entering this world together. Inseparable ever since.

You were about 10 when you first started to abandon your own room in favor of Loki’s. You’d had a nightmare, and it wasn’t like you hadn’t had them before, but this one was different. You couldn’t remember much from it, but you knew that it was different. You could tell in the way your heart raced when you woke up and the way your skin pricked and the way you didn’t feel comfortable in your own room. The corridor was dark and empty as you tiptoed to Loki’s room.

You knew it like the back of your hand, even in the dark, so you breezed through his receiving chamber and into his bedroom with ease. Never having been a light sleeper, it was easy to shake him awake, and it only took the young God of Mischief one look at your face to ask you what was wrong.

“I had a bad dream, and…I can’t sleep,” you reluctantly told him like you were embarrassed of the fact.

Loki frowned, but moved over, nonetheless. You slipped in beside him and frowned as you realized that you were embarrassed. As if he read your thoughts, and he probably did, Loki spoke.

“It’s okay to be scared sometimes,” he whispered into the dark, his finger poking at your cheek.

“Thor would make fun of me if he knew,” you whispered back.

“I would never make fun of you.”

You didn’t respond, and he continued.

“Whenever you’re scared, I’ll always protect you. No matter how silly you think it is,” he vowed.

His green eyes were visible in the light from the moon as they rested on you.

“…you would do that?”

“For you, sister? Anything.”

You eventually made a habit out of sleeping in Loki’s room whenever you had a nightmare. It wasn’t often, but at some point, you found yourself in there even when you didn’t have one. No one commented on your new sleeping arrangements, and it soon became normal to find your room empty for days at a time. It started to feel foreign to you, and you slept better in Loki’s bed than you ever had anywhere else.

It had never occurred to you how strange someone might find your relationship with Loki. Your parents had never commented on it, neither did Thor, and Loki had never expressed his discomfort. It wasn’t until you were about 16 was it made clear to you how others might view your closeness with him.

“I’m sure the prince would love to dally with a lady or two, but you are always in his bed instead.”

She was a daughter of one of your father’s advisors, and seeing as she answered to your family, and you by extension, she kept her tone light and teasing. However, there was a glint in her eyes and something just below the surface of her voice that made you frown.

“It’s only out of habit. I would sleep in his room whenever I had a nightmare, and it just sort of became a thing,” you replied with a shrug.

She pursed her pink lips, exchanging a glance with the red-headed girl at her side before fixing you with a mocking smile.

“How sweet, but… You’re sixteen now. Surely you feel a bit…odd spending the night with your brother every night?”

Your frown deepened as you considered her words, wondering why you would feel strange about it. She placed her hand on your shoulder as your silence continued, her smile twisting.

“I only meant that I’m sure the prince would love to get to know some of the ladies in the palace like Thor…”

Because that was how this whole conversation had started, with Thor’s antics that had quickly become a popular topic amongst the young ladies. You were still unsure as to how you got roped into it.

“…and maybe he feels that he can’t do what he really wants because of you. I mean, you have to be your own person some time. You can’t take up residence in the prince’s bed forever. What would people think?”

You blinked at her, rearing back a bit at her words. The other girl giggled behind her hand, a poor attempt, or perhaps no attempt at all, to hide it. You took a step back, something akin to disgust swirling in your gut as your mind whirled. Her hand fell, and so did her smile. You looked between these two girls who you were beginning to think weren’t so nice at all.

“Are you…?” you licked your lips. “What are you implying?”

“I’m not implying anything. I’m only wondering what else people would say because even though everyone is just so intent on ignoring it because of who you are, they’re certainly disturbed by how you’re practically wrapped around him every time we see you two.”

You flinched at her words, eyeing her, and you suddenly wondered if she was the one who wanted to get to know Loki so bad and not the other way around.

“It’s weird, and the fact that you snuggle up to him every night like he’s your boyfriend is gross,” she spat.

You couldn’t help the way your eyes watered, and unable to even come up with something to say, you left them. It was hours later, and her words still lingered on your mind as you leaned on your balcony. It was a rare day when you found yourself in your own room, and you hated that some girl was making you question everything you believed.

You had never given much thought to your relationship with Loki. Never felt the need to. He was your brother, and you were close as siblings sometimes were, and her disgust only confused you. You wondered if she was right, if other people really did think like her, and your heart sank. You weren’t doing anything wrong, far from it, so why did her words make you feel like you were?

Your reverie was broken by a flower petal landing on your arm, followed by another until a nice handful of them were raining down on you like feathers. They stopped when a fresh flower materialized on the balcony before you, and you picked it up with a small smile. He always knew how to make you feel better, even when he didn’t realize it. You admired it, like you always did, before thanking him…like you always do.

“I was surprised to find you here,” Loki said as he strode up beside you.

He also leaned his arms on the balcony, and you simply offered him a shrug.

“Just wanted to think for a while,” you said with a strained smile, unable to meet his eye as you looked out over Asgard.

He was quiet for a moment before he straightened. You could feel his eyes on you, and when you felt his finger brush along your arm, you flinched. There was no doubt in your mind that he noticed.

“What troubles you?”

You chewed on your lip, eyeing the green rose.

“Do you… Do you like any of the girls here in the palace? Or even just Asgard in general?”

Loki chuckled, and you watched as he leaned against the wall. He tilted his head at you, dark hair moving with the action.

“Now why would you ask me a thing like that?”

You glanced away with a shrug.

“Just curious…because…if you wanted to get to know any of the ladies here, you should. You should feel comfortable doing that,” you told him, looking at him again.

Loki crossed his arms over his chest as he eyed you, brows drawn together.

“I am well aware of that fact, but thank you. What brought this on?”

His gaze was inquiring, and unable to hold it, you looked down. You didn’t answer him, and you heard him take a step towards you.

“Something else is the matter,” he guessed.

You furiously shook your head, swallowing.

“No, I-.”

“Since when do we ever lie to each other?” he quietly wondered, and your eyes snapped to his.

His frown had deepened, bewilderment in his eyes, and you didn’t need to be a genius like him to know that he was hurt. The tears spilled over before you realized it, and Loki’s eyes widened at the sight. He rested his hands on your arms as he pulled you closer, and his tone portrayed his anger more than his words did.

“Who has hurt you?”

You frantically shook your head, but Loki wasn’t having it.

“Tell me-.”

“It wasn’t like that, just some girls-.”

“What did they do?”

“They didn’t do anything-!”

“Then what did they say?”

“Loki, please,” you quietly pleaded.

He let go of you with a sigh, opting instead to wipe your tears away. He took a deep breath as he brushed his thumb over your cheek, jaw clenching as he cleaned your face.

“What did they say?” he quietly repeated, appearing calmer now.

You had a hard time saying it.

“They said…”

You couldn’t even look at him, and you squeezed your eyes shut.

“They said I’m gross. That our relationship is weird and…”

You trailed off, opening your eyes as more tears collected.

“I don’t…I don’t understand how they could say that. You’re my best friend, and I love you, and why would they try to twist that into something-.”

You cut yourself off as more tears fell, and Loki hurriedly wrapped his arms around you.

“They’re just jealous,” he whispered into your ear. “You are a princess, and they will never know me as you do.”

“I just don’t understand why they would say that,” you muttered, clinging to him as you fought back more tears.

“They don’t matter. Their opinions don’t matter. No one else’s opinions matter but ours,” he told you in a soothing voice. “You are my sister, you mean the world to me, and I will not let anyone ruin that.”

He pulled away, brushing his thumbs over your cheeks again with a small smile before his face grew serious.

“Who was it?”

“Loki, no-.”

“You will tell me…or I shall simply pluck it from that pretty little head of yours,” he lightly threatened, making you sigh.

You shook your head, looking away.

“What…what are you going to do?”

You hesitantly looked at him again, and he tilted his head at you as if you’d said something silly.

“I’m going to make them cry, of course. Just as they made you cry,” he told you.

You heaved a sigh, shoulders sagging at the finality in his words.

“Loki, you don’t have to do that.”

His pink lips curved upwards into a soft smile as he gazed at you.

“For you, sister? I’d do anything.”

You stared up at the ceiling in the early hours of the morning, wondering what made you think of that after all this time. It had happened years ago, and you didn’t know what Loki did or said that had no doubt made them cry as he promised, but those girls had never made eye contact with you since. The sound of his soft breathing beside you was the only thing that filled the room, and you sat up, noting that you’d risen before the sun.

Thor was leaving tomorrow, some business that he had to attend to on Midgard, and you could not bite down your envy. Thor was a walking sun, always the star of the show, and his kind heart and genuine personality made it hard to hate him. Your father certainly had favorites, and it was always obvious as to who it was. Unlike your brothers, you had never even left Asgard, and that knowledge left a bitter taste in your mouth.

You left Loki to make your way back to your room. The corridor was quiet, dark, and you paused outside of your door. You thought about those girls all those years ago and swallowed. Thor was brave, a warrior whom your father was obviously proud of, and while Loki was no thunderous fighter like your brother, he could slit a man’s throat with ease. Even without that, he was a skilled sorcerer with a mind as cunning as his tongue was sharp.

And what were you?

Once upon a time, you thought that Loki was your shadow, but now you realized that maybe you were his.

Your bath did nothing to soothe these thoughts, but you forced them away as you got dressed. It was your own insecurities speaking, nothing else. After all, no one had once ever hinted at you being less than or a weight to carry. They were your family, and you never questioned that, but you couldn’t help but to feel inferior in a family like this. You glanced over your shoulder as your door opened, and Loki strode inside.

“Why did you not wake me?” he wondered as he approached you, hands reaching for the ribbon at your waist.

“You looked as if you were having a good dream,” you told him.

Loki hummed as he tied your dress, fingers brushing over your back as he did so.

“I was,” he murmured, and you turned around.

You adjusted the gold on his shoulder, and Loki scoffed.

“Only Thor would require 3 feasts for a trip that will hardly take a week,” Loki complained, and you chuckled.

“Our brother grasps at any excuse to drink and fondle women, you know that by now. The people of the court and the guards appreciate that side of him far better than we do,” you said with a light laugh.

“Yes, well, as long as they understand that no wondering hands should find their way to you…,” he coldly muttered.

You lightly hit his shoulder as you breezed past him.

“Volstagg could hardly walk, he was so drunk, and he apologized many times. For which, I have long forgiven him for,” you reminded him.

Loki’s hand found its way to your shoulder as he guided you into the corridor, fingers trailing over your back as he scoffed.

“Well, I haven’t. If he so much as looks at you, I’m cutting out his tongue,” he promised.

“Loki,” you softly reprimanded, taking his hand. “He was drunk. People do all sorts of things when they are drunk.”

“Yes, things they were already considering when they were sober,” he fired back.

You waved him off, thankful to find the rest of your family already seated as you entered the hall. Thor was quick to rise, greeting you with a kiss on the cheek as you neared.

“Sister,” he said. “You look as radiant as always.”

You felt Loki’s hand tighten around yours before letting you go to pull out your chair.

“…and you look ready to have your ale and willing women now. The sun has only just risen Thor. Patience is a virtue.”

Thor sent Loki a light glare at his quip, but you only giggled. Your mother encouraged them to behave, and they did as she said as breakfast was served. Your father and Thor were deep in a discussion about his upcoming departure no doubt, while Loki and your mother discussed an upcoming festival. You didn’t have much of an appetite, so you picked at your food. Loki noticed, glancing at you with an inquiring gaze as he placed his hand on your leg.

“I’m not really that hungry,” you answered his unspoken question.

“That’s alright, dear. There will be plenty of food to eat later,” your mother assured you, and you chuckled at the truth in her words.

“Yes, well, we’re still rather undecided on whether we’ll be showing up for the festivities,” Loki said, making you roll your eyes.

“Of course, you will. Your brother is leaving Asgard, and he wants to fellowship with his people before he goes,” your father’s powerful voice suddenly cut in.

“With all due respect, Thor leaves Asgard every month or so. I promise that we won’t miss the next one,” Loki’s voice was polite as ever, but there was a mocking tone just below the surface.

This did not go unnoticed, but it was ignored.

“I’m sure your sister will enjoy the festivities without you then…”

You both paused at that, and Loki’s fingers tightened on your thigh.

“…unless you speak for her,” Odin continued, his eyebrows raised and eye inquiring as he looked between you two.

You could practically feel Loki’s annoyance, and you took his hand, squeezing it in a soothing manner below the table.

“I would be happy to attend,” you replied, learning a long time ago that appeasing him was sometimes easier.

“Good,” he replied, returning to his food. “The two of you do not need to be joined at the hip so much.”

His words made your chest clench, eyes falling to the table, but you said nothing. Breakfast continued on in a fairly quiet affair after that, and the minute you were finished, Loki was helping you up. You made your leave, and Loki was quick to speak his mind as soon as you were out of earshot.

“You do not have to go if you don’t wish to. Father will hardly notice your absence anyway. He never has before…”

You were sure Loki didn’t mean it, but his words hurt, only making your insecurities worse.

“He hardly notices my absence either,” he added after a while. “It’s strange…”

You looked at him as his face pinched, eyes thoughtful.

“He has never been so adamant on your presence before. What makes this night so special?”

He didn’t speak anymore on it as you walked to his chambers, but you found yourself suddenly wondering the same thing. What makes tonight so special?

Thor was drunk. Your blond mountain of a brother was drunk and loud and a bit inappropriate. You’d been at the feast for the better part of an hour, and you’d yet to understand why your presence was oh so required. Your mother was seated by your father and you not far from them, wondering when would be an opportune time to leave. Just when you told yourself another five minutes, you caught the eye of your father as he waved you over.

As you approached, you noticed that a tall and dark-haired man stood near him. He was not as big as Thor, but not as lean as Loki either. His brown eyes were intense, and he bowed to you as you stepped closer. You returned it with a slight curtsey of your own and looked to your father with confusion.

“This is Prince Asmund,” your father introduced him. “He will be staying with us for a few days as he and I have much to discuss in regard to his father’s kingdom that is soon to be his.”

You introduced yourself to the handsome prince, mind whirling as Odin continued.

“I have hopes that you shall show him the wonders of Asgard and make him feel most welcome,” he said.

You slowly nodded as your eyes met your father’s, and you threw the prince a light smile.

“I see. I look forward to it,” you told him. “If you’ll excuse me.”

You were quick to get away from them, weaving through the drunk and swaying bodies and hurriedly making your way into the corridor. You scoffed to yourself, shaking your head as if trying to shake away your suspicions. The way your father was so adamant on your presence tonight, your introduction to some strange prince, and what your father had asked of you. You didn’t have the time to think on it any further because your name was being called.

You turned to face Fandral as he exited the hall, the sound of chatter and laughter behind him. His face was flushed from alcohol, and there was a drunken smile on his lips.

“Allow me to walk you back to your chambers, my lady. Your brothers would have my head should anything happen to you,” he offered.

You chuckled at him.

“There’s no need. Just about everyone is enjoying the festivities in there. I shall be fine,” you told him.

He stopped before you, offering his arm out.

“Humor me.”

With a sigh, you accepted his offer, laying your hand on his arm.

“Very well. You know that you don’t have to call me that. You and Thor are practically like brothers,” you added.

“I suppose that would make you like my sister then,” he said with a frown, nose turned up in disgust.

“I’m not opposed to it,” you said with a laugh.

Fandral didn’t reply right away, and for a while, the two of you walked in a comfortable silence. Your brows furrowed when he slowed, forcing you to as well, and you curiously looked at him.

“I am.”

It took you a moment to realize what he meant, and when you did, your frown deepened. For the first time that you’ve noticed, Fandral looked nervous. He took your hand into his, and your stomach sank. His blue eyes met yours, and your lips parted when he stepped towards you, forcing your back into the wall.

“Thor tried so hard to make you one of us…and I wished so badly that he would succeed, but…”

He swallowed.

“You always were more like Loki than I wanted to accept.”

“Fandral, I don’t-.”

“Odin wishes to see you married within the year, you know…”

His words made your eyes widen, and you looked at him as if he were insane.

“What…?”

“He does not see how talented you are. How smart nor useful… He thinks,” he trailed off, shaking his head.

Your mind couldn’t sit still, too focused on what he’d said about your father and what he was going to say. What did Odin think? Fandral had to be lying…right?

“It doesn’t matter what he thinks,” he continued, eyes boring into your own. “I wish for you to choose me. I am no future king, but your family knows me well, and I would take care of you more fiercely than anyone else ever could.”

You slipped from his grasp, eyes wide as you backed away.

“I…I should go,” was your only quiet response.

Fandral’s hand found your wrist, halting your movements and forcing you to face him again. His eyes weren’t so soft now, and there was a frown between his brows. He looked…almost hurt.

“To Loki?”

You blinked at him, lips parting as you wondered why it mattered, and that was exactly what you asked him. He softly scoffed, shoulders falling as he dropped your hand.

“It is the middle of the night…”

You eyed him as he eyed you, and confusion filled you as his lip curled.

“So the rumors are true, after all.”

“What rumors- what are you talking about?”

“You sleep in his bed almost every night, and you expect me to believe there is nothing going on?”

“He is my brother!”

“Not by blood…and stranger things have happened,” he argued. “I see the way he looks at you.”

His words angered you, and you sneered at him.

“He is my brother, and my true parentage does not change that. I suppose a congratulations is in order…”

The blond tilted his head at you, and you smiled at him.

“You are just like Thor, as you have always wanted. He too handles rejection like a child,” you spat.

“I would humble myself if I were you, my princess. You just may end up marrying me yet.”

You glared at him.

“No man will want to marry a princess who will no doubt pop out her brother’s bastard-.”

The sound of the slap echoed throughout the otherwise quiet corridor, and your lips trembled. Fandral had never been anything but nice to you, and you looked at him as if you did not know him. He was still touching his cheek when you turned away, determined to forget this night ever happened, when your back was abruptly pressed into the wall, and the blond was standing over you.

Whatever words were on your lips were immediately swallowed by his own.

Your eyes were wide, and your breath was stolen from you as you realized what was happening. Fandral’s hands were on you, holding you to him as he moved his mouth over yours. You hit against him, but he only moved to press you further into the wall, and that was when your teeth sank into his lips. He ripped his face away from you with a snarl, and you swallowed in fear, tasting the alcohol on your tongue.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was diving back in, sinking his own teeth into your lip as he tore at your dress. You could taste your blood on your tongue, and that was when the fear truly began to settle in. You desperately brought your knee up, twice, and you were filled with relief when he dropped, howling in pain. You could feel his hand reaching for the end of your dress as you turned away, racing down the corridor like your life depended on it. You only relaxed when you made it to your chambers, but that too was squashed.

Your wide eyes met Loki’s as he sat in your receiving chamber, a book in his hand as he looked to be waiting for you. A greeting had been on his lips, but one look at you had him swallowing his words. He dropped the book, nearly knocking your table over as he rushed towards you. His eyes had darkened considerably as he reached for you, and you pressed your back into the door.

“Who did this?”

You shook your head, but he wouldn’t hear it. He attempted to take you into his arms, but you shoved him away.

“Don’t touch me!”

Loki seemed taken aback by your outburst, and having realized what you just did, the tears spilled over.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Loki shook his head, slowly reaching for you again. You allowed him to take your hand, and you leaned into him as he pulled you closer.

“Don’t apologize. I shall run you a bath,” he said, wiping the blood from your lip. “We’ll get you cleaned up, and then you will tell me what happened. Is that understood?”

His voice had lowered, green eyes hard as he stared into your shaky ones. You gave him a reluctant nod, and he led you into your chambers. Loki did as promised, and he was waiting for you on your bed when you exited the bath. He extended his hand, and you took it, allowing him to pull you down beside him. He eyed your lip, assessing the damage, and you sniffed.

“The dress is ruined,” you said.

He’d gotten it for you a year ago. Loki simply scoffed, brushing his thumb over the back of your hand as his other brushed along your jaw now. His eyes were filled with concern as he gazed at you.

“I do not care about some silly dress. I care about you. Now, tell me…”

You bit your lip, glancing down with a sigh.

“It was Fandral,” you confessed.

Loki sharply inhaled, and when you looked at him, his eyes had grown cold…venomous.

“I didn’t… I hadn’t even realized that he felt that way, and he seemed convinced that…”

You were reminded of a similar conversation years ago, and you frowned. You couldn’t bring yourself to say it again, and instead you thought on other things that he’d said. Like your father’s intentions to have you married within the year. It couldn’t be true…could it? He wouldn’t do that…he couldn’t…

“Thor leaves in the morning,” Loki finally said.

You looked at him, your eyes searching his as his words hung in the air.

“What are you going to do?” you quietly asked.

His eyes softened, and he rested his hand on your cheek. You leaned into it.

“What do you want me to do?”

You blanched as you realized he was allowing you to decide, and you swallowed.

“You are angry. I can see it in your eyes,” he said as he leaned in. “I would do anything for you. You know this by now.”

You glanced down, and Loki pressed his forehead to yours.

“Give me the word, and I’ll do it. Whatever it is…”

You brought your hand up, fingers grazing his wrist as your eyes reluctantly met his.

“I… I don’t want him to do this to anyone else. Ever again.”

Your voice was barely a whisper, but Loki heard you all the same. He took a deep breath, nodding.

“Very well.”

Nothing more was said about it, and as you laid in bed that night, Loki’s chin resting on top of your head as he held you to him, you wondered what tomorrow would bring.

Tomorrow, as it turns out, brought death. Your mother was saddened as she recounted the story to you over breakfast.

“A drunken accident, it seems. How tragic,” she murmured. “Doubly so considering he was a skilled warrior, but… I have seen wine and ale and booze bring down the best of men in my lifetime.”

Your father was absent, dealing with everything surrounding Fandral’s unexpected demise. Loki was with him, no doubt. Thor was long gone when his body was discovered, and you remembered how you felt when your mother first told you. Nothing. You had felt nothing.

“I suppose that everything works out for the best though, doesn’t it?”

You frowned at her as she ate, wondering what she meant. She paused, eyes meeting yours from beneath her lashes, a knowing look in them.

“A maid said that she saw him getting quite violent with you last night…”

You blinked at her, heart dropping to your stomach.

“Mother-.”

“Loki has always protected you. I’m glad that has not changed.”

Her words threw you, and you stared at her, stricken. She merely hummed and encouraged you to finish your food. You did. You chose not to dwell on her words and what they implied, relieved to put this behind you for now. It worked for a time…until Thor returned home.

It hurt you to see your brother so saddened and distraught, especially considering that he was not normally so. For a while, he was convinced that Fandral’s death was not that simple, but he too had to admit that his friend loved to drink. Alcohol could reduce anyone to a fumbling drunk is what you’d told him. Not in those words of course, but Thor accepted the truth in this all the same.

The day that your life as you knew it changed forever was the night that your father requested an audience with you. He was the only one in the throne room, seated on the imposing chair as you approached. You were nervous, hesitant even, and he beckoned you forth.

“Come, my child. We have much to discuss…”

“Is everything alright?” you wondered.

Odin didn’t respond right away, and he sighed.

“That has yet to be determined.”

“I don’t understand…”

You stood before him on the steps, and his eyes softened the longer he stared at you.

“I may not have conceived you, but you are my daughter in every way.”

You smiled at him.

“I have loved you and brought you up in the same manner as my sons…and like them, I only want what is best for you.”

You were unsure as to where he was going with this, but something swirled in your gut as you thought back to the night with Fandral.

“You will be married within the year,” he said, making your blood freeze.

You stared at him with wide eyes, in shock at both how Fandral had been telling the truth and that your father could do this. The silence stretched between you two, and you slowly blinked at him. You opened and closed your mouth, unsure of what to say, and you feared that words would fail you forever. There was a million things you wanted to ask, but you settled on the most important one.

“…why?”

“Thor is a skilled warrior, and I mean for him to be king someday,” he confessed, confirming what you and Loki had long suspected.

He never even considered putting Loki on the throne. Your heart broke for your brother.

“…and Loki is just as skilled, but far more cunning. He is a great sorcerer, and he will flourish at his brother’s side.”

He tilted his head at you.

“Do you plan to lead with them? I doubt it. You have never been one for war or politics-.”

“So if I had been more like Thor or cunning like Loki…you might have seen some value in me beyond that of a cattle being sold for-.”

“You will mind your tongue-.”

“How can you do this to me?”

“Silence!”

His voice boomed throughout the empty room, and you fought back the tears. You could hardly stand to look at him.

“You will do what is best for this family and help us to build alliances. I have had many princes and even kings asking for your hand in marriage. Men with resources and soldiers…”

You scoffed in disgust, looking away from him.

“I am far from cruel. You have free reign over who is to be your husband. I’m more than happy to leave that in your hands,” he added as if that would make you feel better.

Your eyes met his again, and you glared at him with a sneer.

“How kind of you, father. I am filled with so much joy at that that I can hardly contain it.”

You swept away before he said anything else, and he let you. You felt like you would pass out at any moment. Fandral had been telling the truth, after all, and the knowledge that you were being traded off like cattle wasn’t what hurt the most. It was the reason why. It was because you weren’t as valiant and ferocious as Thor. It was because you weren’t as smart and skilled and scheming as Loki. It was because your father saw you as useless unless he could get something out of you, and that thought broke the dam that had been holding your tears back.

You don’t know why you knocked on Loki’s door. You never did before. Maybe you weren’t in your right mind. After all, you could hardly hear yourself think over the sound of your sobs. You don’t even remember him opening the door nor asking you what was wrong. You were suddenly in his arms, and he was trying to calm you down. All you could see was green, and you noted that it was his eyes, a hand on your face as he kept you steady.

“Talk to me,” he begged.

“I…I… I am meant…”

You could hardly speak between your sobs, and you took a deep breath.

“I am to be married within the year.”

You watched as Loki froze, face paling as he registered your words. Anything else that you wanted to say was long forgotten as you broke down again. He held you to him, shushing you, but it was no use. Your body felt numb and heavy all at once, mind whirling and vision tilting.

“Y/N.”

You could hear Loki calling your name, a rarity. If it wasn’t ‘sister’ then it was ‘pet’. He called your name again, but it was barely heard over the sound of your sobs. You could feel his fingers on you, his hand moving as he cupped your face with both of them. You briefly squeezed your eyes shut, vision blurry as your head lifted…and then his lips were on yours.

You hardly registered the feel of his mouth moving against yours at first, but then all too sudden, it seemed that it was the only thing you could focus on. It was like tunnel vision. Everything else outside of you was blurred, blinded to all except the dark-haired prince. His lips on yours, his hands on you, the sound of tearing fabric. The world could have been ending outside, and you would not have known.

You only seemed to get some clarity when he was on top of you, your back pressed into his floor, his bare chest brushing against yours. He looked flushed, a first for him, and you blinked at him as he briefly pulled away. His lips found your jaw, dancing towards your neck, and you gasped as you stared up at the ceiling horror.

“Wait. Loki, stop-!”

You cut yourself off with a choked moan, his lips quickly finding their way in between your thighs. Your nails scraped against his floor as he tasted you, and you gasped, unable to quite catch your breath. You slapped the floor, trying to swallow down your moans, but it was no use. You pressed your other hand into his head, trying to push him off, but he merely wrapped his arms around your thighs, holding you to him as he swiped his tongue over you and inside of you.

You could feel your stomach tightening, feel something building within you, and you were far from naïve. You knew what was happening and knew that this was beyond wrong. You fought against it, trying desperately to get away from the heat that seemed to possess your entire being, but Loki’s hold was locked. He didn’t want to rest until he gave you what he was seeking and find it he did.

You came on his tongue with a high-pitched sigh, chest arching and fingers twisting into his dark locks. He lapped at you, determined to swallow every drop, and your eyes rolled as your frame shook.  Your legs fell to the ground when he pulled away, and you had no time to form words before he was pushing into you with a satisfied groan. Your eyes widened at the foreign intrusion, and you clung to him. Your breath was shaky as your eyes met his own, and they did not reflect the fear and uncertainty and horror that you were sure was in yours.

What were you doing?

Loki moved, and your lashes fluttered, and you whimpered beneath him. You pressed your fingers into his arms as he pushed his hips against yours, wincing a bit, and his brows furrowed. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, lips trailing towards your ear.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

Your heart clenched for multiple reasons, and more tears spilled over for those same multiple reasons. Your father, your looming marriage, Fandral and Thor’s grief. What Loki had done to him…and what he was doing now. It was too much, and you let out a choked sob, wrapping your arms around him as he thrust into you.

“I’ve always got you,” he murmured.

You closed your eyes, biting into his shoulder as he snapped his hips into yours. Every move of his cock had you gasping and shaking, keening beneath him. Too much tragedy had consumed you. Too much death. Fandral’s, the death of your future, that of your view of your father…your relationship with Loki. This wasn’t okay. It was far from okay, but it didn’t feel that way.

Loki’s soft hands never stayed in one place for too long. Every stroke fueled a fire inside of you, and every kiss soothed it. Your hands tangled in his hair, holding him to you as you squeezed your eyes shut, basking in the feel of him inside of you. Loki looked after you like you were made of glass, and when your eyes met his again, he looked like a man in the midst of heaven. You recalled Fandral’s words.

“I see the way he looks at you.”

This was clearly what he meant. Loki looked as if there was nowhere else he’d rather be. Even when you found yourselves on his bed, back pressed into his silken sheets, he didn’t appear to be stopping anytime soon. His eyes told you that he didn’t want this to end, and deep down, some part of you that you desperately wanted to squash, felt the same way.

You could feel it again, that distracting heat deep in your gut, and Loki’s breath shook. Could he feel it too? You blinked back tears, but they spilled over anyway as another climax approached. Loki shushed you as you began to sob, his voice soothing and hypnotic. His hands were on your face, and yours were on his, fingers pressing into his cheeks.

“Loki,” you sobbed.

“It’s okay…”

You shook your head, and he shushed you again.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s going to be okay.”

You gasped, core fluttering, and your breathing picked up.

“Let go.”

You did, and he let go with you, spilling into you as you clenched around him. He swallowed your cries with a kiss, inhaling you as he spiraled with you. Sweat clung to your frames as your breath mingled, and as you laid there, reality came crashing down. You started to cry again, sick to your stomach at what had just taken place, and Loki merely rolled onto his back, pulling you with him. He laid your head on his chest, fingers stroking your back as you cried yourself to sleep.

You stared down at your food, looking at it but not really seeing it. You quietly pushed it around as your parents and Thor conversed amongst one another. Loki, who was next to you as always, was quiet too. If anyone noticed your uncharacteristic behavior over the past few weeks, and you were sure they did, no one said a thing. You could feel Loki’s eyes on you every now and then, as they always were, but you could not bring yourself to look at him.

Not after what you had done.

You were disgusted with him…and yourself. What you had done was wrong on so many levels, and the only thing that would’ve made it worse were if you two shared any blood at all. You supposed that was a silver lining, right? Hardly. Odin and Frigga were your parents. Thor was your brother. Loki…was your brother. Lack of blood did not change that.

That was exactly what you had told Loki the morning after. You were a sobbing and distraught mess, emptying the contents of your stomach, and Loki had tried in vain to soothe you, but you had pushed him away. You had let him know in no uncertain terms that what had happened wasn’t okay nor would it ever happen again. He looked as if you had broken his heart…and you supposed that you had broken yours too.

“Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

You were brought back to the present by the sound of your mother’s voice, and your eyes curiously met hers. She sadly eyed your untouched food before her eyes met yours again with a soft smile.

“The festival later today. I’m sure many are expecting an appearance from at least one of us.”

“Oh,” you simply replied. “I actually don’t feel well, but you all should go and have fun.”

You were pushing away from the table before anything else was said, and you were barely out of the hall before Loki was following you. You did nothing as he gently grabbed your wrist, pulling you down the corridor and into another less frequented one. He stared at you in the low light, and you simply stared past him.

“Say something,” he begged.

“What is there to say?”

His hands were on your face, forcing you to look at him, and your heart ached at the sorrow in his eyes.

“I do not regret what happened.”

“Well, I do!” you said, pushing him away. “It should have never happened.”

“Why? Who says?”

You shook your head, and he continued.

“Did I not make you feel good? Did you not enjoy yourself?” he wondered, fingers brushing along your cheek.

“That doesn’t matter-.”

You cut yourself off as he backed you against the wall, green eyes demanding.

“Answer the question,” he whispered.

“Loki…”

He kissed you, and you pressed your hands to his chest, but it was a poor attempt to stop him, and you both knew it. His hand grasped at the skirt of your dress, the other on your waist, and you finally pushed him away just as Thor’s voice reached your ears.

“Brother?”

You both looked up, and Thor blinked as he stood at the end of the corridor. You swallowed as you silently questioned how much he saw, your nerves only growing as he approached. His eyes were unreadable as he looked between you too, and he cleared his throat.

“Mother wishes to speak with us,” he told Loki to which the dark-haired prince nodded.

Thor’s eyes met yours, something in them that made your heart drop. You wondered if Loki noticed the subtle shift in his gaze and the way his lips pressed together, but you did. Your blood cooled, and you fought to hold his gaze.

He saw…and he knew.

“Father wishes to speak with you.”

Your shoulders sagged, and Thor placed his hand on your head.

“Do not fret. I am sure it is nothing…”

Thor did not know of your impending marriage, so you doubted his words, but you moved past him, nonetheless. You thought that they would follow, but when you looked back, Thor’s hand was on Loki’s shoulder, and they had yet to move. Thor threw you a soft smile.

“Go on. I wish to speak with our brother about something…”

His words unnerved you, but you nodded anyway and left them. Your suspicions turned out to be correct, and Odin indeed summoned you about the marriage. He talked, and you merely listened. What else could you do? His word was law, and his mind was made up. You would start the process of picking your husband, and you supposed that on some small scale, you were grateful for that, that he’d given you control over that at least.

As you left him, you supposed that it was also good that you had until the end of the year. You were grasping at any positivity you could find, and that broke your heart because this was far from a positive situation. When you made it back to your chambers, you were somehow both surprised and unsurprised to find them occupied by Loki. He simply stared at you and you him.

“Are you really going to do it?”

“I have no choice,” you immediately replied.

“Tell him no!”

Loki’s eyes were wide and desperate as he neared you. You looked down as he gripped your arms.

“You’ve met our father, Loki. When have any of us, aside from Thor, ever told him no?”

He was quiet, and you moved away from him.

“We are not like our brother,” you murmured.

“Perhaps we should be,” he lowly spat.

“Why?” you spun around to face him with a frown, eyes accusatory.

His gaze dropped to your lips before traveling over the rest of you and eventually finding it’s way back to your eyes.

“You know why.”

You frantically shook your head.

“We know each other better than anyone. We love each other more than we love anyone…”

“Loki…”

Your voice was quiet, a bit unsure, and you looked away.

“Are you going to deny that?”

“It shouldn’t have happened,” you whispered.

“…but it did,” he said as he neared you. “I don’t regret it, at all, and I know you feel the same.”

You shook your head again, unable to speak nor look him in the eye.

“Call me a liar,” he goaded you.

“Stop it,” you quietly begged.

His hands were on your waist, your back brushing the wall, and his forehead was pressed to yours as he hummed.

“You are the only one to touch me…just as I am the only one to know you so intimately. Doesn’t that seem right?”

“Stop-.”

“We have always belonged to each other. Everyone else could see it even if we couldn’t-.”

“I said stop!”

You shoved him away from you, chest heaving, and his soft green eyes hardened, ice bleeding into them.

“I am following our father’s orders. I will be married within the year, and this…this will simply be a mistake that we shall never speak of again,” you tearfully told him.

You watched as Loki’s jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as you threw your words at him. He was angry, yes, but he was sad too. You could see it in the way his lips trembled, throat bobbing as he swallowed.

“Why are you doing this?” he softly asked.

“…because it’s what’s right,” you softly answered.

Loki sniffed, glancing away as a tear escaped, skipping down his cheek and onto the floor.

“No, my love for you is right, and I will happily show that to the world…”

His eyes met yours, a threatening determination swirling in them.

“…starting with you.”

You fought against him as he reached for you, pulling you closer until his mouth hungrily covered yours. Loki moved his lips against yours like he was starved, and considering that the abomination that was your coupling was weeks ago, you supposed that he was. He wrapped his arms around you, clinging to you like you’d disappear any moment.

Your protesting words were swallowed, and your protesting hands were ignored. This was not like the first time. Loki didn’t take his time, and he didn’t hold you like you were made of glass. He held you like you were going to slip from his grasp, like someone was trying to take you away. His fingers did not trail over your skin, they pressed into it. His lips did not soothe the growing fire, they increased it. He did not fuck you like he was trying to heal you, but instead hurt you.

“You are mine,” he breathed into your mouth as he thrust into your unwelcoming walls.

Your nails and sobs and pleas did nothing to deter him, and you couldn’t recall when you had stopped fighting. What was the point? Just like before, he had you whimpering and moaning beneath him no matter how much you fought it. Loki’s control over your body was terrifying but freeing in a way. Perhaps, he was right.

How many times had someone thrown your relationship with him in your face as a means to hurt you? For years, so many people had seen what you hadn’t…or simply refused to. Loki had always been your guardian angel, your protector. Did he assume the role himself or was fate pulling the strings? Somewhere along the way, you became his and he became yours, or was that set in stone from the moment you were brought into the palace?

As he pushed into you again and again, drawing out hushed whimpers and choked moans, you started crying again. Just like last time, but this time was for an entirely different reason. You had thought that this was the death of your relationship with him, that the two of you had done something that would destroy it altogether, and you had wept the loss. Now, you felt the opposite. That maybe this wasn’t the end of something, at all, but instead the beginning of something twisted and dark and dangerous. Or maybe it was already that way.

Loki had killed for you…and you had asked him to.

Your tears were those of acceptance, of resigning yourself to something that you no longer saw any use in fighting. But your acceptance did nothing to ease your guilt. It was wrong. There was no denying that nor changing it. The way he pushed his unrelenting cock into you was wrong. The way he licked your tears and kissed your lips was wrong. The way he pressed his fingers into your hips, pinning you down for him was wrong.

The way you loved each other was wrong.

As his hips stuttered, and your walls clenched, milking him, and draining him dry as he came inside of you with a deep moan, you told him that. Tears blurred your vision as you brushed your fingers over his jaw, sobs wracking your frame as he softened inside of you.

“This isn’t right,” you quietly told him, hoping that maybe it would convince him to abandon this tragedy waiting to happen.

He held your hand to his face, gaze somehow sympathetic and triumphant at the same time.

“Well, sister. I am the God of Mischief…”

He turned his face to press his lips to the palm of your hand.

“…and I have never cared about what’s right.”

~

tags: @mcudarklibrary   @xoxabs88xox @harryspet @readermia @opheliadawnwalker3 @nickyl316h @captainchrisstan @sebabestianstan101 @villanellevi @lokislastlove @notyourtypicalrose @coconutqueen21 @hurricanerin @trinittyy @hyoyeoniie  @mandiiblanche @gotnofucks @oneoftheprettynerds @doozywoozy @melli0112 @buckybarnesplumwhore @darksideofthecocoamoon​

[theacevampire]

A Princess' Duty I

Pairing: Kita x fem!Reader

Genre: Royal AU, romance, forced/arranged marriage, betrayal

Wordcount: ~2.3k

Warnings: mentions of parents' death, (attempted) murder but nothing graphic

Track: Amanda Tenfjord – Die Together

A/N: This fic is part of @sasusaki's Kavyaverse Collab.This was due on July 2, so I apologize for posting late. Also, happy (belated birthday to our king Kita!

A Princess' Duty masterlist

The weather was beautiful as springtime slowly banished the winter and its gloomy atmosphere. The sun shone brightly, no clouds blurring its rays, the bird’s chirping chimed through the air and a soft breeze twirled petals and leaves around you. The scent of hyacinths tickled your nose like a page from a picture book. A tear fell down your cheek and into the bouquet in your hands.

It was ironic. The weather was so different from your sentiment. Usually, the sun would invite you to go for a ride with your beloved horse, enjoying the warmness on your skin and the wind in your hair, but today the warmth felt like salt in your wound.

You got on your knees and placed the bouquet of flowers on the moist soil, right next to the black marble statue of an angel. Not even two months ago, Daichi would’ve scolded you for potentially ruining your dress and lectured you about how a princess shouldn’t kneel in the dirt, but today he didn’t.

Today the dirt on your dress was trivial. Insignificant. Negligible. Just like everything else. Your fingers brushed over the names of your parents and younger siblings engraved in the gravestone. Today, Daichi laid his hand on your shoulder and squeezed it, silently providing you stability. Stability he barely had himself. 

“I don’t think I have realized they’re gone forever yet.” Your voice was barely above a whisper. If you spoke any louder only a croak would come out. “We will never hear Akiko’s laugh or Shiro and Yoshiro’s banter again. Or Mother and Father arguing about the next banquet’s seating arrangements.” More tears streamed down your face and you balled your hands into fists, gathering the grave’s dirt under your nails.

Daichi’s laugh was heartbroken. “Don’t say that. We wouldn’t want them debating in heaven whether they were having a discussion or an argument once again. What would God think of our family?”

Despite all the tears and sorrow, you smiled at the memory of your mother’s voice echoing through the halls, defending her firm belief she and your father had been merely discussing the matter while he had mumbled something about this hardly being a discussion but rather an argument. Still, they always smiled at each other while doing so, because such trivial matters couldn’t damage their marriage – nothing could. Ever.

“They really loved each other deeply.” You turned your head to Daichi as he looked up into the sky. His expression was dreamy, but you noticed the tears burning in his eyes too.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown. And he was still able to point his gaze up. Sure, his whole life Daichi had been prepared to become king, to reign over the Kingdom of Karasuno. But not at the age of twenty-one. He wasn’t supposed to take over the throne until your father had died of old age in a decade. But there he stood now: a king after losing his family and his head still high.

You made a move to get up and his attention snapped back to you, before he offered you his hand, helping you on your feet again. You gulped the lump in your throat, picking an entangled leaf from his hair.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” You faked ignorance, very well aware you did nothing to hide your emotions – not that it was an option. He had always been able to read you like an open book.

“Pity written all over your face.” A smile tugged on his lips as he tipped your nose with his index finger. “I’m your older brother, I’m here to protect you, to comfort you. I’m supposed to be the strong one, the one helping you through the loss of your parents and siblings.”

“Our parents and our siblings, Daichi. They were your family too, Daichi. It’s fine to express your grief to me. To whom else would you, if not me, your sister? We’re in this together.”

Slowly, the two of you made your way back towards the castle, away from the cemetery’s heavy aura. The servants knew not to approach you during your mourning times at the grave, but neither of you could escape the royal duties forever. Both of you knew that.

Passing through the palace grounds lifted some of the weight of your chest. Leaving the thick atmosphere made breathing easier again and the bird’s chirping didn’t feel like mockery anymore but reassurance the two of you could manage. With a shy smile you linked your arm with Daichi’s, squeezing it lightly to give him silent support.

“Your Majesty!” 

Daichi flinched as Nishinoya’s voice called from behind you. He still wasn’t used to the new title. A title he didn’t like because it reminded him of the price he had paid.

Daichi furrowed his eyebrows as he turned around. “Nishinoya! Did I not tell you to refrain from disturbing us?”

You laid your hand on his forearm to calm him down. Nishinoya was a reliable messenger, who would never refuse orders if it wasn’t a serious matter. “What is it, Yū?” you asked in a tone softer than your brother’s.

Breathless, Nishinoya bowed to you and you noticed the sweat glistering on his forehead. As Karasuno’s messenger, it was hard to bring his body to the point of sweating. “Your Highness.” He took two more deep breaths before continuing, “I’m really sorry for disobeying your orders, Sire, but His Majesty, King Shinsuke Kita of Inarizaki, is here, asking for his bride.”

“His bride?”

Nishinoya’s gaze flickered to you and he faltered. Your confusion and the deepening furrows on Daichi’s forehead told him neither you nor your brother knew what he was talking about. He gulped, looking at Daichi. “Yes. According to him, you signed a contract, arranging a marriage with him.”

Your nails dug into the stiff fabric of Daichi’s uniform. “Yū?” you asked, your tongue heavy. “Who is stated as the bride?”

His Adam’s apple bopped when he gulped again, avoiding eye contact with both of you. A moment of heavy silence passed with only the sighing of the wind interrupting it, his expression provoking an uneasy feeling. “I’m afraid it’s you, Your Highness, the Princess of Karasuno.”

Irritation and confusion wouldn’t do justice to what you felt at that moment. Shinsuke Kita, King of Inarizaki, requested your hand in marriage? This was out of the blue. Sure, you knew about him, who he was, but you hadn’t spoken to him aside from the time your parents had introduced him to you years ago at a ball in Shiratorizawa’s palace. If you recall correctly, this had been seven years ago, just a few months after your fourteenth birthday, and since then you hadn’t seen or corresponded with him in any form. So, why was he suddenly asking – or rather demanding – you to marry him?

“Tell him, we will hear him in the throne room,” Daichi ordered Nishinoya who promptly nodded and ran back to the palace. With his hand on your lower back, he guided you back as well. “Come on.”

You looked down on your dirty dress, the soil differentiating greatly from the lavender silk. “I should change. I–”

“There’s no time for that.” With a stern glance, he shook his head, continuing to drag you through the gardens. 

And there was nothing you could do aside from following him into the building, through the long, wide hallways to the throne room where Sir Kōshi Sugawara and Sir Asahi Azumane, your personal guards, were already waiting, standing left and right of the podium with the two thrones. They were exchanging glances but stopped as soon as Daichi and you entered after giving each other a nod in a wordless exchange. Daichi settled in the left throne as you took your stand beside him, a hand resting on his shoulder.

Not even a minute later, Nishinoya slipped in through a door to the side, signaling the arrival of King Shinsuke Kita. Your brother gave him a nod and Nishinoya hurried to the broader, taller door right across the podium.

The other two knights stationed right next to the main door, pulled open the door wings and Nishinoya cleared his throat before announcing, “His Majesty, the King of Inarizaki, Shinsuke Kita!”

Three people entered, their swords dangling from their belts, striding over the red carpet in Inarizaki’s characteristic knights’ uniforms: a suit of armor made of shining metal and a black cloak with white ornaments adorning the hem, held by a shoulder plate bearing a silhouette of a fox.

Shinsuke Kita’s physique wasn’t particularly more impressive than his guards’: both were taller and just as broad. However, he was so far from inconspicuous, that – even without his dark red sash under his cloak and the gold trim in the fox – one could tell he was the one coming from royalty. His presence was unmistakably a leader’s, a king’s.

“Your Majesty.” His voice was unexpectedly bright though deeper than you remembered it – no wonder, he wasn’t a boy anymore. “Your Highness.” He barely spared you a glance, keeping his eyes on Daichi as his guards bowed their heads.

His greeting was acknowledged with a nod and a “Your Majesty” in return.

For a moment you contemplated refusing the curtsy, but your mother had taught you manners and this was not the place for immature behavior. “Your Majesty,” you greeted him, brushing off the sting of frustration when he continued ignoring you.

Daichi watched his opponent closely, legs crossed and chin resting on the back of his hand, aware of every single movement. You could tell he looked more confident than he felt. “I hope your travel to our humble kingdom was without trouble and I welcome you in my castle. Though I must admit, I am surprised to see you here, Sire. I didn't expect you to show up at my palace’ door – unannounced, at that – demanding for a bride.”

The blonde guard's eyebrows rose in surprise before he caught himself. The other guard and Kita remained stoic.

“I fail to see how my appearance is unannounced. Two weeks have passed since the signing on your part and now I am here to pick up my appointed bride – like agreed.”

Under your touch, Daichi’s shoulder tensed and the knuckles on his other hand turned white as he gripped the armrest tighter. He was holding back – in favor of the neutral relation your kingdoms had and to save face as a king. If he lost his temper now, word would go around, damaging his reputation and authority over Karasuno.

But something was wrong. Daichi knew how much you valued a marriage out of love, how much you wished for a marriage like your parents’. There was no way he would marry you off to someone you didn’t approve – much less you barely even knew.

From Kita’s wording you deduced there was a written contract, quoting the terms and conditions of this arranged marriage. But Daichi couldn’t ask to see it, considering he supposedly signed it, as this would prove someone had interfered with his business. Which no king should ever, under any circumstances, tolerate. Saying Kita had shown up unannounced had already painted a bad light, but it could be excused by saying it must’ve slipped Daichi’s mind that the stated amount of time had already passed, as a ruler’s schedule tended to be rather busy. However, you could very well ask to see the record without raising suspicion, feigning the unknowing princess whose brother married her off and attempting damage control.

“May I have a look at the document? I assume you have it with you, Sire.”

Three pairs of eyes flickered to you instantly. For the blink of an eye, they fell on the stains on your dress and the dark-haired guard raised an eyebrow disparagingly before they got a hold of themselves and lifted their gazes to your face. Kita kept a straight face though his brown eyes studied your every movement with a certain interest.

“Ren.”

The dark-haired guard nodded silently and pulled something out of the interior pocket of his uniform. The paper’s rustling was earsplitting. The dull sound of your heels on the carpet and the rattling of his armor were the only things to be heard in the room as you walked down the steps from the podium, meeting the guard halfway.

“Thank you.” Internally, you thanked the gods your voice and hands weren't shaking as you reached for the document, noticing the guard eyeing the dirt still clinging to your hands.

The material was rough under your fingertips as they worked on unfolding the document and silence set over the room.

Holding your breath, you skimmed the text, catching a point here and there – exchange for the Princess’ hand in marriage – alliance between the kingdoms of Karasuno and Inarizaki – as soon as the wedding ceremony is fulfilled – typical conditions for a contract outlining an arranged marriage. Then your gaze fell on the signatures at the bottom and you froze. What you saw proved your worst fears to be true. Daichi betraying you and marrying you off against your wishes wouldn’t have been nearly as bad as this. There, down at the bottom, in black ink, stood Daichi’s name.

Only the signature wasn’t his.

“Sire? What shall we do now?”

Dull brown eyes set on the fields of hyacinths around Karasuno’s palace, observing the estate’s structure and layout, watching the animals scurry from bush to bush and the servants hurry from one side of the palace to the other.

“We will wait.”

Tagging: @hanayanetwork

[firesofdainix]

October 6: Skeleton | Death | "It hurts too much."

@morrotober

mwahahaha... mwahahaha... MWAHAHAHAHAHA *evil laughter continues* i was speedrunning to get to this day.

AO3 Version

*

Graphic depiction of violence and death

*

It was an honest mistake.

Before he leaves in the blanket of night, the stars and the moon, the only ones in the sky to have seen him leave the monastery, he finds sets of scrolls detailing ancient, historical sites of Ninjago. They were old, and yellowing, but most importantly, they carry bits of information that only those who can understand Old Ninjargon can decipher correctly. Feeling a little prideful over his literacy, he takes them on his journey, using them as ways to traverse the harsher sides of the continent. The unpredictable rainforests, the sweltering desserts, the torrential rainstorm, and the dangerous mountain ranges, he has dodged them all, with the help of the maps and the wind.

Morro was a careful, cautious young man; even if in the life he's lived, he'd acted impulsive and stubborn, he practices an amount of carefulness that was something Wu admires about him. Like the wind that blows so securely on his face, he can glide through obstacles with precision. He was able to calculate the most plausible ways out of the list of choices he has been given and the safest or shortest paths to traverse to completely defy the destiny given to him.

So, when it turns out that, according to the rumors and people seeking some thrill in their life that the Caves of Despair, lying in the Sea of Sand house sand dunes and caverns created after a quake resonated through the entire cave, he has deemed to check it out, with the hope that somewhere inside, there may be the Tomb of the First Spinjitzu Master. Sometimes, according to the locals, they would hear the screams of what resembles to be a dragon, bearing its wings as it prepares to fight something quite valuable inside of the caves. Hearing those rumors and the potential that, maybe, deep in those depressing caves, were the bones of the First Spinjitzu Master. He thinks to himself, It must be the work of the Element of Earth! And there is only one person who can create strong earthquakes such as this.

Like a ghost, he lets the wind guide him into the sweltering hot climate of the Sea of Sand. His feet are buried within the Sandy shoals of the desert, almost like the waters waving at him through gliding themselves into the currents. However, the grains of sand were a nuisance to him, unlike the soft water of the seafoam. It is currently reminding him of a situation he wasn't particularly fond of. He and Wu always avoided having to journey through the Sea of Sand, simply because the atmosphere and environment were harsher and hotter than that of their village and the others, and, well, Morro was a picky child.

He just needed to find what was in the Caves of Despair; whether it was the bones of the First Spinjitzu Master or nothing at all. If there is nothing, he would simply sigh and leave the way he had gone in the first place.

It wasn’t—

Inside the caves, a rumble sounds, as if there was a sleeping giant at the bottom of this tunnel.

Much to Morro’s horror, he finds the rocks that were supposed to be above the cave entrance starting to move an inch. “No, wait!” He runs towards the only exit in this cave to no avail, as the rumbling becomes more intense as if the cave hungers for the loss of life.

The rocks fall onto the only exit, blocking him out of salvation, out of the easy life.

It wasn’t meant to be like this.

One of the rocks — the bigger ones too, of course — that had initially been piling on the opening, as if to mock his current predicament, then lands on his right leg.

It should not be this painful; getting his leg crushed by a rock was not the part of the list in which he must prevail in hiding the pain.

There was a sickening crunch at the resounding impact, and he feels all of the bones in that part of his body crack and break as if it were the barks of trees unable to withstand the strong winds.

With a howl, he curses all of the swears that remain in his vocabulary, balling his hands in fists as the cave continues to quake as if it has not done enough by locking him inside of a volatile cavern.

There was a geyser in the middle of the cavern he is now trapped in, he knows.

Beads of sweat form on his face, as he cradles his right leg, feebly trying to get the rock to move from its place. It was like the old training equipment back at the monastery; too hard to move with his hands and feet, having to rely on his wit and smarts to outsmart a non-living object.

But there is no rod or ditch to attach this rock onto.

There was only him.

Small, frail, and definitely not in the best conditions to lift up the rock currently crushing his leg, but also, hiding the gruesome sight from Morro himself.

He tries to summon the wind through grunts and inner commands; however, even with his best skills at exertion, barely a breeze managed to pass by.

Oh, right, he was stuck in the Caves of Despair.

Alone.

Even the Wind did not accompany him to the darkest depths of the caverns. What a coward.

Morro was no coward— he will prevail in his task to find the tomb, to spit on Destiny’s face, swearing at Her face and gloating about how he is worthy to become the Green Ninja.

Was becoming the Green Ninja really worth it to die here? A timid, shier part of his mind speaks, for the first time since the years have passed. A time period in which he never listened to his mind anymore, a time where he only listened to the flummoxing emotions stirring in his heart, whispering to him of the rewards and the life he may earn if he ever achieves the feat of finding this sacred, mythical tomb. The scrolls of old have deceived him so many times; old men whispering with his dreams and desires in his sleep, whilst he tosses and turns, the visage of the Golden Weapons and Wu himself roaming further away from his mind. All he could see what his hand; dirtied from the sand, grime, and muck that he had accumulated over the years.

Dirty hands over the polished golden blades.

His breathing quickens, feeling his own element slowly, but surely, fading out.

The pain still stings, and, with the inclusion of his sudden predicament over the shortness of his breathing, he is currently in the worst pain imaginable.

This was worse than any of the burning fevers back in the monastery; it was — his hands find his throat as more choking breaths spill out, sweat dribbling from his forehead and back — it was agony.

At least Wu was around him, always giving him medicine, herbs, tea, or whatever healing miracle he has bestowed upon Morro.

He was not here.

He was at the monastery.

He was—

Something escapes his eyes. He thinks it was sweat.

(Those were tears.)

Gasping for breath, he starts to speak, as if it will be his saving grace for whatever torment he is currently in.

“It—” He shudders, feeling the heat around the cave rise, his entire vision wavy and shaky, sweltering with a temperature that can rival a thousand suns.

Wu’s sun was not like that.

“It hurts so much.” He lets out something that is, practically, an uncontrollable sob, as tears flow freely from his eyes.

He starts to cry.

Everything was going so wrong.

What did he even want?

Someone finally told him that he was, for once in his life, worth something.

The rock had not budged at all, and, even when he subtly attempts to nudge it into one place, he could feel his senses of pain kick in. so, much to his discontent and dread, he could not move before this entire cave explodes.

Oh yes, that is the other problem.

Because his life seems to be filled with unfortunate happenstances stacking up against one another; not only is his leg crushed by something he was not strong enough to lift, his wind is currently working against him as every second feels like his last breath, and, last, of all, there is a simpering heat waiting to boil over, to burn him alive.

Those gasps turn into pants, as he attempts to breathe himself back to life with the barely-supple oxygen that is contained within this closed area, his eyes going blood-shot, chest rising and falling as his hands endeavor in summoning the winds to lift the rock, to blow away the rocks sealing the cave.

Nothing works in his favor, however.

He clutches at his throat, coughing as he feels his lungs give away. With no more air to breathe, he could feel his time nearing.

Just as he could feel himself burning, his body awaited the stench of gas and the burning flames.

He looks up at the cave’s ceiling, filled with stalactites. He hopes one would fall and pierce his heart.

Morro opens his mouth as he feels his vision blur, the cave shaking as another explosion threatens to spill.

It was as if he was muttering a prayer, to whatever God of Afterlife there is, to come and collect his soul from his incoming death.

He was praying to a god, alright.

“Wu,” Morro dislikes how his voice is shaky, unsure. Wu will always come and save him, no matter what. Even in the deafening silence of this cavern, only being filled by his breaths and statements, he swears he could almost hear the tapping of zori on the ground. “I am sorry— sorry you have a failure like me as your student. I—I only wish to make you proud. I want to… to become the…” He lets out another breath, panting so hard he thinks he could break his ribcage. “Green Ninja so I can protect you and make you love me unconditionally.”

The entire world starts to set itself on fire, but he is not done yet.

“Save me, Wu. Save me… save me from my cursed existence.”

 Silence.

 Heat.

 His face flushed with warmth, but it was not the kind of tepidness he would love to feel.

It was hot; like the irori when something is cooking. When the candles burn his fingers.

Imagine it tenfold.

That is now how he feels.

The last thing he thinks about when he closes his eyes, feeling his body scorch into the unattainable flames, was how he curses himself forever for coming into this journey in the first place.

(In the light of the evening, when Morro’s skin was nothing but burned like the many cities that fall, there was a monastery with open doors, waiting for a man’s return.

The wind, like a compass that directs a spirit to its destination, whizzes towards it, screaming thousands of vengeance toward the man that started it all.

The doors slam shut, with the whisper of Morro’s name prevalent in the air.)

[queer-adhd]

(Tw: suicide mentions, forced hospitalization, but nothing detailed or graphic)

Something the "we can't let patients make their own medical decisions because they might end up making the wrong ones!" crowd all seem to have in common is that they also believe that people shouldn't have the right to deny medical help entirely because that's also "making the wrong medical decision", but one thing they either never think of or don't care about it that a lot of people that refuse medical help at all do so because they know that basically nullifies their bodily autonomy. Like how it's extremely common for suicidal people - even those receiving mental health treatment already (which I know because I am one of those people) - to just never mention when they're struggling with suicidal thoughts because they KNOW that if they do that they can be sent to the psyche ward without their consent and will have absolutely no control over their treatment while they're in there and no right to leave until they comply. So they just don't get treatment for their suicidal ideation until they actually attempt, assuming they aren't successful, and then they wind up in that situation anyway, refuse to mention the issue once they get out again (because many, many people that get hospitalized in this manner find it more traumatizing than helpful), and the cycle continues until they either succeed or get sufficient treatment for the root cause without giving the full story.

And that's just ONE example, but people think that suicidal people need to be locked up and forced into whatever treatment they're subjected to whether they agree with it or not and refuse to acknowledge that that does more harm than good because "if doctors let them go home after admitting that turn they might hurt themselves!" They don't wanna hear that suicidal people would probably be a fair bit less suicidal and get a lot more specialized treatment if they could go to a doctor and be reassured that they have someone who'll do whatever they can to help them through it without risking being taken to Prison but for Crazies.

Just being admitted to hospital already causes a massive loss of bodily autonomy and vulnerability.

Refusal of medical help is actually a cornerstone of the UK medical professional that is one of the solidly good things. If you can demonstrate that you understand the consequences of refusing medical treatment to a reasonable extent, then you can refuse it. This also includes teenagers, by the way. If you are above the age of criminal responsibility, then if you can confirm and show that you understand what will happen, you can deny medical treatment. Even against parental wishes.

Medical professionals here are obligated to essentially say 'i disagree with your decision, but it is your decision and you can make it'.

The fact that this is respected for refusing treatment, but not for seeking treatment, is contradictory to the moral basis of that principle. The reason why we respect the one and not the other, of course, is that not giving treatment is free (at least as I happens), and giving treatment is expensive. So there's much less of an incentive to respect bodily autonomy there than in the other direction.

All of that said, being sectioned is at its core an abuse of human rights that actively disincentivises people from seeking support for mental health issues. It's incarceration and total lack of bodily autonomy, and it's horrifically detrimental to the people it's supposed to be helping.

[angry-geese]

At Dawn’s Break III

PB!Dio Brando x Maid!Reader, Jonathan Joestar x Reader (platonic)

Warnings: none! sfw, mention of death, but nothing too graphic. Mostly plot. Not the healthiest relationship dynamic. Technically yandere Dio but its very tame

Notes: Part One- sfw, Part Two- nsfw, Part Four - nsfw

This has been in my drafts for so long I’m so sorry. I do have a friend helping me edit my ao3 stuff so there might be some grammatical differences between that and the stuff posted here but i'll try to keep it as consistent as possible- story-wise its still the same.

In the coming months, word would arrive of your father’s death.

Sad wasn’t the right word for it. The man was old, sick, and frail. He fell ill and never recovered. Things like that happen. It was expected. His passing was quiet, happening in the early hours in the morning. You had grieved his death long before it actually happened. Your love for him was more out of a sense of duty than anything else. He was never a proper parent, the harsh expectations of life were thrown upon you rather young. At nineteen you were left as the sole guardian of your siblings. Some nights you would scream about the unfairness of it all, others you would wallow in your pity. The constant "sorry for your loss"s infuriated you. It would not bring him back. It would not fix this hole you've dug for yourself. It did nothing to justify what you've gone through. The world wasn't going to stop spinning just for you to feel sorry for yourself.

So you returned to work.

Your meetings with Dio grew fewer and further apart. Your conversations were short, ending with arguments. What he could dish out, you threw right back. Often you found yourself bitter and frustrated with him, leaving much space between the two of you. It wasn’t that you loved him any less, but he wasn’t exactly understanding in this matter. Neither of his fathers- adopted or biological- could he stand. Putting it plainly: Dio was awful at comforting people. Sympathy was not one of his strong suits. Going to him for comfort was out of the question.

Your life was soon after consumed by the mundane nature of work. The repetition of it you found soothing. It was nice to have a routine. Even if Dio wasn’t there for you, it was. The head maid took notice in your sudden interest in work, and blamed Dio for your lacking efforts. You just nodded and kept your head down.

Mr. Joestar would soon fall ill. Due to his old age, it didn’t come as a surprise to many. Very few questioned it. He was older, but seemingly healthy at the time. He fell sick overnight with the flu, which soon turned to pneumonia. It was not looking like he would recover. His coughing fits could be heard from across the manor. Much of it reminded you of your own father, so you often stayed away, only coming around when it was asked of you.

It makes you wonder if Dio feels the same sense of duty to his father. Probably not. He does not understand family ties in the same way you do. He was very attentive when Mr. Joestar fell ill, often providing medicine for him. If you were called to help, he would go in your place. It feels false, like a mockery of a doting son. Yes- he's providing for his father, but it feels like an alien trying to copy a human. Like a robot trying to replicate human love. It’s not out of any kindness in his heart. What he feels isn’t love. Sometimes you don’t think he’s capable of it. But if he did love something, it was power. He’d never admit it, but it was also you. Having you so consumed with grief enraged him. It was a childish want for attention that he found hard to conceal. He never took out his anger on you, finding himself afraid of turning out to be like his birth father driving his mother into an early grave. Often he thought about how easily he could force your hand, make you chose between him and your family. Deep down he didn’t want to toss out an ultimatum. You had just as much of a bite as him; unstoppable force meets immovable object. In no way he saw that ending well. Others had noticed the growing distance between you. People talked- as they did- rumors spread.

“Y/N.” Jonathan’s voice startles you.

“Mister Joestar, how-”

“Call me Jonathan.”

You cringe at the interruption.

“Jonathan.” You say. “How can I help you?”

“Will you take a walk with me?”

He guides you out to the garden. Winter has left it scraggly and barren, washed out in cold, white light. A few wilting leaves cling to the trees. Only a handful of rooms are lit within the house. It feels personal, being dragged through the place where you spent so many of your nights with your lover. Calling him that feels strange. Lover seems like too innocent of a word.

Over your time at the Joestar estate, there isn’t much you know about Jonathan. Dio talked of him. Often. It was never good, though he had a way of exaggerating things. By now you’ve learned to take it with a grain of salt. Your meetings with the second Joestar son have been few and rather brief. He seems sweet, albeit a bit naive and too engrossed in high society to talk with the likes of you. The girls in the kitchen swoon over him, although he’s sweet on a neighbor girl. Erina- you’ve heard of her. She’s been over for dinner before.

"How are you?" He asks.

"Fine, I suppose." You say, a bit irritated with the small talk. "What is it you need of me?"

"I heard what happened," absentmindedly he picks at his nails, "and I wanted to give my condolences. I imagine this situation is... unpleasant for you."

"I manage." You say. "But I doubt that's what you brought me out here for."

He nods. "I wanted to ask you something."

"Then ask away. I'd be happy to answer."

“You’re close with Dio, aren’t you?” He asks.

“A bit. Why?”

While you’re almost certain he knows, it feels easier to lie. You were not the star-crossed lovers that Jonathan and Erina were, the type of partners that made the girls you work with swoon and wish for such a thing, the type of love people write books about but fail to recreate. Your relationship was more out of a mutual agreement than it was proper love, but you suppose it was there. The two of you were angry, scathing people who were capable of god knows what. Together you could be terrifying.

“You two seem to spend quite a lot of time together.” He says. “Have you noticed anything strange with him?”

“No.” You say. “I haven't noticed anything like that."

"He's awfully attentive with father..."

"It's bizarre." You say. He laughs.

"I'm heading to London in a few days- to the university. Father's medicine hasn't been working, and I want it to be examined." From his coat pocket he produces a small green bottle. it's familiar. Dio has one quite like it.

"Do you need anything while you're away?" You ask, wishing to get back to your work. There was laundry that needed to be done.

"No," he says, turning to you, "thank you for your time. I should get going."

Before you can leave, he stops you.

"I know it's no business of mine, but my brother is bad news. You're a sweet girl and I don't want anything to happen to you. Dio is capable of things you couldn't even imagine."

"You're right. It is no business of yours."

He gives you a quick goodbye before leaving you alone in the garden.

Over time, Dio has grown more serious about keeping you close. He has a malicious, possessive streak to him. Your recent distance has only brought that out more. There is no talk of marriage- his adoptive father would never approve- but he talks of the future. Often. For you, the future meant work. To some extent, you could live with that. You never knew what it meant for him. He jokes of world domination.

You’re not quite sure you want to rule the world, but you do want to get out of London.

You stop just under the apple tree. It’s sickly and sad looking. The last of the fruit has fallen off and rotted. A few wilting leaves cling onto the branches. Jonathan gives you a quick goodbye, before returning to the house.

The door to his room is open. A lantern is lit, though the curtains are drawn shut. There’s no need to knock, you’re the only person who will walk in.

“Sit with me, pet.” Dio says.

Maybe the nickname has grown on you. It no longer draws out the same reaction of disgust and discomfort. Time has softened your hard outer shell. He opens his arms and instinctively you go into them. His chest feels unnaturally cold, but being so close to him makes you feel safe. The smell of his cologne is familiar and comforting, you find yourself leaning in closer. You allow yourself this one moment of weakness. He rests his chin on top of your head.

“I don’t have long,” you say, “I must get back.”

He pulls you closer. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

“Jonathan came and talked with me earlier.” You say.

You could almost swear you heard his heart skip a beat. His grip around you loosens, allowing you to shift to face him. His expression is unreadable.

“Yes.” He says. “I figured he would.”

“Why?”

You almost ask what he’s done.

Accusing him of something would only make him shut down. You already have a guess. The entire conversation leaves a bad taste in your mouth. It’s a constant unease and discomfort, more than it is outright pain. He's scheming- as he does- but more importantly, he hasn't told you about it.

“My brother doesn't believe in my ways.” He says. "I would never do anything to hurt father. It's no fault of mine that he won't recover."

"Then tell me what was in the bottle." You say. "As of right now, Jonathan is on his way to get that 'medicine' tested."

"I never gave any of it to him."

Jonathan won't see it that way. The authorities surely won't be as kind as his brother. And if he gets caught- what then?

"So you give it to someone else- so some unassuming person is killing him."

Dio doesn’t respond. Do you really expect more of him? He’s proven to be capable of many things. You’ve long since learned he wants to be the sole heir to the Joestar estate. It was a given. Power is something he craves. As much as he jokes about world domination, there's always a serious tone behind them. In the beginning, it just seemed like his nature; he was always collected and intense. Some truth must have been behind them. He makes no attempt to hide that. But this...

Murder is a bit too cold-blooded for your tastes. Morally you don’t have the high ground. You don’t find yourself above much, but you'd like to think you're above murder. If its what you need to do to survive, you believe you'd give it a pass, but as the time comes you're less sure of it. Mr. Joestar gave Dio an opportunity that doesn’t even come once in a lifetime for many. It feels like a slap in the face, just adding insult to injury. This feels like betrayal in the purest sense of the word. While you aren’t close to his father, you have a bit of respect for the man. His death would not cause you the same grief as your own father’s, but you would be sad.

But he is old, and not all old people recover from illness.

Most of the estate would go to Jonathan upon his father’s death. Really, this seems short-sighted. As the younger son, Dio isn’t entitled to all that much. But getting rid of his brother might be easier said than done. Part of you is angry for how little he’s thought this through. Truly, you expected more from him. With as much as he schemes, you had expected a better plan.

Your reaction isn’t quite what he expected. Anything but blind love and acceptance is seen as betrayal to him. To you, everything that could go wrong, has gone wrong.

If he fails- if- there is no recovering from this. If he is caught, many signs point to you as an accomplice.

Silently he exits, leaving you alone in his dark room.

[catintheruemorgue]

kouyou x reader

summary: you and kouyou are lesbians with a secret relationship

warnings: slight hint at assault but nothing too graphic, just a shirt gets torn, mentions of sex.

wordcount: 1.5k

yup, lesbian time. i love women and i especially love this woman. 

The sun was just beginning to come up and ever the early worm your lover pulled you over to her arm chair. You took your normal spot kneeling on the floor with your head on Kouyou’s lap. Her fingers went straight to your hair to play with it. It was still early so her hair was down and she was wearing a pink teddy. You always seemed to forget you knew her better than anyone and nobody else would ever have the luxury to see Kouyou’s natural beauty in the morning. 

You fell in love with her when you were just girls. Being young and in the Port Mafia was scary but having each other gave you a sense of normalcy. When the two of you weren’t apart training or on a mission you were inseparable. You two would play house and dress up. Your earliest memory of having more romantic feelings is the times you two would play house. Nobody could be the daddies so you recommended you both be mommies! For the longest time it seemed as though you two could get through anything as long as you had each other. 

Until you both tried to escape. Kouyou had met a man who was going to help her escape but refused to go without you. She was so excited when she found you she tripped and fell. Her knee was scraped and you could see her holding back tears. She always tried to be so strong. You went to the first aid kit you left by your bed and cleaned it. After placing a band aid on the would you placed a kiss onto it.

“Kisses are supposed to make things better, I think.” 

You looked up to see her rubbing the tears out of her eyes and blushing. In a hushed voice she told you about the plan and for once you felt hope blossom in your chest. For the rest of the night you guys talked about plans of the future. You both wanted to go to school and then grow up and get an apartment together. No matter what the plan was though, you two always ended together. 

Then the day you tried to escape with the random man failed. He had died, you had gotten hurt and Kouyou got dragged back into the darkness. To make things worse the Port Mafia leader didn't want you two around each other, believing you would just try to leave again but you had learned your lesson. This led to the two of you sneaking around but things weren’t the exact same. Kouyou was more cynical and not as happy towards others. She would let her guard down around you but you still saw how on edge she was. 

She snuck into your room late at night to just lay with you, something you both regularly did. Her eyes widened when she saw the cut on your lip. Without thinking she gave you a quick peck on the lips but then sat down.

“They make things better right?”

You smiled at the memory even though it was bittersweet. When you were little you used to kiss all the time but you never really thought anything of it. You also cuddled and also bathed together. It's insane nobody ever noticed, speculation didn't come till later. The two of you were just too young to recognize you had feelings for one another and felt everything was all innocent. 

“What are you smiling about, my dear?” You could hear the smile on her face.

“I’m just reminiscing.”

There was no more future that two little girls dreamed for and no more talking about leaving. As you two got older your actions got more intimate but you still felt the need to hide your relationship. Still, there were many times you guys almost slipped up. One of those times was a random night when Kouyou had walked up on some mafioso leaning over you. She could tell you were uncomfortable by the way your eyes were looking everywhere but at him. A second, she just looked away for a second when she heard a rip and yelp. 

You were on the floor, shirt torn with tears in your eyes. Kouyou ran up summoning her ability, Golden Demon. Its sword was at the man's throat faster than the speed of light. She dropped to her knees by you and placed one arm around your shoulders, the other came up to caress your cheek.

“I suggest you leave before I lay you to rest.” She was so eloquent for being eighteen. 

Kouyou cut his neck as a threat and then deactivated her ability. The man went sprinting off and she must’ve seriously put the fear of God into him because he never spoke a word about you two. She put her arm around your shoulder and hid your upper body with the big sleeves of her kimono. When the two of you got back to her room you began to sob while she held you. This was your life now and you were beginning to accept it. Without thinking you kissed her but this time it wasn’t as innocent. It was harsh and full of lust. As the two of you stripped each other of your clothes and made love for the first time you couldn’t help but let a few tears drop. Mourning the loss of a safe and better life. 

You have no clue how you weren’t caught that night as you snuck back into your room wrapped in one of Kouyou’s kimonos. With Mori as the new leader you could be a little more open with it but preferred not to be. You two were teenagers who would make out at night and touch each other. People always saw you together but they only suspected you to be best friends. It made the two of you laugh. Your little secret that you would take to the grave if you had to. You had suspected that Mori knew as he seemed to just know everything, then Dazai but the only one who officially knew was the Port Mafia’s newest addition, Chuuya. Though you also assumed Chuuya had told Dazai and confirmed his beliefs. 

You and Kouyou were now in your twenties and the boss put her in charge of teaching the fifteen year old gravity manipulator. As you guys got older there was less time to be with each other so sometimes you'd sneak into her office so you could be together. At the time you were gazing into her eyes as she caressed your cheek. It was always risky but there was something fun about it. She leaned in to kiss you. It was soft and intimate as she pushed you to sit on her desk. Her tongue swiped along your bottom lip and you opened your mouth. Just as it was getting heated you were interrupted.

“Hey, Ane-san do you- Oh god. Um.” The red-headed fifteen year old was covering his eyes with his hands as he blushed.

You jumped away and moved to the otherside of the table. Kouyou looked the most put together out of everyone but you could see the panic in her eyes. It was gone with the blink of an eye and she let out a giggle, covering her mouth with her hand. It made your heart beat faster as she walked over to you. She put an arm around your waist.

“Y/N, I’m sure Chuuya-kun isn't going to gossip.” 

You could see how uncomfortable he was as he tried to look everywhere but at you guys. This was almost like walking in on your parents having sex. 

“I- I won’t! I’ll just come back later..” Chuuya snuck out of the room. 

You two busted out laughing the minute the door shut and you couldn't help but fall even more in love when her beautiful laugh hit your ears. The feelings were too intense so you grabbed her cheeks and pulled her into another kiss, not caring that someone else could walk in. 

The way she was running her fingers through your hair and the heat from the sun that had started to come up you felt like you were about to fall asleep again.  You knew it was a risk to ask her but the question had been festering in your mind for years.

“Do you ever dream of the light? Of all those plans we had?” You whispered.

Her fingers stopped moving and you thought you pushed the boundaries too far. You prepared yourself to be reprimanded.

“I’ll say this here, in the safety of our room and the warmth of the morning. The only light I need in my life is you and the rays of the sun that come through my window.” Her tone was serious but soft like she wouldn’t dare speak up and ruin the tranquility. 

Your eyes widened and you lifted your head to look at her. Kouyou’s eyes were still looking out the window and for once you felt like you could read her like a book. She was telling the truth. You laid your head on her lap again and continued to watch the sunrise. The yellow, oranges, reds, pinks and purples all danced around in your vision. Happiness, love, femininity and devotion. 

At that moment you realized that no matter where you were, if Kouyou was there, you could make it work. 

You would make it work.

[wallgirl]

The Little Nereid Part 17

Record of Ragnarok fanfiction

Poseidon x OC

Word count: 1,800

Dynamene, youngest of the 50 Nereids, has lived most of her adolescence as a servant alongside her sisters at Poseidon’s palace. But with her coming-of-age birthday and other developments, what she initially thought was just admiration of her master blossoms into something stronger and more passionate… and painful. Loving someone like Poseidon is not easy period, let alone as your first love. But Dynamene is young and naïve, and all she wants is a chance to be at the sea god’s side.

Categories and warnings: Romance, angst, unrequited love, coming-of-age, earn-your-happy-ending, slow-burn (ish); no sexual content. Graphic violence parts 15 and 16.

Updated regularly; will have about 20 parts total.

Warning for this chapter: references to injury and blood, largely at the end of the chapter. Avoid if squeamish.

—

Am I dead?

It was the first thought to arise as she woke out of a thick haze. Tiny motes of dust drifted before her, but when her eyes tried to focus on them, they seemingly disappeared. Had they been there at all?

She blinked rapidly to clear her vision. Before her was an endless expanse of black, completely impenetrable and all encompassing. She instinctively knew that it went on forever, despite not being able to see anything besides her own pale body. She felt some sort of tepid liquid beneath her feet - was it water? - but couldn't bring herself to look down past her shoulders. She remembered in horrific blurs what had happened to bring her to this place, and feared what she might see there.

But I don't feel any pain. Could it be...? Dynamene looked hesitantly down at herself.  Her white peplos stretched clean and untorn across her intact chest. She pressed her skin hesitantly, but felt no pain. It was as if the wound had never existed.

Now that she had gotten her bearings, she turned about in hopes of spotting something, anything, in the endlessness. Is this purgatory? Dynamene knew that when deities perished, so did their souls. Their consciousness ceased to exist along with their body. I think, therefore I am. I must not be dead. So what's going on? A neutral silence did nothing to sate her curiosity. Is this it?

Seconds ticked by with no change. A feeling of dread sunk in her chest. No, this can't be it. I still had so much I wanted to do.

I was such a fool.

She thought of her family, and her final argument with Ianeira. I'm sorry. I should have listened. She pursed her lips as she fought back tears. If this is the end, I apologize. I didn't mean to hurt you all. I wish I could change it. I wish I could see you again.

Then, suddenly, there was something bright that stood out against the void before her, a long, long ways away. It seemed to call to her in the distance with its brilliant white light. With nothing else to do and no answers to her questions, Dynamene ran toward it. Her feet splashed through the black water, droplets lit by the faint glow emanating from her being.

She stopped, breathless, after what might have been a few seconds or a few hours. The something had taken on the shape of a person, a bit taller than her, and with their back largely turned to her. Dynamene stepped forward cautiously, allowing their features to come into focus.

It was him, standing there before her in the black. His body emitted an eerie white glow, just like hers. She stood in bewilderment for several moments. She could only see the edge of his cheek with the way he was turned, no other part of his face. Dynamene was at a loss. "Why are you here?"

There was no answer. He didn't even move. Was he really there? Was it just a figment of her wounded body's imagination? She curled her fingers uncertainly as she considered reaching out to see if she was merely hallucinating.

Then his face tilted slightly towards her, making it clear he had heard her. Still, he refused to show himself to her entirely, and Dynamene's eyes widened. There was something in the bowed angle of his head...

Are you ashamed?

As if trying to dispel the notion, he finally stepped to face her completely. His colors looked washed out in the white glow, while the faint shadows traced the edges of his face. It seemed he was at last in a place every bit as fittingly ethereal as he was. But he continued to remain silent, and Dynamene's gaze shifted away in frustration.

"You're the one who brought me here. So why have you come now?" She couldn't veil the accusation in her voice. "I tried to tell you. But you didn't stop. You killed me."

Here in this endless vacuum of existence, Poseidon held no power over her. She was already on death's door, that much seemed certain. He couldn't harm her now. Dynamene was free to speak her mind completely. "Why didn't you believe me? Did you call me to your room just to kill me?" There was more bite to her tone now. "Was my love only a burden to you?" Her accusations echoed across the space.

His gaze finally flickered to meet hers. She felt no joy from it, only a strange sensation of tired defeat. Her shoulders slumped. "I suppose I'm going to disappear forever now, aren't I?" She twisted her peplos with guilty hands. "And I... I brought it on myself. I didn't listen to my family. I didn't see... I didn't understand. They'd warned me."

Nothing in his somber expression changed, but the shadows had deepened across his face. He took a single step closer to her, and she looked up at him with a miserable expression. Then he lifted one hand to clasp over hers, stilling her worried fidgeting. "I didn't mean to bring you here, Dynamene."

Her lower lip trembled, and she had to look away as he continued. "I thought you were a fake sent to replace the real you. I thought someone might've abducted you. I couldn't hear your heartbeat; your appearance had changed; I sensed strange magic about you."

So you didn't mean to hurt me, yet... "So your first response was to maim?" Dynamene pulled her hands away. "You would've lost the only chance to find me if your theory had been true."

"I-" Poseidon's words came to a stop mid-breath. It was the first time she'd ever heard him halt in the midst of a sentence. She turned her eyes back to him in confusion. He looked at war with himself; what was it that he'd meant to say? He took a moment to settle on a fitting response as his expression smoothed back out into stoicism. "I allowed my rage to get the better of me."

Her mouth nearly fell open. Poseidon was admitting fault. He had just, before a mere Nereid, confessed that his emotions had got the better of him.

Emotions spurred on by the thought that she might've been harmed.

She looked away as she absorbed this. The little motes of dust had returned, flickering gently in their light. They danced in little waves, fading in and out of sight. Poseidon had gone against the appearance he fought so hard to maintain for her. He cared about her. His heart had thawed at last, just as she'd wanted.

But there was no change within her heart except something bittersweet that ached. Her bleak expression remained as she looked up at him.

"Do you not forgive me?" He asked in a hushed voice. A vulnerability she didn't recognize had crept into his words.

Dynamene pursed her lips, thinking desperately about how to respond. Do I forgive you?

I... I think I do.

I do forgive you, but it doesn't change the way I feel right now.

That terror I experienced, that agonizing pain... You say you didn't mean to inflict it on me.

But how many countless others have you taken in the same way, with no regret? Your own brother, the Titans... People who have wronged you. People who would do you harm. And people who you perceived to have slighted you. Now I finally understand it all.

You did them the same harm, and you didn't feel anything.

"I forgive you," she whispered, but the words were meaningless. This wasn't about forgiveness. Something nameless had changed beneath the current.

He lifted his hand to gently smooth back her unruly bangs. His dark eyes drank in her face, even as she remained largely unaffected by his gesture. The girlish infatuation of before was completely extinguished. Now disappointment prevailed in her eyes.

But regardless, his feelings were unchanged. Now, for the very first time, they were truly alone. He finally admitted his desire for her to himself, even though he still didn't understand it. And as he leaned down closer to her, his eyes closed for the first time as he allowed himself to become immersed in his emotions.

And despite her disillusionment and sorrow, she loved him yet. A man of ice who had thawed only for her. Allowing him to enfold her in his embrace, her lips met his.

Two beings of light, entwined in the dark.

---

Dynamene gasped, a ragged, excruciating sound. Poseidon drew back in shock, staring down at her with sharp eyes. She coughed violently, wracking her thin body with the effort. Poseidon quickly lifted her shoulders to help clear her airway. Lifewater dripped from her lips, tainted red with his own blood. It was then that he understood what had happened. Before, when he had bit his lips in anger...

His blood was reviving her. Poseidon immediately bit his lip again and kissed her once more, pushing his blood into her. He forced several breaths of air into her, desperately willing her to keep breathing, before moving back to monitor the effect.

The flesh around her wounds had stopped disintegrating, though they were not healing. She gave another gasp for air, then fell silent.

He wasn't going to give up. He removed one glove and tore through the skin of his finger with his teeth. The gash began to drip blood, and he held it above her open mouth. As drop by drop ran down her throat, she began to move once more. He squeezed his hand, willing the blood to run faster, to hurry her revival.

After many agonizing seconds, Dynamene's eyelids twitched. Her bleary eyes opened slowly and focused on him. The sound of dripping lifewater stopped.

Poseidon exhaled. He rebandaged her chest, pulled her back into his arms, and stood. She was healing. She would live. Now to get out of this forsaken place and back to the palace. She would need more medical care as soon as possible.

Dynamene's eyes remained open, but she said nothing. Even if she had wanted to, her body wouldn't have been able. Her drowsy gaze didn't leave his face once. Something was ending now, but for however long as they had, she just wanted to drink him in. Poseidon... Her Poseidon. Just hours ago, this would have been a dream come true. Now, where had that exhilarated part of her gone? Had it remained behind in the blackness of that silent space? Had their conversation even taken place, or was it just a feverish dream?

What's changed?

No, I don't need to ask. I know.

Just let me enjoy this while it lasts. While I can still see you so close like this, and be in your arms, without any regrets.

She allowed her sore body to rest limply against his, and despite the speed at which he moved through the water to bring them home, her gaze never wavered.

---

We're going to the end now. I can't believe it. This is my longest fanfiction ever. I've gotten to know Dynamene so well. I don't think she'll leave my mind, even after the fic is finished.

I spent the most time on this chapter because I had a very specific mood for it in mind that required a lot of editing and re-writing. I let it sit for a few days before going back and putting more meat into the gaps. That's how I prefer to write - get the important stuff out first, and garnish with detail later.

There was this song by Kaskade that I thought about a lot with this chapter. It's called Borrowed Theme. Maybe I should've titled this chapter that, but that feels a little childish. The title kind of references a different song, anyway lol