#oh you think amber has a history of violence???

[traumacodedtransbitch]

Good news: every day is a step closer to d*pp dropping dead

[rxzennia]

selfish atonement

– requested. 

✎𓂃 executing your duty perfectly, until it’s not so heavy anymore. less romance, a lot of lore. mandatory shoutout to @st4rrth0ughts and their bodyguard reader & oc. i really searched up oswaldo for this pls enjoy (i tried to cook but i might’ve burnt it y'all)

ever since oswaldo’s expedition on aeragan-epharshel, you’ve become certain of one thing – he is a brilliant businessman; the epitome of a profitable business. regardless of the mostly negative emotions you felt while you undertook missions under his orders, you could at least admit that he brought unparalleled results to the ipc. 

but, well, it does not take a good man to make a good businessman.

this marks the third amber era after your departure from the marketing development department… no, your departure from the ipc as a whole. you’ve changed your name, got yourself a new appearance, and distanced yourself from oswaldo’s name.

you’ve since become a sellsword who answers only to your current client

you’ve chosen to not have your loyalty freely auctioned off to the wealthy precisely because of your history with oswaldo

aka, you’re done with the type of problems that can be solved with money, and you don’t want to be someone that can be easily bought with money, either

not in the sense that money won’t make you more likely to take a job, but in the sense that money won’t bribe you away from any ongoing duties

that’s enough about you and your standards

in any case, your history with the ipc (that you’ve manipulated a little) has been very helpful in landing you jobs

and at this point, you’ve got a nice word of mouth going on for you that you don’t need to bring up that history anymore

who would’ve thought that you’d end up in the ipc again?

this time as a temporary guard for one of the ten stonehearts

you don’t know what possessed someone like diamond to ask for you, because you’re pretty sure he knows about your previous involvement with the ipc

and also, what the fuck does the ten stonehearts need a bodyguard for?

you’d pay a million credits to bet that diamond just wanted someone to be surveillance

but hey, a client is a client, so you agree to meet the one you’re supposedly “protecting”

you walk into the room, and immediately you want to walk out. diamond is doing this on purpose, he’s gotta be, he’s got to have done a background check on you and still decided to choose violence.

you come face to face with aventurine, and you thank all the aeons out there that you’ve made the decision to wear a mask whenever you’re out. you don’t know if diamond had briefed him on you or not, but judging by how warily civil he is, it doesn’t seem so. 

just so we’re clear, you were far too green to be directly involved when oswaldo launched his sigonia-iv project. while you did tag along on these trips and treaty signings, you have no personal involvement there except standing there like a statue and watching your superiors hammer out a treaty or something. unlike in aeragan-epharshel. where you were one of the combat pilots. oh, that’s another can of worms altogether.

at least he can’t see your expression right now as you shake hands

at least he doesn't hear your erratically beating heart

you introduce yourselves, and you bow out of habit

impression points +100 (your starting score is -10000)

that’s basically how you ended up involved with the ipc again

ugh, you just can’t leave them in the past, can you?

although, in your defense, they’re everywhere, and you can’t possibly turn down a job with such luxurious pay

so, now, instead of the marketing development department, you’re in the strategic investment department. diamond is also a good businessman, but… the ten stonehearts have such a weird dynamic. they’re all tangled together with office politics, yet share one authority figure that they ultimately obey – something you haven’t bothered to think about when you were last in the ipc. and something you won’t bother thinking about, because the mere thought of corporate makes you want to dig yourself into a hole.

in any case, your constant meddling in aventurine’s daily affairs begins today. he’s quite a guarded man, and you have no idea what diamond wants you to do by putting you next to him practically 24/7, but oh well, you’re getting paid.

you settle into a routine surprisingly quickly, and he doesn’t seem to mind your presence all that much

alarmed? yes. mildly annoyed that diamond put a walking tracker on him? also yes. 

dislike your presence? kinda (not really). 

at least he knows you won’t betray him for as long as your contract is in effect

even if you answer directly to diamond, you were tasked to watch over him

which means that you will execute your assigned duty to guard him and strictly only that duty

(truly, your reputation precedes you)

but what is worrying is how swiftly you can change sides the moment your contract expires

well, a problem for tomorrow. diamond’s got you leashed for a year.

he does run a background check on you himself

not that he doesn’t trust that diamond hadn’t vetted you, he just wants to know what sort of person he is now stuck with

guess who found out your name is probably fake but can’t find your real name

because he could only trace your name so far, and anything beyond that point is blank

the discoveries will shock you!! top 10 most scary facts you didn’t know 

all he got was a full report from your first job to this one

anything about your past before your current alias is completely untraceable

not that he intends to ask anyway; you haven’t given him any reason to dig further (yet)

he keeps an eye out for you though

even if he’s not suspicious of you at the moment, that could change in the blink of an eye

aventurine is surprised at how loyal you are to him. you’re under diamond’s orders, but you’re surprisingly putting in a lot to protect him. and to look after him.

to you, it’s just your job… and a selfish, twisted sort of repentance. it’s a thought you intend to take with you to the grave.

you’re not obligated to wake him up or bring him breakfast, but you do anyway

which, he realizes that you must’ve woken up like at least two hours before him

you coordinate his schedule with his assistant so that he doesn’t make pointless trips to five different locations just to end up at the same one twice

you, quite literally, hover over him

yes, even at huge conferences, you’re tailing him like his shadow

some kinda scary dog privilege going on

but of course, you give him space whenever he requires it and keep him within your sights instead

so far so good

but you know what spooks him still? 

that you get pissed when someone makes any nasty passing remark at him

no, you are not a feral street cat that scratches anyone who wrongs you (him)

what you do is you give them a scary confrontation

or you pick them out and lodge a complaint with their superiors afterwards, if they aren’t the top dog

one time he got his hands on a report that you’re writing

aeons, you blow it out of proportion without lying 

you like to call it a suitable amount of embellishing 

then you pull a lot of emotional appealing according to the opponents' company policy

which usually results in some sort of disciplinary action that is actually pretty satisfying to see

but also

damn, you’re merciless 

and also very adept at business talk

trust +100, doubt +25

(shady mercenary for hire with far too much experience type doubt)

you’re as good of a bodyguard as aventurine can get, especially for someone he didn’t hire himself… 

he quite likes you, actually! because how many people do you think asked him something like “why do you need a bodyguard” to his face? none! you’re as entertaining as they come. 

and so he finds joy in his boring executive work by pestering you

you know that, but you put up with him

in fact, this guy is so one of a kind that you don’t even feel pestered

you sometimes even drink with him

whenever he offers, of course, because you’re not too interested in drinking

you drink moderately on the job, but c’mon, when are you not on the job

okay, maybe when he’s just chilling in his office or in the hotel and not going anywhere

then there’s competitive drinking where he tries to coax you into talking about yourself by making you down shots

and guess who’s wasted every time? not you

“mr aventurine?” you ask, nudging the unconscious man next to you. “sir? earth to mr aventurine? hello?”

his empty glass of whiskey on the table, his face slightly flushed as he snoozes away on the table… yeah, it does not look comfy at all.

you sigh, he’s giving you more work again, and you carefully hoist him from the table. 

when he comes to again, he finds himself in his own room

his head hurts so much

he notices that he hasn’t changed from his usual attire – only his coat and accessories are taken off

okay, and the top button of his shirt is undone

did you bring him back? 

as always, you don’t even bother to change him

he sighs, you’re really not very good at reading signs

because he’s done this multiple times! and he’s whined about not being changed after!

more like you did notice but you choose not to do what he wants

that’s crossing a line in your books

and your books is something you stick to like you’re obsessed

at least you left him water and hangover medicine on the nightstand

why does he feel like you’re deliberately keeping him at arm’s length?

it’s been a while and you two have spent so much time together, yet you’re still a stranger to him

not even acquaintances 

like… like, you don’t initiate conversation when you’re watching him

both when he’s going somewhere (requires actual protecting) and chilling at home (does not require actual protecting)

and even after so many late night drinking sessions, he still hasn’t seen you without your mask

mainly because you’ve never been drunk enough for him to sneak a peek, but still

aventurine doesn’t know how to express affection. platonically, romantically, in general, pretty much. so he tries to do the one thing he does best, splurging. and he tries to splurge on you, because he’s intrigued and wants to make buy a friend, but…

but you don’t let him splurge on you! you don’t even let him give you gifts! he only knows how to win affection by spending money on others! 

sometimes he feels like you stick too strictly to your duties

just like his other subordinates… you take orders far too well

he’s tried to give you trinkets, designer clothes, even limited snacks

all of which were returned to him within 24 hours

though, with the snacks, you take it if he offers you a piece or two when he’s already opened it

and you let him treat you to coffee occasionally. very occasionally.

he eventually figures out that it’s a matter of principles

but what principles, exactly? you’re a sellsword, for aeon’s sake

he thought those are the people who have absolutely no principles???

anyway, won’t stop him from trying

“mr aventurine…” you pinch the bridge of your nose as you see the bags stacked on your desk. “i remember telling you that souvenirs are unnecessary.”

“what’s wrong with them?” aventurine laments dramatically. “i’ve picked out only the finest for you!”

you don’t deserve it, you think, but you don’t say that, of course

you don’t even know of his lifelong grudge towards oswaldo

you just know that you had a hand in the extinction event

not like hand hand, but you watched it happen… it doesn’t sit well with you

besides, you have the blood of almost an entire civilization on your hands

if you think too hard about it, the image of flames and carnage overlap with what is in front of you

then, you envision the records of sigonia that you’ve read through in the past

and everything blurs together, your actions, your inaction, and your unwavering loyalty that led you to not raise a single question at all

you squeeze your eyes shut tightly and purge the images from your mind

you are currently here, in the present

“i can’t take them.” you reply, finally, shaking your head. “it’s inappropriate for our standing. especially since there’s no reason for you to be gifting me so many things out of nowhere.”

“what, i can’t be nice to my bodyguard?” aventurine pouts as he sorts the bags in height order. “i’ve got a limited edition tie, an antique phonograph, a discontinued mug, some rare natural color ink for your fountain pen, a pure cashmere sweater–”

“that’s… that’s enough, sir.” you raise a hand to cut him off. “i don’t think i can accept any of them, really.”

aventurine makes a face, then pulls out a bag from the end of the queue. “fine, fine. what about this, at least? assorted cookies from an artisan bakery, using only the best ingredients sourced from all over the cosmos?”

you stare at that bag as you feel the expectant stare from your boss

maybe… maybe one out of these dozens of bags is fine

you’ve gotta think about his feelings too, after you’ve rejected so many gifts

you reluctantly, carefully take the bag and say a small “thank you”

you don’t want his fascination with you to develop any more than what he’s already showing…

but you also know that it’s not up to you

so what is up to you is drawing a line that you won’t allow him to cross

for his sake, and for your own… 

if he keeps pushing, you should keep pushing back

keyword should

but can you?

aeons, you truly are selfish

wouldn’t it have been better to keep everything professional from the very beginning?

it’s okay. you only have a little more than half a year to go before you’re no longer obligated to be here. you’ll run away before aventurine catches on, like how you ran away from your past.

it’s okay. it’s just been a few months, there’s still more than half a year’s worth of time. before you part ways, there are still chances to get to know you better. perhaps even time to become friends, in the most literal sense of the word.

and maybe by the end of it, “you” will reach a satisfactory conclusion.

[scribe-of-stories]

Get to Know Your Moots Writeblr Interview

Was poked by the wonderful co-writers of Sunset @sunset-a-story and @touloserlautrec. Go read their posts here and here!

On the Tumblr Writing Community

How long have you had your writing Tumblr/Writeblr? A short eternity (first post is mid 2022)

What led you to create it? Was very bored at work and wanted to share some recent stories. Also I had never tried social media before, it this looked like the most interesting place to try it.

What’s your favorite thing about the Writeblr community? Getting to see other people's imagination unfiltered. I've read plenty of great works before, but it was definitely an entertaining first to see the author later publicly say "this is my favorite little guy, can't wait till the next time he suffers."

What’s one thing you’d like your mutuals to know about you? I constantly feel like I'm bothering people and or feel self conscious when talking about me/my stuff, so bare with me hah.

Is there anything you’d like to see more of on your dash? Just some really unhinged stuff about y'alls stories. I want to open my phone and see someone discussing the seven major heresies dictated by some cabal of priests only to later realize "oh, this is someone's fever dream, not a history lesson".

What tips/advice do you have for someone who made a Writeblr today? Interact more, take up the offer of "open tags" on other people's posts. Also throw your ideas onto the table for other's to look at, we all seem to love just watching someone go off about something they love.

WIP it Good

Which Works-in-Progress (WIPs) or writing projects are you noodling about, lately? Been in a bit of a writing drought. Lexical is always getting worked on, more so the TTRPG stuff than any story right now though. I've had a few projects pop into my mind and leave over the past while. Have a cluster of characters I can't get out of my head, but no narrative or setting to properly put them into. A god of violence and the man that cut her out of himself, a cultish vampire philosopher and his favorite little guy (little guy has a knife). Surely something will come of this, or they'll continue to just exist in one-off stories in my own head. Amber Hill, specifically The Lawman, is still somewhere in here but it's been struggling to come out for a while. Been trying to find Lars' voice as a POV character.

How long have you been working on them? I've been working on something based in Lexical since mid 2022 (huh, exactly around I first posted here); the other guys are new and only a few months old at most.

Do you remember what inspired them/what got you started? Lexical is a can of worms. The short answer is that my irl DnD group wanted to play something more free form and creative leaning than what our 5e campaign was allowing, so I said fuck it and started homebrewing a system based in a world I have vague ideas about. The long answer is that Lexical is a sequel to a Pathfinder campaign titled "Demis", which was about fantasy super heroes. It was heavily inspired by My Hero, Worm, and inescapably Homestuck. So when it came time to make a whole new system for these same players I took some concepts that worked in Demis, applied some occult-adjacent philosophy I was/am into, and ended up with my years long passion project. Atem and Sadaf were born out of my growing need to explore violence as a concept, philosophy, and inescapable existential crisis. The Vampire and his thrall Ish spawned out of a desire to have a toxic romance to think about. And AmberHill was inspired by a desire to create something cozy and occulty. Ended up being SCP adjacent but maintained the idea of a small community that cares about itself.

How much time, in your best estimation, do you spend thinking about them? Lexical- not enough, I'm lucky I have at least some productive thoughts throughout the day. Atem- too much, his tired ass sat down in my head and I've been too polite to ask him to leave.

When someone asks the dreaded, “What do you write about,” question, what do you usually say? "Urban Fantasy with science fiction elements"

What do you want to say (if it’s different from what you do say)? "My dissertation on the semi-real building blocks of both physical and social reality, also wizards punching people."

Let’s Rotate Blorbos

Name any characters you created. We've got the original Lexical boy Samuel Smith, Atem and Sadaf who you've already heard of, Lars DuPont from Amberhill.

Who’s the most unhinged? Sadaf.

Who comes the most naturally for you to write? For whatever reason Samuel's self-loathing PI perspective just comes very natural and is maybe someone I should write more about.

Do you ever cringe at them? Nah

How much control do you feel you have over your characters? Depends, my mind does not wonder so much that I don't feel like I am ever not in control. But who I am able to focus on tends to be a matter of debate.

Do you enjoy people asking questions about your characters? Yes absolutely. Characters, worlds, magic systems; I'll rant about any of them given the chance.

On Writeblr Engagement

What makes you want to follow another Writeblr account? A combination of preferred genre (urban fantasy), shared interest (books/games/table top). Also if they have Scribe as part of their name it's just an auto follow.

Do your mutuals’ characters occupy space in your noodle? There's a few. The telepaths from Sunset and their many ways of being terrifying are the first that come to mind. Since I already mentioned the scribes I'll go ahead and tag @scribe-cas , @covenscribe and leave the rest of the tag open. Here is an empty template

[cno-inbminor]

iterum vivere (childe/tartaglia)

a/n: wow, it’s been fucking forever. first genshin fic featuring childe/tartaglia!!! a very huge thank you to @suspensin​ for reading this over and being my rock and support, and i love her so fucking much. I couldn’t have finished this without her!

plot: reincarnation and modern/uni!au ft. afab reader!traveler with she/they pronouns x childe/tartaglia 

-- in which meeting childe is a bit of a dangerous game of push and pull

wc: 12.1k; angst + fluff

warnings:  DOES CONTAIN IN-GAME SPOILERS (1.5? 1.6? + story quest and idek) and NSFW MENTIONS (mdni to be safe). there’s no explicit smut but thoughts do run a bit wild here and there

EDIT: Altered ChiLumi version now posted on AO3 here!

“Haven’t we met before?”

The shine in your eyes does nothing to hide your curiosity, head even tilting a little in observation. He watches them scan his face for any recognizable features, but attempts to focus on the strange, taut string of déjà vu that pulls him toward you. In a moment of absentmindedness, he had heard a faint voice call out his name from your direction. Confusion overtook him as you weren’t looking at him, but something inside his brain said that it had to be from you. And so his feet redirected his path towards your figure in the student union building, as if on a mission.

“A fucking whale, Childe?”

Oh.

“I don’t think so…?” You trail off, curiosity now replaced by perplexed feelings. “Do we have a class together?”

I think I would’ve noticed you by now if you were.

“Ah, what’s your major?” Childe asks quickly to avoid listening to the little voice in his head.

“History and anthropology, you?”

“Economics, but I’ve taken a history course for core credits. Maybe it was then?”

“With Dr. Zhong?”

“Yes!” He snaps his fingers. Part of his brain decides to usefully function and scan his memories to see if he remembers your face or head of hair in the lecture hall then. “Last year? Tuesdays and Thursdays from 10 to 11:20?”

“Actually, yeah,” you affirm in surprise. You think you would remember the relatively attractive ginger in your class, but honestly, it had all been such a blur and you were often pretty sleepy during class. Dr. Zhong didn’t quite appreciate it, but you made up for it with your exam and essay grades, as well as paying better attention in some of his other courses.

“Did you need me for anything?”

“I’d like for you to come visit and meet my family.”

He’s really not appreciating this extra voice speaking for him.

“Well…uh…” Childe stammers and looks away sheepishly, hand rubbing the back of his neck. He honestly had no reason for approaching you, and now, he just looks like a desperate idiot. Think quick, he tells himself, floundering for some shitty excuse.

“I wanted to, uh, take another history course as an elective and um, wanted to know if you had any recommendations?”

“Oh,” you blink. That’s a first. When he meets your gaze, the swirling shades of sapphire strike something deep within you. Flashes of events you can’t make out go by in the blink of an eye, but then you realize you’ve been staring for too long. Blood rushes to your cheeks because you don’t exactly want this guy to get the wrong idea from you, because how are you supposed to explain, “I’m sorry, but I think we have met before, but just a really, really long time ago, and we might’ve been more than just acquaintances because that’s what it feels like?”

“I think you’d like Teyvat Mythology,” your voice wavers on the verge of cracking. “Dr. Zhong might have a TA this time around, but Xiao’s a great teacher. Doesn’t have long, rambling anecdotes, but explains things well and gets straight to the point.”

“C-cool, I’ll look into it,” Childe replies and smiles brightly. “I’ll head out then,” jabbing a thumb over his shoulder, where he just realized he left a grouchy Scaramouche waiting by a vending machine, newly purchased Starbucks Tripleshot drink in hand. “Nice seeing you, (y/n).”

He scurries off before you both realize that you never told him your name.

“Who’s that?” Scaramouche asks, jutting his chin in your vague direction.

“Someone from my Intro to Liyuean History course last year,” Childe waves off. “Come on, let’s go before the line at the pasta bar gets too long.”

-

The next time you see Childe is by accident, traversing across an open field of grass that many students like to sit out on to relax with friends, sunbathe, hold events, or play casual team sports if room permits.

You had your earbuds in and were scrolling through social media when laughter rang above all other sound, causing your head to snap up and swivel around to find the source. And while it might’ve been strange to an outsider, your steps immediately slowed as you watched the man of your tiring, vivid dreams sprint in your direction, eyes pinned on a frisbee heading towards him.

He’s wearing a grey sports tank and basketball shorts, headband holding back his bangs as he makes a slight jump in the air to catch the plastic disc between his palms. His feet plant into the grass as he looks for someone to pass it to, and you watch (with embarrassment) the muscles in his throwing arm relax and tighten with practice, frisbee steadily soaring through the air in a beautiful arc towards a teammate. He then lightly jogs to get closer to his group, but then his back stiffens.

Before your instincts kick in for you to turn and bail, he looks over his shoulder and stares straight at your now stunned self.

The sole ruby earring that glints in the sunlight catches your attention, and you recall your dreams of terrifyingly dark, violet electric power, blades of water rushing toward you, and then the stomach-churning sensation of falling from great heights pours concrete into your veins—

Childe looks a little amused for having your sole focus, hand lifting up for a quick wave. And as you numbly return the greeting, your heart beats out, “Run from him.”

And so with the flight response pulsing and firing from your synapses, you abruptly speed walk away, almost breaking out into a sprint towards your dorm. You ignore his pointed, confused look, and pretend you don’t feel the two holes of imaginary fire searing into your back. It isn’t until you’re laying back in bed that you release a huge sigh of relief and pray to a deity you don’t believe in that those eyes of mirth will not haunt you tonight.

But of course, with a deity that doesn’t exist, the prayers go unanswered.

-

“Do you believe in any of the mythology you teach?” You ask Xiao about a few days later when you stop by his cubicle. Luckily, no one else is around for this conversation, and Xiao has always been kind enough to humor your thoughts. Granted, he might feel obligated because you had asked Dr. Zhong to be your advisor for your undergraduate Honors thesis, and Xiao was directed to be your receiver of some general questions and source of information if he wasn’t around.

A quick scan of your complexion tells Xiao everything he needs to know. Your eyes are overtaken with rumination and exhaustion, haziness clouding them as you seem to ponder over your own question. It’s not often that you ask him anything not related to your thesis or coursework.

“Perhaps there’s some sense and truth to the tales passed down,” he softly muses. “What makes you ask?”

You lift yourself to sit on the clean area next to his computer, legs slowly swaying back and forth. “It might sound crazy but...I’ve been having dreams lately. They feel too real, too natural to be anything that my mind would make up. I’ve never had the most creative imagination by any means, which is why there’s some comfort to me being a history major, but I can’t shake these.”

“So why ask me about the mythology?”

“...the Archons are there. I even dreamt that I met the Geo and Anemo Archons. And they controlled various elements, just like we were taught.”

You don’t notice that Xiao has ceased his rapid typing, fingers hovering over the keyboard before one hand removes his glasses from his face. He uses the other to rub his eyes and softly pinch the bridge of his nose before sliding the frames back on. Dark, golden amber eyes survey you as you grapple with the unfathomable possibilities of your nightly visions, at least until you shake your head in disbelief at yourself and lightly scoff.

“Who am I kidding?” You ask no one in particular. “Maybe I’ve been doing too much research and everything’s mixing together.”

“You’re ahead of schedule, if that provides any consolation.”

“Some.”

-

It takes Childe a grand total of one minutes and 53 seconds to sign up for Teyvat Mythology for the spring semester.

-

WInter in Liyue is only slightly miserable, being so close to the ocean. It’s chillier than usual on this dreary day, yet something compelled you to exit your dorm and shakily make your way to the campus coffee shop for a warm drink. Coffee, hot chocolate, you haven’t quite decided yet, but just as you let yourself bask in the warm building, familiar ginger hair and blue eyes wash away the comfort.

Or do they douse you in security?

They remind you of your recent dreams that now have shifted away from stress and violence to easygoing summer days by the oceanside, running barefoot in the sand while collecting beautifully patterned azure starconches. Sometimes, you thrust a hand towards an oversized four-leaf clover on a wooden stake with the power of wind and catch yourself in the air, soaring and looking around to find more of the little shells. Other nights, they consist of climbing steep cliffs, only to sit at the edge in the clouds with fatigue wracking through your system and marvel at the view before you.

Someone’s always with you though, ruby earring and maroon mask and cobalt blue gem hanging from the waist, sprinting with you, playfully tackling you down, pulling you up towards mountain peaks, laying their head on your shoulders, brushing their lips against your cheek--

You welcome the change of peace in those dreams, but only because they don’t leave you quite as tired the next day, as if you’d been avoiding an inescapable dark force.

Part of you wants the burning question of why this person, this man, in all his glory and brightness, affects you so fucking much when you barely even know the guy -- why looking at him sends your heart to lodge itself in your esophagus, why your lungs feel like they’re so close to being completely collapsed under the weight of his stare, why feeling like you’re trapped and  caught between wanting to run towards yet away from him.  It makes no sense, and you’re tired of trying to make sense of anything you don’t exactly want to remember from your dreams for some, once again, inexplicable reason.

But there’s no time to think as he quickly ambles towards you, your own feet shuffling forward to meet him in a warped reference of a distance that constitutes to “the middle” before you can stop yourself. Your shivering hasn’t quite stopped yet, and Childe seems to take notice of it.

“Pretty cold out there,”  he softly states. It’s cute, the way you’re curling in on yourself to retain some warmth.

“Y-yeah, not sure why I decided I really needed something warm to drink right now,” you reply and avoid his gaze. He watches you peer over his shoulder to squint at the menu display hanging from the ceiling, seemingly contemplating on what you should get.

“How about I get yours today? My treat for your class recommendation last time.” Anything to keep you here longer. Childe doesn’t realize how much he’s missed you, which confuses him, and chooses to ignore the fact that he’d been camping himself at the study tables in the building where the history department is located in hopes of even just catching a quick glimpse of you.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” you immediately attempt to subvert his generous offer, hands shooting out from your jacket pockets and waving in rejection. “It was nothing.”

“Please?” Childe puts on his best puppy eyes before reaching for one of your wrists, gently tugging you to the register. “Just this once?”

You want so badly to squash the tiny flare of disappointment that erupts in your chest from the newly acquired knowledge that this was just a one time thing. Do econ majors hate to feel in debt? That they must be even with everyone, or would rather have people indebted to them than the other way around?

There’s no time to think when Childe gives the cashier his order before turning to you, and without wanting to waste anyone’s time, you rattle off your usual beverage. He’s quick in fishing out his student ID to spend some of his campus currency, shooting you a boyish grin when you pout at your half-opened wallet.

“Go take that table over there,” he says, pointing to one in the corner by some windows. “I’m gonna tell my friends to go on without me.”

“I didn’t mean to intrude or pull you away from them,” you slightly panic. The sooner you can leave, the better. Right? “You don’t need to sit with me, I was just gonna head back to my dorm.”

“I insist. Go ahead, I’ll be right there.”

Why your brain takes his orders over your own is a mystery in and of itself, because before you know it, you’re plopped down in one of the lounge seats and staring off into space, mind reeling over the last two minutes. You pretend you can’t hear the way Childe’s friends nudge his arm playfully with their shoulders, wiggling their eyebrows suggestively as Childe tries to get them to stop being nonsensical.

“You’re gonna scare them off,” he hisses at them, hands pushing at their backs so they could finally leave him to his devices.

“Not before you do!” One of them laughs and Childe groans at their antics. “All right, all right, we’ll go. They’re cute though, might steal them if you don’t make a move.”

The darkening of the aura surrounding Childe is too quick for them to fully process, not before he dampens any of their fleeting hopes with a, “Don’t even fucking think about it.”

But it disappears just as fast when his and your drinks are called out, and he gives them one last shove before retrieving your to-go cups. Childe directs all his focus towards the seat diagonally from yours as opposed to the one that’s straight across, and you’re sharply ripped away from whatever reverie you let yourself slip into.

“Thank you,” you murmur, hands cupping the drink and feeling the heat seep into your fingertips. “You really didn’t have to, it was nothing big.”

“Can you blame me for just trying to find an excuse to finally talk to you?” He asks without a skip and you can’t tell if the quickening of your heartbeat is from a looming sense of doom or excitement. Those eyes, the tiny swirls of the ocean, blue like those shells buried in the sand--

It takes three seconds too long for you to understand where he was going with in his words, and part of you feels unamused at his smooth talking. You’ve always guarded yourself against guys like Childe, devilishly handsome who know their way around language semantics, ready to pull you in and just as ready to push you away. That (possibly unfair) bias, coupled with everything else you’ve been feeling for him, sounded the alarms and set the walls up around your heart. Perhaps you need to stop wearing your heart on your sleeve, because Childe immediately retracts his forwardness.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I promise I’m not looking for anything in return and you don’t owe me anything, but I really did just...want to sit and talk and...get to know you?” Childe trails off a little towards the end. Your body loosens up and relaxes just a tiny bit, feeling bad for your snap judgment. Let the guy do something nice, don’t look into it too much, you tell yourself. It’s a coffee, not a five-course dinner.

You reach out a hand towards him, small smile across your lips, ready for his to join yours in a quick handshake. “I’m (y/n), senior history and anthropology double major. It’s nice to meet you.”

The pounding of your heart against your ribcage has nothing to do with the shimmering of his eyes, nothing to do with the fact that his hand fits with yours just right, and nothing to do with the fact that an eerily similar voice from your dreams whispers, “I love you.”

You learn a number of things about Tartaglia in the four hours, like his family members and their respective interests, which classes he did and didn’t enjoy taking, certain takes on Schnezhnayan politics, his own various hobbies, crazy accidents from the occasional college parties, and more. He’s a bit of an open book, probably telling you way more than any regular person would, and definitely more than anything you revealed during all this time. Everything you tell him seems surface level, nothing too deep. The walls are still there to protect you from the unexplainable, profound feelings his presence seems to elicit, and luckily, he doesn’t prod any further. Childe feels the resistance and respects it, which just adds more brownie points in your book, and you almost feel bad for having given so little in return.

“I wish we were taking Teyvat Myth together,” he sighs when walking you back to your dorm, hands stuffed in his pockets. His ruby earring catches the light from the sunset, the shade almost complimentary to the golden amber rays that streak across the sky. “Would’ve helped having a history major in there.”

“Is that all I am to you, an answer bank?” You jokingly ask, but he watches concerningly as you shoot your gaze to the ground, mindfully stepping over the cracks between concrete slabs.

“Of course not,” a gentle sincerity reaches you, giving you the confidence to make eye contact with him. “I’m sorry for making it sound like that, it wasn’t my intention. I really just meant it as a way of saying if the professor or TA ended up being a total bore, then well, having you would make it more fun.”

“I’m sure I’d bore you even more,” chuckling, speeding up to get away. You’re growing too comfortable in whatever atmosphere Childe has created, like an enclosed air bubble bobbing gently in the depths of the sea and letting the waves carry you both to whichever ends of the earth.

“Hey,” he interjects, hand reaching out to stop you with a soft yank of your wrist. There is no resisting force from you, feet stepping backward until he meets you eye to eye. It’s unfair in the way that he can render you motionless by standing just an inch from you, arms brushing with his head tilted closer to your own. “Seriously, I’m glad we did this today. Are you?”

No, because now I don’t know what to think, I don’t know who you are, I’m not any closer to figuring out why you terrify yet leave me so enamoured with you, I’m torn between punching and kissing you and--

“Yes,” you subconsciously answer, brain immediately short-circuiting to scold yourself. “I had fun.”

His grin, charming, devilish, is so so bright, bright enough to rival the Liyue sun that sits on the pier, on the edge of the ocean, bright enough to rival the love that your fraternal twin showers you with on a daily basis. You want time to stop right here because you’re almost sick of the voice settled deep within your heart that screams, “Don’t get comfortable, you must run from him!”

“Good. Let’s do this again?” And you nod, of course you do. Foolish you. “Don’t be a stranger!” He calls out as he turns on his heel and waves over his shoulder, hand raised in the air, and you’re suddenly transported to another scene, a less refined version of the Liyue Harbor, watching as the head of ginger hair with a red mask in a flashier attire of grey and maroon walks away from you and onto a roaring, magnificent ship; big, ivory sails only seen in books and museums. It’s the same gesture of “see you later”, and just before he turns, you blink, and you’re back to seeing your campus again.

But Childe does look back once, warm and content that you’re still standing there, watching over him, and he can’t help but think about when he can spend time with you again, because suddenly, it truly feels like there’s not enough of it anymore.

-

“Excuse me, what’s a Red Bull?”

The last thing, or person rather, you expect to see on the last day of finals for the fall semester, is a small boy who looks way too young to be here, tugging on the sleeve of your windbreaker. He’s at most eleven, ten maybe, but he has eerily similar characteristics, as well as an accent that doesn’t quite belong to most Liyue natives. Still gathering your bearings from your own perusing of the fridges that hold all the possible beverages a college student could consume, you kneel down until you’re at eye level with the child.

“Repeat that for me? Are you looking for a Red Bull, you say?”

“Yes!” He beams and holds out a student ID that most definitely doesn’t belong to him. “My brother asked me to grab him one because he was busy with something.”

Your eyes flit over to the top shelves where the aforementioned cans of caffeine are located, and definitely too high for someone of his height to reach. “I’ll grab one for you. Did he ask for a specific flavor?”

“Nope, he said regular. Thanks, you’re really nice! Do you know my brother?” He asks, waving the ID at you so you can get a better look at the name. That’s definitely a face you recognize, but the name leaves you confused.

“Yeah, um,” glance over again, “I know...Ajax…”

“He’s the best toy seller in the whole world!”

Somehow, it suits him much better than Childe or Tartaglia, and you’re not quite sure what toys have anything to do with the matter at hand. Speaking of hands, the little boy grabs yours in sheer delight. “Can you take me back to his room? I kinda forgot the directions he told me, and everything’s so big around here.”

“Sure, just let me buy something, too, and I’ll take you.”

“Okay!”

The cashier isn’t the least bit fazed by the little brunette at your side -- it’s always common for family members to come in around the end of semesters to pick up kids or visit, and being an open building with snacks and drinks and a stopping point of most tours, they’ve seen it all. You even let him pick out a bag of chips and a candy bar for himself for being so polite and not a complete menace, paying with your own campus currency.

Teucer, as you’ve learned in the last two minutes, likes to point out things and ask you questions. Luckily, you have answers to most of them and do your best to pad the time, enjoying the feeling of a tiny hand wrapped around three of your fingers. It’s sweet to any normal passerby, believing they’re witnessing an older sister doting on their little brother around the holidays, but to Childe, seeing the tender sweetness on your face as you nod along to whatever Teucer is rambling about to you, sets his heart aflame. He’s already constantly on the verge of wanting to hug and kiss you and never let go, but you haven’t made any indication that you could potentially like him back, and this is just torture.

“Look what they bought me!” Teucer shoves his rewards in Childe’s face as if he had extremely poor eyesight, and you can’t help but laugh a little as you set his Red Bull down on his desk, clutching your own preferred beverage while looking around his room. Finals must have gotten to him with the unusual lack of tidiness in the small space, some laundry strewn here and there, a couple boxes of eaten microwave dinners in the metal wire trash can, some textbooks left open and marked with more sticky notes than you’ve ever seen. You’d only been here once before to drop off some food that he desperately messaged you about, stuck doing a project that he just couldn’t step away from.

“Pretend you don’t see the mess,” Childe pleads, handing a kid tablet to his brother but holding on before Teucer can take it. “What do you say to our nice friend here for buying you these snacks?”

“Thank you!”

“It was nothing,” you shyly smile, ruffling his hair. “I enjoyed meeting you.”

“Wait, what’s your name again?”

“It’s (Y/n).”

“Okay, (y/n)! Wait…(y/n)..as in…”

Teucer trails off and gives a look to his brother, one that spells curiosity and trouble, before he grabs your hand and pulls you into a corner. Any movement Childe makes to leave his desk chair is immediately squashed by Teucer’s disapproval, and the older man is left to helplessly worry when you’re told to squat down so secrets can be whispered into your ear.

“He talks about you a lot whenever he calls home,” and you want to laugh at Tecuer’s attempt to sound as scandalous as possible. “All the time! I think he likes you, like, like like.”

Oh. Oh dear.

“What makes you say that?” You whisper back, indulging both yourself and him, yet also internally snickering at how troubled Childe looks.

“Sometimes, he video calls mama, but we’ll all sit around and talk, and whenever he’s talking about how he saw you or something, he just looks...happy. Really happy.”

The surprise on your face does nothing to settle Childe’s nerves and he’s about to start wringing his hands together. Whatever Teucer was telling you couldn’t be good, probably embarrassing, like the one time he unceremoniously fell on his ass while ice skating over a frozen lake, or when he tried fitting fifteen marshmallows in his mouth and nearly choked on them when their mother caught them in the act, or--

“I think he just thinks of me as a good friend,” you try to inform Teucer, not letting yourself get any semblance of hope. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

“If you say so,” Teucer pouts. But then he stops whispering and bounds over back to his brother, grabbing the tablet before plopping down on the half-made bed.

“Look, I was overconfident and thought I could execute a perfect single loop on the ice, but there was a rock and I lost balance and--”

“I wasn’t being told any stories about you falling on ice, but do tell me more,” you chuckle and take some joy in watching the blush spread across his cheeks. It’s easy to tell that he’s mentally berating himself for jumping to conclusions.

“Well, first off, thanks for buying him all that, and my drink, too,” he sighs. “I spoil him enough as it is.”

“I can see why it’s hard not to,” you smile knowingly. “So is it just him here? Where’s the rest of your family?”

“Funny story, he somehow managed to convince my parents to let him come here on his own as his first ever plane flight, so I had to pick him up yesterday from the airport. He’s flying back with me tomorrow.”

“And the RA?” You ask with an eyebrow raised.

“Ah...well...what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him? Speaking of, what was Teucer whispering to you about?”

There’s a pensiveness that overtakes you when you look at Teucer again, who’s happily playing some sort of game and completely oblivious to the rest of his surroundings. You won’t, can’t, take his words to heart, and will take them with a grain of salt at most.

“Nothing important. Although I did learn something new...Ajax?”

“Say my name -- fuck, say it, please--”

“I guess cat’s out of the bag,” he chuckles and looks away, absolutely unaware of the flare of heat that swirls in your stomach from the fleeting vision just now. “I came up with other nicknames as a kid to seem cooler, and they just stuck with me. Plus, the business world is full of people who just want something from you, or just a transactional relationship. I’d rather not give my real name to them, if you know what I mean.”

“That’s fair,” you nod and lean to sit on the edge of his desk. A thought pops into your head and you turn the words over in your head like a washing machine on the spin setting, teeth gnawing on the flesh of your bottom lip. If Teucer hadn’t been in the room, he would’ve been this close to kissing you.

“But if it’s worth anything,” your voice slowly, softly starts, cautious and wary of your thoughts. “I think...Ajax suits you best.”

Curse fate. Curse the legendary Archons. Curse karma and deities and spirits because all he wants to do right now is stand and tower over you, trap you between himself and his desk so you can’t escape, take those pretty lips between his until they’re bruised and swollen because of him, hear you call out his name in the throes of pleasure so he can finally replace his fantasies with tangible memories. The unnatural, magnetic pull that draws him to you is unbearable now -- he feels like he’ll lose the last tendrils of his sanity if he doesn’t do something.

You can’t stop him from slowly reaching out to grab one of your hands, lifting it towards him until he’s close enough for you to feel his breath ghost over your knuckles. It sends a shiver down your spine and blood is pounding in your ears because you can’t begin to fathom what he’s thinking about while doing this, even more so when his lips make contact with your skin and your breath hitches, stuck in your throat as he languidly peeks at you beneath his eyelashes with a heated gaze, then lowly confessing, “My name sounds best when you say it.”

Good heavens.

It’s difficult to swallow and keep your composure, especially when Teucer yells out in glee over, what you can assume, beating something in his game, and Childe drops your hand. But his dilated pupils don’t retract in the slightest, refusing to let you look away so that maybe, you can understand what he’s trying to convey to you. He’s taking the first step because he’s terrible and can’t contain his self-control anymore, pushing the ball into your court, ready for you to either play or exit into the sidelines.

When you do blink, there’s a vision of your naked body wrapped around another, limbs clinging desperately to a sturdy and panting frame. Lips, much like the ones that have seared themselves onto your knuckles, are at your neck and sucking, biting, before moving to your ear and laying filthy words into them that drive you closer to the edge. It all happens so fast that you feel you’ve just experienced whiplash, yet also feeling secondhand embarrassment at how lewd some of these thoughts have been.

You can’t stay here any longer.

“I-I have to go,” spills off your tongue before you can really think about it. The way the haze shatters in his eyes is heartbreaking in its own way, but there’s no time for you to explain. Your brain is in overdrive and eager to run, run, run. It detects danger on all fronts, but you muster out a, “H-have a good break, come find me next semester, mmk?”

And you’re out the door with inhuman speed. When the door clicks shut, only then does Teucer look up from his screen and frown at the lack of your presence. “Where’d they go?”

Chlide doesn’t seem to hear him, and Teucer has never seen his big brother look so sad and confused before.

-

He holds on to that last tendril of hope, because mark his words, he will find you come January.

-

After about a week at home, enjoying the festive time with his family and mildly unconcerned about next year’s courses because that was a problem for another day, Childe has his first, crazy, nonsensical dream.

At least, that’s what he tells himself when he snaps awake and his body aches with exhaustion. Not only are his joints in agony, he also feels like he’s sporting unforeseen bruises, which makes absolutely no sense because he hasn’t done anything that would warrant them, no matter how much he and his brothers do some rough-housing. His night of sleep was all consumed by flashes and scenes of weapon fighting, lucid enough to remember feeling his arms flex and wield bows and double-headed polearms and being cognizant of all the enemies??? surrounding him. They ranged from deranged looking monsters, floating beings with soulless masks, and large humans in electricity-padded armor, to behemoth machines in the sky that could leave you within an inch of your life thanks to a drill for a hand?!

But what’s even worse is that you seem to have managed a deal with Morpheus himself and infiltrated his dreams. You were there, too, sometimes fighting with him, sometimes against him, much to his dismay, and while it was nice, he just didn’t get it. Why the friendliness and hostility? Why was there an anger that overtook him when looking directly at you, parrying your blade and sending harmful arcs of water toward your figure?

Why did he relish the fear in your eyes when he darted towards you with electricity cracking through the air?

There’s an overwhelming sensation now to grab his phone to text you and apologize -- for what, he can’t fathom and there are no words to accurately convey what he’s thinking. “Hey, sorry for wanting to kill you in my dream :( “? Or “Sorry for being a friend but then stabbing you in the back, but then being nice to you again”?

And the only thing that really made sense was the serenity and contentment that would course through his veins as the two of you danced around on ivory sandy beaches, picking up shiny blue starconches and taking down more weird creatures; the breathlessness when you would fall back into the water and re-emerge to reconfirm his beliefs that you were one of the most beautiful humans he’d ever laid his eyes on; the love--

Hold the fuck up.

He doesn’t love you. He likes you a whole lot and he’s severely and deathly attracted to you, but he doesn’t love you. Your existence has only been made known to him for about two months, and he didn’t really start talking to you until three weeks in. So no matter how comfortable he feels with you, no matter how much he wishes that you were sleeping peacefully next to him so his nights wouldn’t feel so lonely, it was too early, too hasty, to say that he loves you.

“I’ve been wondering, why didn’t you bring them home?” His mother asks him out of nowhere during breakfast, all to add to this extremely tumultuous roller-coaster morning he’s been having. All he wants to do is eat his bowl of milk and cereal, then potentially go back to sleep before fulfilling his promise to go with his siblings to the nearby skating rink. It takes everything in him to not choke on his spoon of grains.

“Agreed, didn’t you mention they didn’t really have any family to go back to and that the move to Liyue was semi-permanent?” His father chimes in, laying a quick peck on his wife’s temple. “It’s never fun to spend the holidays alone.”

“They would’ve felt like they were intruding,” Childe replies quietly, stabbing his bowl a few times before scooping up another spoonful of cereal to his mouth. “I know we’re friends, but we haven’t known each other for that long, and maybe they’d be uncomfortable because that’s a lot honestly…”

“You don’t know until you try,” his mother sings and pats him on the shoulder. “We do have a guest room after all.”

“For them and their twin?”

“And quite a comfortable futon with enough blankets.”

Childe smiles fondly at his parents’ kindness. He can only imagine what this winter break would’ve been like now -- you and your twin floating around, trying to help out with certain chores, sitting by the fireplace and watching TV, huddled up with mugs of hot chocolate, playing board games with everyone and engaging in all the shenanigans…

Laughing. Loving. Grinning. Basking.

Handing over one of his hoodies to you as a sick way of torturing yet blessing himself for seeing how lovely you look in his clothes, standing silently in the doorway as you attempt to help out with mealtimes next to his mother, watching you run around in the backyard and dodging his siblings’ snowballs while lodging a few of your own -- how wonderful it all would be.

But he squashes it down as quickly as possible, because you escaped his grasp. You ran away from his advances temporarily and even though you gave him permission to seek you out come the spring semester, he worries that you might take it back. Something will wake up inside of you to keep him out of your heart and your life, and he’s not confident enough at this point to believe there’s a good chance you will come spend the holidays with him and his family next year.

“Maybe next year, ma,” he sends her a hesitant, yet somewhat broken purse of his lips that’s just the least bit curved. It tells her everything he’s thinking, and the quick patting of his cheek lets him know she understands.

Half an hour later, Childe finds himself curled up on his side under the sheets, phone in hand as he stares at a blinking cursor. It shouldn’t be so hard to send a text to convey his holiday greetings, because that’s all it is -- part of him is becoming desperate and aching for some interaction with you, even if it’s just a text sent back for conventional social pleasantries. He’ll take it for now, right?

Before he can totally chicken out, his thumbs quickly type a, “Happy Holidays, (y/n) :)”, and it’s a little embarrassing how quickly after he hits the ‘send’ button that he tosses it over his shoulder so he’s not directly looking at it anymore. His heartbeat is too quick and he prays for no phantom vibrations or phantom sound notifications to avoid any disappointment of thinking he got a reply. It was a harmless text, yet he’s treating it like he just got assigned on a mission to go and murder someone for the first time. What will he do if you never text him back? Does that mean you really don’t want to talk to him? Are you dead in a ditch somewhere? Did you change numbers and not tell him? Did your twin get all the details and make the executive decision to block his number? Will he never get a chance to talk to you again, even if it’s about something in the Teyvat Mythology class next semester? Will you--

His shoulder screams in protest when he quickly flips himself over at the text notification sound, hands shakily unlocking his phone and opening up your conversation again. His heart rate significantly decreases, reaching back to its normal pace, especially as he reads the little words on his screen.

“Happy Holidays, Ajax ^^”

There is hope.

-

“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”

You’re huddled under the comforter of your twin’s bed, phone just peeking above the edge as you stare at it with a brightness in your eyes. For the most part, you had been sulking there, apart from meals and going back to your own room to sleep, and mentally berating yourself for the way you reacted to Childe the week before.

“He just texted me to say happy holidays,” shrugging to put on a facade of indifference. It’s stupid that you’re trying to hide your feelings from your twin of all people, who could pick apart and identify your emotions in a heartbeat. A roll of his eyes lets you know that you haven’t fooled him at all.

“So you think that whatever comment he made, which was very suggestive and indicative of clearly non-platonic feelings, was just something...friendly? Remind me again how you came to that conclusion?”

“I don’t know what I was thinking!” You whine, looking around to see if there was anything you could toss at him. “It’s just, with everything, all the dreams and stupid gut feelings, I just -- I don’t know, okay?? I can’t tell you enough how much I wish I had just kissed his stupid face and see where it goes from there.”

“Okay, gross, but don’t beat yourself up. Though...I do have a good idea on how to maybe get a good reaction out of him. You wanna go to the New Years’ celebration at Xiangling’s?”

“I think she’d threaten me with a knife if I didn’t. She wanted to go shopping at some point, too.”

“I’ll drop the overprotective brother act for one night, okay? One night, just to let this happen, and for your peace of mind.”

He does a fair amount of conspiring with Xiangling, a friend they met one time at a restaurant a couple years ago, even tagging along on the shopping trip. Together, the three of you find yourself a dress that Xiangling swears would make any person drool over you, including Childe, because at the end of the day, he was a person with the possibility of being attracted to you.

You think it’s a bit silly, but honestly, what do you have to lose at this point?

-

At 11:57PM on New Years’ Eve, Childe is standing outside in the freezing cold with his family, arms lifting up bags of sparklers and fireworks. They’ve driven out closer to the wild like they do every year, and everybody excitedly gets lighters ready, making sure someone’s got a clock out there that tells the seconds. As the younger kids open up the packaging and argue over which one to set off first, Childe’s phone vibrates in his coat pocket.

It’s 11:58PM when he manages to fish the device out and thank himself for buying gloves that are touch-screen friendly, excited to see that there are two texts from you, the latter reading, “Happy New Year!”. It doesn’t matter that you’re a little early, but he’s mainly intrigued by the fact a photo came before it. In his mind, you’re probably curled up with your twin brother, hopefully a selfie because wow, he misses your face.

He gets something else instead, and he is so glad that it’s dark outside and the electric lamp they have is too far away from him to draw any attention.

You have your arm around your brother’s waist and another girl’s that he doesn’t recognize, but it’s a full frontal view of your outfit, one that hugs your curves beautifully and shows more cleavage than he’s ever seen from you, sophisticated and elegant, yet fun and leaving enough to the imagination. There’s a bright smile coming from all of you, and you look like you’re at someone’s house or apartment with plenty of other people milling around in the back, but they don’t matter, not when all he can focus on is you.

Gorgeous, breathtaking, arousing, mind blowing, and gods, he wishes he could teleport to Liyue at this moment, find you, and kiss you right at midnight. Fuck the fact that he doesn’t exactly believe in superstitions like, “Kissing your significant other at midnight means you’ll last forever!” but he’s willing to take the chance with it on this night and the ones after, if he’s allowed. He tries not to think too much about pinning you against the wall and letting the world dissolve -- wants to be the one with the privilege to drag down that zipper and feel his bare skin on yours, and --

As Teucer starts yelling there’s only a minute left, he instinctively locks his phone and shoves it away out of anyone’s view. The last thing he needs is his family teasing him about ogling at your photo for a straight 50 seconds, wide-eyed and pupils on the verge of dilating, the visible breath leaving his mouth just a smudge more dense and prominent than usual.

The only thing he can do to distract himself from popping a boner in front of his parents is to join in on the countdown, making sure all the fireworks are set up correctly and grabbing a sparkler for himself. He waves it around with Tonia and promises to fulfill her wishes of taking one of those pictures right as she draws a pattern in the air. Their excitement is palpable and addicting, and even though the larger fireworks set off a few seconds after midnight hits, the nostalgia fills his lungs with fond memories and future wishes that they only continue this tradition for as long as possible, and hopefully, with you at his side.

-

When it’s 12:04AM, you get a picture message back of Childe bundled up in a black paletot coat, matching beanie and all, a gloved hand holding a sparkler and lips curved upwards, with a caption that says, “Happy New Year’s! See you soon :)”. You show it to Xiangling and your brother, both taking it as a win in their books, although the former does tipsily protest that there should be a better indicator of Childe’s brain breaking at how amazing you look right now. Maybe she’s prophetic, because another text chimes in and the words set you aflame, as well as suggestive whoops into your ears.

It’s a simple, “You look incredible btw”.

If you didn’t want to properly savor this moment, you would’ve found the nearest shot of the strongest liquor and tossed it back with abandon. But you want to remember the warmth in your veins that wasn’t from the alcohol or the heating, the fluttering of your heartbeat, the teeth-baring grin that you couldn’t fight off, the constant re-reading of those four words -- because they’re so different from everything you had been feeling before with him, the need for protection, the need to escape. Instead, you’d like to be in his arms right now and see for yourself how he’d look at you in this moment, and if he would take any action.

You want him to. So, so bad.

-

Childe spends his last week at home hating the fact that you’re just sitting around somewhere in Liyue, doing whatever you’re doing, probably doing some light preparation for your last semester of classes, and he’s not there to take advantage of all this free time and hang out with you. When classes start, it’ll be busy and hectic. You still have your thesis to finish and revise, and while that won’t eat up all your time, it’s still some that he’d want to fill in with his presence if he could. He debates whether or not he should ask for your schedule and compare it with his, maybe set up meetings every other day or propose that they all eat one meal together every day. Childe’s not quite sure of what you plan to do after graduation, as it hasn’t come up in conversation yet, but either way, he’s determined to stay in contact and make things work out. Long distance isn’t ideal, but with technology now, he’ll take it.

He feels a little bad for how excited he probably looked to be leaving home, uncharacteristic for the most part. His older siblings have already gone back to their respective homes, and it’s mainly Teucer and Tonia that worry and tear up when he starts packing his belongings. Tonia finds it unfair that Teucer got to meet you first and the latter makes sure to rub it into everyone’s faces. It’s hard for Childe to sleep on the plane because he’s thrumming with excitement, yet somehow even more nervous than usual when the plane hits small bouts of turbulence, and he doesn’t seem to relax until he sets foot back on campus.

He’s here. It’s January, and you’re physically closer to him than ever in the last two weeks.

-

“Found you.”

On the first day of classes, you’re sitting alone with some salad greens in a bowl, poking your fork at some scraps while you watch something on your phone, earbuds in and back towards the entrance of the canteen. It would explain the unannounced entrance of the very person who’s been at the forefront of nearly every thought in the last 96 hours, his fingers gingerly removing an earbud to surprise you as best as possible, and you startle in your seat.

Your heart kicks into overdrive when he hands you back your earbud and pulls out the seat next to you, setting his own plate of food down as he plops down in his chair. But then he says nothing afterwards, instead choosing to send you a cheeky grin before digging in. You’re left to slowly phase out of your state of shock, stuck between either running away or frantically texting your twin to come and save you even though he was off on a date with Keqing.

It’s not that you weren’t elated at the fact that Childe had done exactly as you told him last month, you just weren’t...prepared? It’s a shitty excuse and a cop out -- you’re mainly just having trouble with racking your brain to find the right words. What are you supposed to say? What should you do? Is it socially acceptable to lean over and kiss him on the cheek because that’s what you’d like to impulsively do at this very second??

“So you did,” you settle and steal a roasted potato wedge from his plate. It’s his turn to be taken by surprise, but he gets over it much quicker than you do. In fact, he spears two wedges and drops them in your bowl, smiling at you as best as he can with a mouth full of food. You give them your thanks before the silence settles in again.

“Did you have a good break?” He asks before his next bite.

“I did. You?”

“It was nice. My parents said I should’ve brought you and your twin home to spend the holidays with us. Can’t say it didn’t cross my mind before finals.”

Holy shit, what? “We couldn’t intrude like that, but that’s really nice of you guys.”

“That’s okay, there’s plenty of chances to visit later.”

You tilt your head and furrow your eyebrows. “But we graduate this semester?”

Childe challenges you with one of his own eyebrows raised. “And? Are we never gonna see each other again?”

Honestly, the possibility had occurred to you. You aren’t entirely sure of Childe’s plans after graduation, and if that meant he was staying in Liyue or going back to Snezhnaya or even moving to Inazuma or Mondstat. While people preach on and on about how lasting friendships and relationships are often formed during college, you believe it’s more common to slowly drift apart as life gets busier. And if Childe moved away, or if you did, it’d be hard to consistently keep in touch with 10 hour workdays.

The thought saddens you, regardless. You like him so much and you’re glad that he was even in your life to begin with, because as unbelievable as it sounds, seeing him was almost akin to the feeling of coming home. Amidst all your nerves, your confusion, your spiraling thoughts, something deeply sated in your heart was a comfort that you found with very few people in your life whenever in his presence.

The thought of leaving and never looking back somehow doesn’t feel new -- it’s bittersweet, but the air in your lungs feels like it’s surrendered to something, like it was to be expected.

“You can’t just leave without telling me--”

“It was last minute! I had no choice!”

“You could’ve written up a message, anything--”

“Can you imagine the position you’d be in if the message got intercepted? I wouldn’t have been safe, she’d make you come after me--”

“As if you’d be any safer in Inazuma of all places! That’s the one place I can’t easily get to!”

“I can take care of myself, Childe, I don’t need you to protect me.”

“This isn’t about me protecting you, (y/n) and -- stop walking, will you?!”

“Then what is this about?” You spin on your wheel with eyes aflame. “Why are you so angry with me? It’s normal for me to disappear for weeks at a time, why was this any different?”

“Because you could’ve died!” He yells back in despair, chest heaving. Your silence is his cue to continue. “You could’ve died and I wouldn’t have known until much later. You could’ve died and all I’d ever think about were the things I never got to say to you, and how I wish I had treated every day with you like it was our last.”

It isn’t hard to tell that you’re stunned and at a complete loss for words. Childe often hides behind facades of charm and wit, and only when he is truly weak does he choose to be this vulnerable, baring his heart for you to see.

“I only have two nightmares in this world. One, my family being harmed in any way. Two, reading in a report or hearing from an agent that you’ve been captured and killed.”

“I like to think that we will.”

His hand reaches out to lay on top of yours, giving it a quick squeeze. “Well, let’s make the most of it this semester.”

Conversation afterwards is easy, filling each other in on holiday activities. Childe speaks extensively about several family traditions and you listen with rapt attention, basking in how fond he is of all of them. Even as you both bring your dishes to the return belt and leave, he immediately offers to drive you both somewhere to get boba, noticing your reluctance to part ways. But boba shops have to close, and you both have class tomorrow morning, and you’re both finding any excuse to keep talking, even if that means sitting outside your dorm building on a nearby bench.

You eventually bid each other good night’s and see you later’s, him refusing to walk away until the heavy door locks shut behind you after you swipe your student ID, and you looking over your shoulder to watch his figure disappear into the night.

-

True to his intentions, Childe makes great efforts to meet you at least once a day, and he can’t get enough. Each parting from you tugs and tugs at his heart, as if there’s a high possibility you’ll never want to see him again the next day, and he wouldn’t know what to do with himself. Your twin and Childe get along well for the most part, and he even meets Xiangling on one of her shifts at her regular restaurant, who sends you a salacious wink and an eyebrow wiggle over his shoulder that nearly causes you to burst from embarrassment.

February rolls over without a hitch, even if you’re a little disappointed that Childe didn’t make a move for Valentine’s Day. Granted, you two still spent time with each other and he’s so darn physically affectionate and he bought you a carnation from the event his dorm held, but you wish you had the guts to fess up and just kiss the man.

It’ll happen some day, you tell yourself. You have time before graduation.

Two days before the end of the Friday that would signal the start of Spring Break, you wake up in a cold sweat, mind reeling and head splitting, heart so so heavy, as a connection is made between your present and your dreams. Not long after, there are tears streaming silently down your face and into your open palms placed in your lap, and you sit in shock as everything comes back to you. Memories are such treasured burdens, you realize.

For the most part, you had gotten used to the dreams, choosing to take charge of what you know and feel now with Childe over succumbing to some strange neurological premonitions. Especially in your dreams when many people’s faces were blurred over and hazy, and the only things you could rely on were voices, touch, and other physical features. You thought that maybe your mind was just playing tricks by transposing Childe’s hair onto a body that was also strikingly similar to his, but for the first time last night, you could see each defining feature on his face as clear as day.

The sight of his figure arching gracefully over yours, the water arrows that appeared out of thin air, the back that protected you from some military men, the voice that said, “Hey girlie, hold still.”

And that was when you had snapped awake to your current state.

Past the initial shock and uncontrollable tears, you soon bent over as sobs wracked your chest, overwhelmed by all the emotions and the pain the memories brought you; losing your twin, finding him to only be left with even more questions after roaming for decades and decades, meeting all your loved ones throughout Mondstat and Liyue, fighting yet falling so hard for Childe, feeling the fear when facing his Foul Legacy form, hating him for Osial, loving him, breathing heavily as the tip of your blade was pointed at his neck and his own just centimeters from yours, tendrils of water inching closer and closer--

Everything makes sense now.

When you meet your twin for lunch at the cafeteria, you pay no mind to the fact that you’re in public and hug him harder than you ever have in years. He’s already a little alarmed that your eyes seem swollen and you look like finals came two months early, but when he asks what’s wrong, all he gets is a shake of your head and nothing more than, “Just a bad nightmare. I love you, y’know that?”

“I love you too?”

“Don’t sound so unsure, now let’s go and get in line before they run out of Jueyun Chili Chicken.”

Even when you meet Xiao later in the early evening to talk about your thesis, you find yourself holding back more tears just two minutes in, reminded of his past and his own life, and he’s moderately concerned, hesitantly handing you a tissue from the corner of his desk when a stray tear escapes. “Is everything okay?” He hesitantly asks, really hoping that he didn’t do anything to make you cry.

“No,” you almost wail and sniffle while dabbing at your eyes. “Sorry, it’s just been a really long day.”

Xiao’s inquisitive gaze softens, remembering how hard undergraduate life could be sometimes. Graduate school was a whole other level, but that shouldn’t discount your own personal difficulties. Plus, in all of the year and a half that he’s known you, you’ve never broken down like this before in front of him.

“You work really hard, Xiao,” you continue, and he’s not sure where this is coming from. “You’re always so helpful and willing to work with me and answer my stupid questions and like-- you practice self-care, right?”

Xiao nods as a white lie, but it seems to comfort you. Maybe too much because you pull him in for a quick and unexpected hug, and you both decide to reschedule this meeting for tomorrow.

As per usual, you wait for Childe to join you for dinner since you finished up earlier than expected. It gives you more time to think about everyone from Mondstat -- Kaeya, Diluc, Lisa, Jean, Amber...funny to think that some things never changed as you compared their past version to the ones you know now.

“Mora for your thoughts?”

There’s a peace that warms your heart when you hear Childe’s voice, one that forces you to smile at him as he sits down next to you. “Just thinking about old friends.”

“I have to admit, I’ll be a little jealous if it’s another guy taking up more space than me in that pretty brain of yours.”

What a flirt. This man isn’t good for your heart. “Who said you had any to begin with?”

He dramatically places a hand over his heart. “You wound me, (y/n). How will I ever recover?”

“You’re ridiculous,” you snicker. Childe reaches over to pinch your cheek and you bat at him in protest. Easily, he grabs one of your hands and simply pulls you towards the food lines, knowing that you’ll stop fighting back soon.

Part of it feels strange now to feel and see his hands with no leather gloves on.

“Childe,” you start halfway through your meal, continuing after he hums back in reply. “Do you believe in reincarnation?”

He freezes briefly, but recovers so quickly that if you hadn’t been watching so closely, you wouldn’t have noticed. “I think it’s neat, the idea of having past lives. Why do you ask?”

What he really wants to ask is if you’ve been having those dreams, too; if he’s starring in your nights like you have been in his.

“Just a thought, especially since you’re taking Teyvat Myth now, too.”

“Do you...do you think if there was a past life, that we knew each other?”

There’s something about the look of content on your face before you meet his gaze -- he thinks that you know more than you’re letting on but you’re holding back for some reason. He wants to know what’s going through your brain right now, why the fondness in your eyes sends a jolt through him like he’s been searching for it all his life, if you know anything about this magnetic pull between you two.

“I like to think that we knew each other well.”

-

Even though the first day of your returned memories was somewhat eventful, you couldn’t help but feel yourself wanting to pull back from Childe -- at least, until you can successfully compartmentalize which emotions belonged to you past self and which ones belonged to your current mindset. You didn’t quite agree with his duties and his affiliation with the Fatui back then, even if he had his reasons that did make sense, to some degree.

The killing, the threatening, so intent on stealing Rex Lapis’s Gnosis in the name of the Tsaritsa, summoning Osial as a mean to an end -- and you definitely can’t forget how stubborn he was in not listening to your protests, so caught up in his brain that you had betrayed him and sent you plummeting to a near-death experience despite his earlier promise of no intention of killing you specifically.

Everything had been toeing a faint, thin line with Childe then. Undeniable chemistry and tension, guarding yourself for yours and Paimon’s safety, slashing at Fatui agents, whispering out pleas and affirmations of “I’m yours” while riding him, sometimes having to sneak out in the mornings…

The only thing you don’t remember is how everything ends -- maybe it’ll come back to you eventually, but for now, you think you’re okay not knowing.

If Childe still doesn’t remember anything from back then, you think it’d be unfair to spend time with him in all your conflicting emotions, even when it’s spring break, where you have so much more hours in the day to be with each other than normal. Fun plans around Liyue had been made, like a two-day one-night trip to Yaoguang Shoal, and you’re this close to cancelling on him.

But he had been looking forward to it so much, even made most of the preparations for it. Who are you to rob that joy from him when it was you who couldn’t figure out your own shit? Are you self-destructing?

Perhaps.

Before you know it, you’re sitting in the passenger seat of his car, staring out the window at the scenery. Somehow, it pleased you to see that the nature of Liyue had been carefully preserved over the many centuries despite its development into the modern age. You get lost in picking apart the differences between then and now that you don’t notice how quiet you’ve fallen and Childe looks over worriedly when you show no reaction to your favorite songs playing on the stereo.

Even when he calls your name once, twice, nothing gives as you clearly have tuned everything out. So he leaves you be until there’s about half an hour left on the drive, unable to hold back and succumbing to reach over for your hand. You startle so strongly that he almost feels bad for having done it unannounced. But what’s even more disturbing is that this isn’t really the first time.

You’ve been talking to him less, often sitting quietly and staring off into another world that he can’t seem to reach. His texts are answered less frequently and with less wit and enthusiasm, so much so that he just appreciates you still show up to see him. Each time he asks if you’re okay, you always affirm that you are. He’s had a hard time believing you, but Childe believes you’ll tell him when you’re ready, surely.

It’s a little ironic yet fateful that Childe planned to bring you here, of all places. In the past, you had spent many days and nights running around in the sand with him, fighting slimes and hilichurls and collecting starconches for him. You remember laying on a large towel next to him as you both looked up into the sky, pointing out stars and constellations while sharing endless kisses away from prying, spying eyes.

“I’m sorry, I must’ve zoned out,” you sincerely apologize.

“It’s okay, I just wanna make sure you relax while we’re here. This is supposed to be a vacation.”

“You’re right,” you agree and squeeze his hand. “Let’s make the most of it before we become adults who are too busy to have fun like this again.”

And you do. Childe rented a small beach cabin (rich boys) closer to one end of the shoreline, just big enough with two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a small kitchen with a dining table. You help him bring in your bags and some groceries bought the night before, setting them down quickly so you can peer out the window again to take in the view. Childe picked a good time, too. Although it’d be a little chilly at night, the day was still warm and mainly overcast with clouds.

“What do you say we change into our swimsuits and head down to the water?”

“Sure.”

Childe hadn’t really been expecting for you to step out in a large, casual tee and gym shorts, one shoulder exposed. He might have been hoping to see a little more skin, but his mother didn’t raise a chauvinistic pervert for a son.

The light in your eyes as you both approach the water is everything he had been missing the last few days, your excitement and joy contagious. As soon as you place everything down on the sand, you kick off your flip flops and leave him behind to step into the water, giggling at feeling the waves crash over your ankles and bring sand between your toes. Childe approaches you from behind and starts smearing sunblock on the back of your neck, to which you just grin beautifully at him in thanks and he has to fight off the desire to kiss you right then and there.

You’re too caught up in embracing the ocean afterwards to feel the shrinking distance between you two, mistaking his warmth for the general spring air. It isn’t until he’s done with your shoulders that he hands you the bottle to leave you to do the rest of your body, and when you turn to thank him, he’s much closer than you remember. His eyes are gentle, holding your gaze and almost daring you to look away first.

But if there’s one thing you can place without a shred of doubt, it is the unmistakable look of love, because you had seen it many, many times before without knowing until later what it meant.

How so incredibly lucky you were to have Childe back in your life now, loving you all the same, and with no life-threatening barriers. Fate or the Archons have given you a second chance, and you’d be damned to take it for granted.

Childe welcomes your lips against his, wasting no time to bring you into his arms so you’re pressed against him as much as possible. He can’t care for the overt public display of affection because this is everything he’s wanted for months now, waiting patiently for you to give him permission to make you his. Your lips are incredibly soft and pliant against his as you first kiss him patiently, then applying more force and desperation to taste more of him. He mirrors you, one hand cradling the back of your head and the other on your neck with a thumb extended to your jawline, teeth moving to nip at your bottom lip. It’s dangerous, the way you smile against his lips, and when he sinks his teeth in deeper before pulling back, your quiet mewl nearly drives him over the edge.

But you’re in public, and this was an amazing first kiss. You two have a beach to enjoy and a fun night planned, and now that he doesn’t have to hold back on his affections, it’ll be even better.

His lips part from yours regretfully, his eyes languidly opening to meet yours. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a blue starconch in the sand and freezes.

It’s not that he’s never seen one before, but something clicks. You. The shore. Starconches. Starry nights. His dreams. Monsters. Gods. Fighting. So much fighting. Training. His family. Dragons. You. Falling. You falling. You fighting him. Yelling. Kissing. Loving. Chasing. Him chasing you before you disappear at a teleport waypoint that somehow you only can operate. The abyss. Your twin.

Oh, Archons.

“ -ou okay, Ajax? Ajax?”

He snaps to look at you again. How does he go about this? How does he ask?

“(Y/n)...have you ever heard of the Fatui Harbingers?”

He has to admit that it’s a bit amazing to be able to identify all the emotions that cross your complexion, from curiosity to realization to conflicted. You’re actively trying to piece everything together without revealing too much on the off-chance that you’re wrong, that Childe hasn’t regained his memories and is just asking about something from class randomly and completely out of the blue.

Wait.

“You haven’t reached that material yet in class,” you whisper, heart in your throat at the realization. Could it really be…

“I was once Tartaglia, eleventh Harbinger of the Fatui, who possessed a Delusion and used my Foul Legacy Transformation with you several times,” he murmurs back, tucking a stray tendril behind your ear. “Is it too late to apologize again for summoning an ancient god and letting you fall about five floors with no warning?”

He should’ve been prepared for you wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him in for a tight embrace. “No, never, but I spent weeks after kicking your ass so you’ve been long forgiven.”

Childe burrows his face into your neck, breathing in your scent and basking in this moment. There was so much to talk about, but you two arguably had more time in the world than ever with nothing holding you back. There was no impending war looming over, no one on the run, no opposing forces. His silent wish for a different life with you seems to have been answered finally. If running into you had been the event to set everything in motion, he only wishes he’d done so earlier.

All that matters now is you’re here together in this plane of existence, given a chance to love again, and experience everything you couldn't before.

As written in the stars, take my soul for it is forever yours.

fin

[wordsnwhiskey]

As It Should Be | Chapter 4: Company

Pairing: Agent Whiskey x F!Reader x Frankie Morales

Summary: Whiskey gets a surprised call and he and Frankie have a long talk.

Rating: M

Warnings: Talks of drug use, alcohol, mentions of character death, mentions of canon typical violence, PTSD, violent nightmare

A/N: I really wanted this conversation to happen between these two given their respective histories. We all know that Whiskey needed therapy and in this verse he gets it. It’s also my HC, from what I vaguely know (I’m not an expert and I could be very wrong), that Whiskey was an officer in the Air Force where he flew/placed in jets and that’s how he knows how to fly an F-22 (The Silver Pony).

We are getting some angst and some fluff this time folks!

Also, yes I do have a specific soap in mind for Whiskey, it's Old Glory by Duke Cannon

Huge special thanks to mi esposa @danniburgh and my friend Agent Capri Sun for the betas and encouragement!!

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Chapter 3: Statesmen & Demons | AO3

He was drowning. He needed...something. He needed help.

Frankie pulled his phone out, went to the recent number that was, as of yet, unsaved, and pressed ‘call’. His shaky hand brought the phone up to his ear as the line rang.

Whiskey’s hair was still wet from his shower, and his white t-shirt clung to his damp skin. Eyeing the take out on his counter, he sank into his couch and smiled at your texts:

Whiskey: Thai sound good, sweetheart?

Bourbon: God yes Jack, I’m starving!

Whiskey: I’ll let you know when I get outta the shower, see you soon sweetheart

He was just about to send you a message to come on over when his phone rang. Glancing at the clock on his stove, then back to the unfamiliar Texas number on his caller ID, he frowned.

“Whiskey.”

His greeting was curt. Who the hell would be calling at 8:30 pm on a Wednesday?

“H-hey Whiskey, it’s me, Frankie. Is… uh, is she there?”

Whiskey’s frown deepened, not that he minded Frankie calling him, far from it, but his voice was cracking like he’d been... crying?

“Oh, hey there, Flyboy. No she isn’t, do you need me to get her?”

“N-no, no… I, uh, I don’t want her to see me right now. I’m, uh,” Whiskey could hear Frankie take a deep breath on the other side of the line. “I’m having a bad night, Jack. Could you come get me? I’m at the hotel.”

Jack shot straight up, practically leaping to his feet.

“Did you…?”

The question clung to the air like lead, crushing both of their chests in the silence.

“No, I haven’t… I just… fuck.”

Jack was moving, grabbing his leather jacket, keys, and Stetson, practically sprinting out the door.

“Don’t worry about it, Flyboy. I’m headed your way.”

He shifted his weight while he waited for the elevator to take him to the parking garage, shooting off a quick text to you in apology. Frankie’s words, “I don’t want her to see me,” rung in his ears and he decided to hold off on telling you what had come up, at least until he could see you at the office tomorrow.

Whiskey: Hey sweetheart, sorry something came up and I can’t do dinner tonight. Everything’s fine, see you at the office, sugar. X

Your phone went off and you quickly unlocked it, eager to hear back from Jack so you could head over. A frown pulled the corners of your lips down at his text, but you knew he wouldn’t cancel on you without good reason.

You: See you tomorrow, cowboy. Better make it up to me ;)

Frankie had left the door slightly ajar and was pacing around his room, arms crossed in front of him when he heard a quick knock, then the handle was turning and Whiskey crossed the threshold. He took a cursory glance around the room: nothing but minibar booze bottles, thankfully. Whiskey let out a sigh of relief that was short-lived when he took in Frankie’s demeanor. Frankie’s face was taut with shame, and his gaze refused to rise any higher than Whiskey’s boots.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” Frankie choked out, “ Pope, and Hawk… I can’t disappoint them again. I’ve been clean for three years, and I didn’t…”

Jack shook his head and beckoned Frankie over, wrapping his arm around the other man’s shoulders and pulling him in for a quick, tight hug.

“C’mon, Flyboy, this is not the time nor the place to talk about this. I’m taking you back to my place, and we’re gonna have some whiskey that’s much better than what you’ve had here, and then we can talk.”

Frankie nodded and grabbed his hat, planting it on his head as Whiskey tugged him out of the hotel room. He was so deep in his thoughts and his guilt for having Whiskey come out that he didn’t realize where he was until the elevator dinged. Whiskey unlocked and opened the door to his condo, giving way to a view so incredible Frankie almost forgot to breathe. Across from the entryway, on the far side of the condo, the gorgeous New York night skyline twinkled back at them from beyond the wall of glass windows. Frankie marveled at the rustic elegance of Jack’s home. It had an entirely open floor plan, giving Frankie a view of the dark cherry butcher block island, the top-of-the-line range top, and other appliances, all immaculately clean. For a moment, he wondered if that was because Whiskey ordered out more than he cooked, but then he saw the bags of takeout on the counter and immediately felt guilty.

“I’m sorry, looks like I interrupted your dinner plans.”

Whiskey closed and locked the door behind him, hanging his jacket up on the nearby hook. He glanced over at the takeout, then put his hand on Frankie’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry about it, partner. I just told her something came up. You hungry? I ordered her Drunken Noodles, be a shame to put them to waste.”

Frankie was about to decline when his stomach rumbled, and Whiskey chuckled.

“C’mon, Flyboy, go sit down on the couch and I’ll bring the food and some whiskey round.”

With a nod, he toed his dress shoes off (they were all he had without his go bag) and made for the brown leather couch. He sat down a bit stiffly, feeling awkward given the circumstances. Whiskey brought over the containers of food, handing one to Frankie and resting his own on the coffee table before grabbing them the promised drinks. He sat down, and Frankie took his drink in one hand, relishing in the smooth burn as he took a sip, then set it down to dive into his food.

They ate in a relaxed and cozy silence. Frankie finished first, which wasn’t a surprise. When Whiskey finished, he took Frankie’s empty container with him to toss in the garbage before he made his way back. An awkward silence replaced the previous comfortable one, and Frankie found himself having a hard time pulling his gaze from the amber liquid in his glass. Whiskey took a deep breath, then turned on the couch to face Frankie.

“Santiago said you’ve been clean for three years? That’s quite the accomplishment.”

“Yeah, thanks. Doesn’t really feel like it right now. I feel like I failed. I’m worried I’ll slip up.”

“I don’t think you will, Frankie. Neither do Pope or Bourbon.”

Jack didn’t know why, but the words rang true in his mind, even though he hadn’t known Frankie for very long.

“You don’t seem like the kind of guy to throw three years of hard work away, Flyboy.”

A small smile tugged at Frankie’s lips and he took a sip from his glass.

“Must’ve been weird for Halcón. Last time she saw me, fuck, I was barely with it. The suspension hit me hard. I had been getting my shit together before Colombia and the funeral. I just wanted to be able to fly. I couldn’t and still can’t stand the idea of being grounded. That, and I knew my fianceé would leave me if I didn’t get it together. But then, well, we all went to Colombia.”

“I couldn’t imagine being grounded. I don’t fly often, but to not have the option? I dunno what I’d do.”

Whiskey shook his head and grimaced. Frankie perked up, head snapping to meet Whiskey’s gaze.

“You fly?”

“Mmmhmm, was in the Air Force for a bit, did jets. Statesmen has an F-22, the Silver Pony, that I fly.”

A small buzz of excitement was washing over Frankie, and he subconsciously scooted closer to Whiskey. He didn’t really have anyone to talk to about flying, even if helicopters and jets were two very different means of flying.

“What made you risk it, Flyboy? What happened in Colombia?”

Frankie frowned and let out a deep sigh.

“Pope had been down there for a few years, chasing a narco named Gabriel Martín Lorea. He finally got a break when his CI told him she knew where he was hiding out and where he was stashing his money. He showed up outta the blue asking us, our old team, to come down and do recon, $17k just for a week of recon. If we wanted to stay on after that, we’d be entitled to 25% of whatever we seized, and the rumour was that Lorea had $75M on him. I’m guessing Halcón was busy with a mission for you guys, and I’m glad she was. It ended up being a fucking shitshow.”

Whiskey noted the faraway look in Frankie’s eyes as he sighed and took another swig from his glass, shaking his head as Frankie recalled the events.

“After the recon, Pope said he thought we could do the job ourselves, take all the money and not tell the local governments. We found out that the local agency hadn’t been the ones to pay us the $17k. That had come out of Pope’s pocket. He was so sure that the locals were on Lorea’s payroll, and if he went to the local agency, Lorea would disappear with the money. At the end of the day, none of us could say no. Turned out the rumors of Lorea having $75M were wrong. The house was stuffed, literally, with cash. Tom, our captain, got greedy. He ignored our hard-out time and insisted we take more loads of cash. We ended up stealing close to $250M, then we burned the house down.”

Whiskey whistled. “$250M is a lot of money, partner…”

Frankie barked out a humorless laugh, his eyes rueful.

“Too much. Our helo couldn’t take it all and make it over the Andes. I knew it before take off, and I warned Tom and Pope, but all any of us could see was the money. Tom didn’t want to leave it on the runway. I almost had us over the Andes when a gearbox blew, and I had to get us back to flat. We had to cut the money net, and it was just our luck that it happened to be over a coke farm. It was a bad landing. I honestly don’t know how none of us were seriously injured, but Pope and Tom went to go and convince the farmers to get out of the money. Our comms were out, so we were going off of hand signals. Tom got too trigger happy, and he dropped a few of the villagers. I-I provided cover fire, too…”

Frankie hung his head, no matter how much Will, Benny, or Pope had tried to reassure him, he still held an enormous amount of guilt over what had happened. He felt Whiskey’s hand rest on his shoulder, and he leaned into the touch.

“That’s what you were trained to do, Flyboy. You couldn’t have known any different, especially without comms.”

Frankie nodded, taking a large gulp of his whiskey, then continued on.

“A couple days later, we took fire in the mountains, and they got Tom. It ended up being a kid and another guy from the coke farm. We killed them, but there was nothing we could do for Tom. Headshot, he died instantly. 10 years we all served together, and then he was gone, leaving behind an ex and two daughters. It could have been any one of us though, Jack… we all took lives during that mission. Tom just took the wrong ones. It… it could have been me even, I shot some of those villagers, too.”

Frankie felt Whiskey’s grip on his shoulder tighten and looked up to see the empathetic sadness of someone who truly understood how he felt reflected back in Whiskey’s eyes. Frankie cleared his throat.

“We ended up bailing on a lot of the cash, taking only what we could carry in our daypacks and tossing the rest in a ravine so we could haul Tom’s body out with us. At the end of it, we made out with around $5M, but we all agreed it should go to Tom’s family. I got back to find my fianceé had left. She couldn’t stand my leaving with Pope. Looking back, my addiction is probably what really did us in, but I was devastated to come home to an empty house after everything that had happened. Things got… dark after that. I fell back on old habits, fuck, I had barely been clean a few months when we went to Colombia. I didn’t want to think about what we’d done there, didn’t want to feel the emptiness, didn’t want to sleep and deal with the nightmares. I was a mess, and I… uh, I took too much one day. Pope found me unconscious, lying on the ground, and got me to the hospital. When I came to, I realized I didn’t want to end up dead in my shitty apartment, once they discharged me, I checked into rehab.”

Frankie took another drink. No one other than Pope knew that knocking on death’s door had been the turning point for him. Whiskey chewed on his lip, taking a drink and debating whether he should share his past as well.

“Drugs are… a terrible thing to get hooked on. My high school sweetheart, carrying my unborn son, was murdered by two meth head freaks robbing a fucking convenience store. I was on leave from the Air Force, waiting for them to come home when I got the call. I didn’t realize how much it festered in me until about a year back when we were taking down the Golden Circle.”

Frankie nodded. He remembered that he had been glad he was clean by then.

“I’m sorry, Whiskey… I didn’t know, I shouldn’t have-”

Jack’s hand moved from Frankie’s shoulder to rub his back reassuringly.

“Listen, the things you’ve done and seen for our country… and not, well, it’s a lot, and I know it’s not the same as the freaks who… it’s not the same. I almost sabotaged the mission. My hate-addled brain thought it would be justice… It was Bourbon who very literally knocked me on my ass and kept me from making a decision I’d regret. She encouraged me to see a Statesmen counselor, which has been a lot of work, but has been more helpful than I ever thought it would be. Have you thought about that?”

Frankie was distracted for a moment by Jack’s hand. It felt nice, reassuring, safe, things that had been sorely lacking for him today.

“I have and I did, well, I had to as part of the program, and I kept it up for a bit after. It helped, but… I couldn’t really talk about what happened with Tom. Sure there’s confidentiality and all that, but what we did is all kinds of illegal. I couldn’t exactly bring that to a session or group.”

Frankie snorted, a ghost of a smile tugged at a corner of his mouth.

“Really though, aside from the program I was in after rehab to get my license back, I’ve gotten some hobbies and some other out-outlets. This was just a lot. I needed to not be alone.”

Jack cocked his head at the way Frankie stuttered and subconsciously fidgeted with the bandage on his right wrist. He had picked up from the night prior that Frankie had a thing for pain, and Frankie’s reaction when he had bandaged him up was further proof of that. But using it as his sole outlet or method of working through his issues was something he wouldn’t enable. His eyes narrowed, and before Frankie could blink, Jack snatched his left hand, mindful of the tender marks as he held fast and fixed Frankie with a hard stare. Frankie flinched at the sudden movement then his eyes widened a little.

“You know this ain’t a solution, Flyboy.”

Jack’s voice had an edge to it bordering on a growl. Frankie shook his head quickly.

“Shit, no, Whiskey, the i-impact p-play stuff, i-it’s an outlet, and it’s not my only outlet. I met my old partners, Sam and then later on her husband, a year and a half or two years ago. I was a year clean before I even had my first session with either of them. I met Sam when she booked a flight tour, and one thing led to another… She’d come back into town and sometimes her husband would come with, but we all kept everything pretty quiet. They helped me relax, and they had their fun.”

Frankie was doing his best to be nonchalant, but he couldn’t help the slight bitterness creeping into his voice. Maybe it had to do with the fact that Jack’s tone had thrown him off guard, unexpectedly stirring something in him. Whiskey, of course noticed on both counts, having been trained to do so. He could see through Frankie a mile away. Frankie nervously took another sip from his glass, shuddering as Whiskey’s thumb gingerly rubbed circles over the marks, seemingly accepting his explanation.

“You know, had I known about your… interests, I would have done things a bit differently last night, Flyboy.” He winked at Frankie, then smirked as he examined Frankie’s wrist more thoughtfully. “How are they doing?”

“G-good, thanks. And uh, well, you’re one of 3 people who know.” Frankie murmured.

Whiskey’s eyebrows raised slightly in surprise as he nodded and released Frankie’s hand.

“Really? Not Pope or Bourbon?”

“Are you kidding me? Pope would never let me hear the end of it. There are some things he doesn’t need to know.” Frankie chuckled and shook his head. “And Halcón? Well, there was never any reason for her to know. We never did anything together before last night.”

“How long has it been since you last saw Sam or her husband?”

Frankie downed the rest of his whiskey, eyes far away for a moment, remembering their last session, the sharp pain followed by a rush of endorphins and the occasional soothing praise. He shook his head gently, blinking himself out of his memories at the feeling of Jack’s warm hand on his knee.

“It’s been a while, six months? They moved overseas.”

There was a beat of silence, Whiskey could sense there was something up, it was a subtle shadow flitting across Frankie’s face. He decided to push a little more.

“Did you have feelings for them?”

“It was complicated.”

The edge in Frankie’s voice was tinged with pain, and he tried to cover it up with a laugh that came out humorless.

“I guess it isn’t that complicated. After six months, things shifted, and they made it clear I wasn’t part of their long term plan. It became very transactional, which was fine, but there was less and less... care after.”

“Oh.”

The response slipped from Jack’s lips, and he was momentarily stunned quiet before his temper began to flare. His index finger and thumb gently gripped Frankie’s chin, forcing him to meet his gaze.

“Listen carefully, Flyboy. What I did last night was the bare minimum of what someone should do in that kind of situation. Anything less is negligent. Christ, how was this ever stress relief for you if you were left to free fall afterwards?”

Whiskey’s voice was calm and even, but Frankie could see the fury raging in his eyes. Sensing Whiskey’s desire for understanding, he nodded then shrugged.

“I guess I’d try to go on a hike with one of the guys or go train at the gym.”

Silence fell between them, a muscle in Whiskey’s jaw clenching before he glanced at the clock and let out a deep sigh, willing himself to calm down.

“It’s already just about midnight, Flyboy. Why don’t you go shower, and I’ll put on a clean bandage for you once you’re done. You can use my bathroom. There’s a clean towel hanging you can use. Don’t worry about clothes, I’ll leave something for you to sleep in on my bed so you can change while I set up the guest room for you.”

Frankie was about to protest, saying he could do his own bandages, but Whiskey fixed him with a stare and shook his head.

“Go on Flyboy, get yourself in the shower. Head down the hall, second door on the left. Your room is across the hall. I’ll be waiting there with the medkit when you’re done.”

Whiskey took Frankie’s empty glass and stood, taking their glasses to the sink while Frankie got up and made his way to the shower. A pensive frown tugged at Whiskey’s lips. Tonight certainly explained a lot of things. The sharp fury that permeated Whiskey’s chest when they were talking about Frankie’s previous partners returned. How could someone not be bothered with aftercare? It was also clear that Frankie felt abandoned by them. On some level, the poor man was probably terrified of that happening again, if he even entertained the thought of something between the three of you. Whiskey waited a few moments until he heard the water running before heading into his room. He let out a sigh as he grabbed a white t-shirt and a pair of linen shorts for Frankie to wear, leaving them on the bed before he left to make sure the guest room was all set.

Frankie undressed quickly, folding his clothes and setting them down on the vanity in a neat pile crowned with his hat. Next, he made quick work of unwrapping the bandage around his wrist and tossing the materials in the garbage. He let out a sigh of relief as he stepped into the shower and the hot water scoured the last two days from his skin. The relief was quickly replaced with a small whine of pain as the water hit his wrist. Closing his eyes and bracing himself against the wall with his forearm he breathed through the pain, acclimating to the sensation. Frankie took a minute to just exist, trying to enjoy the quiet that had slowly crept back into his mind. Taking a deep breath, he set to work getting himself clean. The steam made the air thick and heavy with the scent of Whiskey’s soap, something akin to leather and tobacco leaves. It clung to Frankie’s lungs, and he could have stayed there enjoying it for considerably longer. But, he didn’t want to keep Whiskey waiting, so he rinsed off and hopped out of the shower. He toweled off, smirking to himself when he saw it was monogrammed (because of course it was), then headed out and changed quickly into the shirt and shorts that had been left for him.

Whiskey looked up in time to see Frankie stride through the doorway wearing his shirt and shorts, smelling like him, his soap. He swallowed thickly and tried to recover with a smile.

“Feel better, Flyboy? C’mon, sit down. Let’s have a look.”

Frankie nodded, then took a seat next to Whiskey on the bed and gave him his right hand. Whiskey hummed his approval at the lack of resistance from Frankie, something the pilot felt tug at his chest.

“This is looking much better, Flyboy, should be completely healed in a few days.”

Whiskey smiled as he finished tending to and wrapping up Frankie’s wrist. Without prompting, Frankie offered his other wrist and Whiskey couldn’t bite back the smirk that followed. He was glad though, glad that Frankie was trusting him with this and was embracing these moments, even if it was for something small. Frankie’s left wrist was considerably better off, but even so, Whiskey was still gentle as he looked him over.

Frankie’s heart fluttered at the intimacy of what was happening. Here was Jack, a man he’d known for barely 48 hours, who was taking care of him, who had dropped everything to come get him, who had spent his evening letting Frankie talk. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had treated him this way.

There was an overwhelming urge building in his chest, and without thinking, he acted on it.

He gripped the collar of Whiskey’s t-shirt with one hand, tugging him closer as Frankie leaned in and kissed him. Whiskey was shocked for a moment, it had been the last thing he had been expecting, but he quickly recovered when he felt Frankie’s tongue swipe at his lip. His hand rested along the column of Frankie’s throat, thumb grazing over the scruff along his jaw as he deepened the kiss, leaning into Frankie and tasting him.

A small moan pulled Jack back to his senses, resting his forehead against Frankie’s and cupping his jaw with this other hand. They both panted, trying to catch their breath, and Whiskey smiled as he gave Frankie another quick kiss. For a moment, Frankie was worried he had overstepped when Whiskey cut off their kiss, but looking into the other man’s eyes, he knew that wasn’t the case.

“You’ve had a long day, Flyboy, we’re not gonna do anything tonight. Tomorrow though, if you want, I could help you get rid of some of that stress and help you come down the right way. No rush, no pressure, you can say no and nothing changes. I don’t want an answer right now either, sleep on it.”

Frankie’s breath quickened and his pupils dilated at the thought, but one thing nagged at him.

“What about Halcón?”

Whiskey chuckled and patted Frankie’s shoulder.

“Well it’s what we both want, in a manner of speaking. She’d be onboard, but she doesn’t have to know exactly what we do for now unless you’re comfortable with it. A lot of this is stuff I know she wants to go over on Friday, but for now, when it comes to me and Bourbon, keep an open mind and try not to overthink it, partner. If you want to do this tomorrow, then we can do it. If not, no harm, no foul, you’re still welcome to stay here and keep me company.”

Frankie nodded, still processing what Whiskey had said and more than a little surprised that Whiskey was inviting him back regardless of his decision. Whiskey stood up then, squeezing Frankie’s shoulder.

“G’night, Flyboy. Holler if you need anything.”

Frankie was back in Colombia. He felt sluggish, his feet refusing to respond the way he wanted them to. He saw the villager from the cocaine farm pop up from the rocky outcrop, but Frankie couldn’t move, couldn’t draw his gun to take him out. He cried out in anguish as the man fired.

“No! Tom!”

Then he was surrounded by Pope, Benny, Will, you, and Whiskey, statuesque as the man who killed Tom lined up and dropped Pope, moving his way down the line. Frankie was sobbing now, he was being swallowed up by the ground, sinking helplessly as the people he cared for were murdered.

Whiskey woke with a start to the sound of shouting.

Ripping the sheet and comforter off, Whiskey glanced at the clock. It read 01:30 and he sighed. Frankie just couldn’t catch a break.

“P-please, No! Po-Pope, God, n-no, Hal-Halcón! Whiskey!”

He really didn’t want to shake Frankie awake, worried as to how he might react waking up from that sort of dream, but Jack had to do something.

“Hey, Frankie, I’m right here, you gotta wake up. Wake up, Flyboy.”

Frankie shot up, feeling like ice water had been poured down his spine. He was wild-eyed and breathing heavily, but once again, Whiskey’s soothing words served to ground him, and he clung to them with all he had. He felt Whiskey pull him into a hug, and Frankie didn’t care about the awkward angle, he clung to the embrace as well.

Whiskey’s heart ached at the way Frankie clutched at him after hearing him call out Pope’s, his, and your names. He had a vague idea of what might have happened, he still had dreams where he couldn’t save his loved ones every now and then. Once Frankie’s breathing calmed a bit, Whiskey tugged him up out of bed.

“C’mon Flyboy, you’re coming with me.”

Frankie didn’t argue, he just followed, grateful that Whiskey was pulling him by his hand, needing that point of contact. Whiskey pulled back the covers on the side opposite of his and waited until Frankie crawled in before he pulled the covers over him, then slid in on his side of the bed. He scooted a bit closer, not wanting to crowd Frankie unless he wanted the contact, and was pleased when the other man scooted back until his back rested against Jack’s chest.

“Get some sleep, Flyboy. I’ve got you.”

Sooner than he expected, Whiskey heard soft snores coming from Frankie. He smiled then wrapped his arm around him and pulled him closer.

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[arctichotch]

i’m not a depp fan but if we’re using guilt by association to discuss manson and depp, shouldn’t amber’s relationships with elon musk and james franco count for something? i mean she could just have terrible taste in men

i don’t think anyones saying he’s guilty based on him being buddies with manson. but with the other evidence it just adds to it and makes sense i suppose

(also amber didn’t exactly make elon musk or james franco the godfather of her child)

nor is she, as far as i know, still associated with them

but yeah idk much about how the timeline lines up regarding allegations and jf and their association with one another. also i don’t think they were ever together right?? weren’t they just pals because they were working on a movie together?

but yeah elon musk 🤢🤢 but i don’t think a year long relationship with a fucking shit head compares to a almost life long friendship with a man who openly admits to being a disgusting abusive human being

anyway not to sound like i’m excusing amber either. they’re certainly two shitty people but it shouldn’t really have anything to do with whether or not you believe her or not. it’s not proof of abuse and it’s not proof of abuse not occurring. someone’s personal relationships shouldn’t be part of whether you believe they could be abused or not

ok this makes no sense but no one’s looking at johnny and saying he’s guilty simply because he’s friends with marilyn manson but because he has a history of violence and lots of evidence stacked against him (through life, not just with amber). i suppose that obviously very close friendship is more like the icing on the cake and is like a full circle kind of thinking that “oh well this man is an abusive pos so it obviously makes sense he’d surround himself with likeminded people.) it’s just another factor i suppose to consider why he’s a piece of shit rather than proof of him being an abuser if ya get me

[izzabeean]

Chapter 9 : Anticipation

SUMMARY

Ushijima makes an appearance at your group outing, and you try to ignore his presence. But, of course, it’s easier said than done in this case.

pairing : ushjima x f!reader / oikawa x f!reader / iwaizumi x f!reader

genre : angst + fluff

word count : 3,344

content : profanity, mild violence, depiction of injuries

tags :  alternate universe - college/university, post-break up, friends to lovers, pining, slow burn

a/n : Is the world so small that Y/N keeps running into Ushijima? Perhaps in this story, yes. This week has been a bit slow creatively for me, I don't feel my writing is the strongest in this chapter. But here we are, things are heating up and I'm happy to provide.

Post Thursday evenings PST, if not latest by Friday.

masterlist

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Everything feels so surreal as you lock eyes with Ushijima from across the table. He doesn’t smile or say anything, he just looks at you with his empty gaze like this is the first time meeting. Ever. Your heartbeat starts to thump faster conjuring up a lump in your throat that cannot be swallowed. Your breathing is shallow and your hands start to sweat as you dig your nails into your legs.

Why didn’t you turn around when your instincts told you to?

Why did you talk yourself into thinking this was a good idea?

However, for some reason, here you are. The sequence of events leading up to this point doesn’t make any sense. Even when you were dating, you wouldn’t run into him this much, so why now? Why all these dumb coincidences? There’s no room for you to heal when you keep seeing him like this.

“Hi,” you squeal, temporarily incapacitated by the confused looks from your other groupmates.

But your high pitch voice produces shockwaves through Oikawa’s system as you quickly introduce him and Iwaizumi to which Sara introduces Ushijima to all three of you. Then it becomes apparent that Ushijima hasn't said anything to Sara about you.

It’s sublime how quickly you push down the devastation bubbling at the surface and you wonder how it is even possible for you to force a smile in Sara’s direction. Clearing your throat you take a seat. Ushijima has stopped staring now and takes a swig of the chilled beer sitting in front of him. Your mouth feels dry from the nerves that are trying to drag your spirits down. If you were going to survive this torture, you’re most definitely not going to be sober. Grabbing the waiter's attention, you order yourself a beer as you feel yourself on the brink of a heart attack.

“You ok?” Oikawa mumbles knowing well that turning to your least favorite drink is a bad sign. It’s very clear to him this evening isn't going to go very well, seeing as you are already on edge from Ushijima’s surprise appearance.

“Mhm,” you hum shooting him a smile. “I’m fine. Totally chill.”

“You know, we can leave,” Oikawa whispers. “You’re not obligated to be here.”

And let him win? you think. I don’t think so.

“No, I’m fine,” you lie, biting your lip. It’s no time for you to concede, you just gotta ride this one out, show him how much better you’re doing without him. It’s the only thing to get back at him for everything so grossly unforgivable that he’s done.

The waiter returns with your drink placing it down in front of you. Nothing has looked so relieving and thirst-quenching before; the cold and crisp-looking glass filled to the top of light amber liquid with a dollop of airy foam. You pick it up and throw it back, chugging the heavy and sour alcohol. Then you think, maybe you shouldn’t have done that as you strike the glass down on the table. Licking your lips, you notice the startled looks everyone gives you at your uncharacteristic action.

“Should we order food,” Sara interrupts the weird tension which segues everyone back to talking amongst themselves.

Your stomach starts to swirl as you’ve come to realize that drinking that beer was probably the worst thing you could do while it’s empty. But as you study the menu, nothing seems to scream appetizing. Not when you can see in your peripheral Ushijima and Sara sharing a menu while discussing what they want to order. It makes you sick.

The restaurant is loud, but your thoughts are louder as you sit there wondering if anyone else can hear them. It hurts to see him here in front of you beside her. She most definitely doesn’t know about your history with Ushijima just by the way she’s acting around him. Sara doesn’t seem maniacal enough to do something so disrespectful to someone she barely knows. For god's sake, she invited you here. Why would she want you here if she knew? To rub it in that she’s Ushijima’s girlfriend. Doubtful.

Maybe Oikawa was right all along about Ushijima not being how you perceived him to be. Maybe, just maybe you honestly, you were blinded the entire time. And now you were finally seeing him for who he truly is.

You were scared to admit it. That if you did, your year together means nothing when it still meant so much to you. But in this case, actions speak louder than words and most definitely Ushijima’s actions are very clear.

“I'm going to step out for a smoke. Do you need some fresh air?” Iwaizumi asks, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“Oh,” you reply looking at Oikawa sitting beside you who's chatting with one of your group members. "No, I better not."

"Alright, I'll be right back," he says sliding out of his seat.

You try to hide your face behind the menu so no one talks to you and your plan almost succeeded except for the open opportunity it gave Sara to sit beside you. Your face pales as she leans in to rasp, "I'm glad you could make it."

"Yeah," you exclaim a bit put off by how close she is.

"I honestly thought you weren't going to show."

It's hard for you to not flash a bitter smile, but you force yourself to continue the conversation, "It took some convincing but bringing Oikawa and Iwaizumi helped."

The silence stretches between the two of you as Oikawa's laugh fills the air. You take a glimpse at him, noticing one of your group members flirting with him. You roll your eyes while looking back at Sara who is enthralled in his aura.

"He seems really nice,” she compliments. "How long have you two been together?"

"Hmm?" It takes you a moment to realize what she’s asking as you realize she's subtly gesturing to Oikawa. And when it clicks you are filled with laughter. “Oh my god, did you just say that out loud?”

The thought of you and Oikawa remotely appearing to look more than friends from an external perspective makes you nearly piss yourself.

"Oh, I just thought, you'd both make a cute couple," she corrects herself with puzzlement written across her face.

When you realize she’s being serious, you pause. “No, we’ve just been friends for a while.”

"Oooh," Sara taunts giving you a very mischievous look. "You know that saying, love is friendship set on fire."

"It's not like that," you nervously chuckle at her comment.

"Alright, I won't pry," she jokes. "But seriously, I'm happy you're here!"

She gets up from her seat and walks back over to sit next to Ushijima. Your feelings are honestly a bit mixed from that conversation. You really wanted to hate her, but she just seemed so genuine.

------

You’re a couple more drinks in and feel a bit of a buzz as Sara goes into grave detail as to why she transferred to the university now . But you can’t force yourself to listen. Your attention shifts to Ushijima smiling softly at the way Sara bubbles with warmth. It’s funny to think that someone else can make him smile like that besides you because you know how hard it is to do so. But it seems so effortless for Sara.

The memory of meeting Ushijima for the first time flashes in your head. To the time in the library where he reaches over your head to grab the book, you were trying to get on the top shelf. Now you can barely remember as the image of Sara takes your place to retrieve the book from Ushijima's hands. She's the new you.

You know you're overanalyzing every single movement Ushijima makes. From where his eyes linger to where his hands are placed, you cannot stop looking as you stay in suspense to what he will do next. You’re close to being consumed by the sudden urge to lash out or cry. It feels like he’s trying to push your buttons as he leans over toward Sara. You're waiting for him to kiss her. Waiting for it to break you. And it makes you sick.

Suddenly you feel a hand on your knee and turn to Iwaizumi who is looking down at you with a soft gaze. It’s odd but you somehow feel this tension between the two of you. You should have known better in that moment, but your mind feels a bit hazy from feeling vulnerable and also the alcohol.

“Is everything ok?”

You feel anticipation fill your chest and you swallow thickly seeing as this is the closest you’ve ever been to him. You look at his hand for a moment, at his long fingers gently grip the top of your knee. You immediately remind yourself of his words the other day, wondering if he intended to friendzone you like that.

You nod, smiling.

“Let me know when you want to leave,” Iwaizumi whispers squeezing your leg.

His face dips down slightly and you don’t know why you do it and don’t know how you had the courage to. But you’re so caught up in your internal frustrations, you don’t think before you act. You lean in closer to Iwaizumi and plant a kiss on his cheek uttering a thank you.

As you pull back, his eyes widen. It takes you a second to process exactly what you’ve done.

“Um, sorry,” you say to Iwaizumi, you need to get out of there before you die of embarrassment. Quickly you excuse yourself from the table as you rush to the bathroom and you can still feel Iwaizumi watching you.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

But you find the bathrooms have a long line up and turn a corner as you burst through a door to outside. The cool air hits you making it much easier to breathe. Finally, you’re by yourself. Screaming wouldn’t even be able to help you let out the confusion you feel. This was definitely something you didn’t want to have happened. But here you are regretting your capacity to understand a situation. Honestly, you were definitely feeling vulnerable. This entire evening you were caught off guard and something it makes you do weird things.

“Can we talk?

Turning around, you see Ushijima standing in front of you. He gazes down at you with his unreadable stare that makes you want to cry.

“No,” you say a little unnerved walking away from him. But you’re stopped by him grabbing your wrist, the same wrist the creep outside the club grabbed you with. Still a bit bruised and weak from his grip. You let out a yelp, “Let go of me!”

“Just let me explain,” he begs.

But you’re not listening as you try to wiggle your wrist away-- it’s not a tight hold, but it’s enough that it still hurts.

“Please, let me go,” you express firmly.

He stares at you for a moment and with a deep breath exhales letting go.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you yell, grabbing your wrist. “Moved on already, what the fuck is your problem?”

“It’s not--”

“No, let me finish. You’ve already done enough. I can’t believe you. You could’ve just told me you found someone else, instead, I see you with her all cute and cuddly and now I have to fucking work with her? This is such a--”

But as you’re about to continue your rant, you’re interrupted by a voice.

“What’s going on here?” Oikawa asks, noticing Ushijima standing before you. He studies your face filled with rage while you’re clutching your wrist. “Did you hurt her?”

“What?” Ushijima replies confused.

Then Oikawa’s eyes turn dark, a look you’ve never seen before. And you never imagined what comes next. He grabs a fist full of Ushijima’s shirt pulling him close enough that they were inches apart, barely touching noses. You had to stop them before it went too far but you couldn’t move your body.

“After all you’ve been through this is how you treat her?” Oikawa yells.

“You don’t even know the whole story,” Ushijima booms, forcibly removing Oikawa’s grip from his shirt causing Oikawa to make an aching face.

“I know enough to see that you’re a complete dick. But we both know, I’ve known that from the start,” Oikawa hisses. His eyes are fixed on Ushijima shooting him a scowl while your hand is clasped to your shirt.

“Stop it,” you say, but they both ignore you.

“I think you need to get your facts straight,” Ushijima says staying calm and collected while Oikawa explodes with rage.

“Why don't act more like a man,” Oikawa protests.

Then time moves so quick you couldn’t even see Oikawa raise his fist to hit Ushijima square in the face. Because not even seconds after Ushijima retaliates. You rush over forcing yourself between the two men before a fight breaks, pushing your hands against their chest yelling at them to stop. Ushijima is the first to back away as Oikawa stays resistant trying to push by you. But you take both your hands and press them against him as Ushijima exits back into the restaurant.

"Why are you trying to protect him?" Oikawa cries. You look up at Oikawa whose face is glistening in the moonlight as his cheek starts to swell. His dark eyes lock on you as yours start to glaze over.

"Are you stupid? He could've really hurt you," you wail, trying to hide the fact you're physically shaking.

And he sees it.

"Don't ever do that again," you barked.

Then he gives you his signature shit-eating grin, a look that is nowhere near appropriate from just getting punched in the face.

“Told you he’s a dick,” he smirks, walking towards the front of the restaurant. “Let’s go home.”

“What about Iwaizumi?”

“He’ll take care of things,” Oikawa mutters. “He’ll meet us at home. Let’s go before that blockhead comes back out.”

------

Oikawa called a cab to get back to his apartment, you felt a bit bad for leaving Iwaizumi behind. Especially since you kissed him then left.

Things seemed to grow incredibly awkward between you and Oikawa as he sat in the bathroom cleaning the cut on his cheek from Ushijima’s punch. You weren’t really sure what Oikawa was thinking, but you didn’t really want to ask.  As you gently press the cotton pad to his cheek, he squints his eyes while the burning sensation shocks him and exhales sharply through his nose.

“Sorry,” you mumble and he immediately forgives you with a smile.

He tries to pin his eyes to something that can distract the sting, but instead focuses his attention on the feel of your fingers against his skin. You’ve never been this close before and he wonders if you can hear how fast his heart is beating.

He’s thankful for your patience with him. Most certainly did he think you were going to be pissed, but your reaction was far from what he expected as you kept silent for most of the trip home and even patching him up. Oikawa looks at you to see your frown had deepened. “Are you mad? You look mad.”

You scoff. “No, I’m just tired.” You’re caught off guard by his uncharacteristic concern and almost recoil with the question.

Oikawa sighs, “Your face is screwed up like you’re mad.”

“Tōru,” you scolded, crossing your arm across your chest. You choke on your words before answering, “I’m tired, not mad.”

Oikawa holds his breath and continues to look at you as you continue to make that sullen look. He doesn’t believe you. The sight of you with defeat in your expression makes his heart break. He notices your bruised wrist, still purple and blue, and imagines it probably hurts after Ushijima grabbed it. Then he wonders if he could have done something better to help you in that situation. Even that night back at the club still haunts him. If only he’d answered his phone when you needed him the most then maybe things would be different than now. He can’t stand it. He can't stand that Iwaizumi was there to help you instead. And he's not stupid, he knows you like Iwaizumi. He wasn't blind when he saw you kiss him at the restaurant. Oikawa didn’t know why, but something stirred him that he never realized before and it became very unsettling.

You lay the gauze over the wound and tape it down.

“How’s your hand?” you mumble, checking if the ice pack he’s holding to his fist has subsided any bruising your swelling. The bruising was already darker by the time you got to his apartment and it definitely terrified you.

“It’s fine,” he replies.

At this point, you’ve turned away and started to clean up. There isn’t a lot of blood, but enough to make shivers go down your spine as the image of Ushijima’s fist colliding with Oikawa’s face flashes through your head.

You feel your breathing heave as you try to collect yourself from breaking down in front of Oikawa. But something stops you. Instead of your usual hiding, you feel yourself let go and come undone. One small tear rolls down your cheek.

And then another. And then another. And then another. Until you can’t urge yourself to stop them anymore.

Oikawa freezes as he hears you sniffling. This time you don’t hide behind your wide smile. This time you’re actually crying and honestly he doesn’t know what to do. His intention wasn’t to make you cry, he wanted to protect you. And now he feels guilty for even putting you in this position.

“I’m sorry,” you pant, your voice broken by stifled breaths. “It’s all my fault you got hurt. I should’ve never gone to that stupid dinner.”

There’s this nagging feeling in his head pleading to comfort you. To hug you, to tell you it’s not your fault. His consciousness is screaming at him to do something to help as he watched you come undone in front of him. But why is he so afraid to?

“You were right, you’ve always been right,” you continue. “I’m so so sorry Tōru.”

You pause wiping the tears away that tracked down your face feeling awkward from exposing your vulnerable side to Oikawa. Tearing your eyes away from the first aid kit, you turn to look at Oikawa. There’s pity written all over his face. Your hands curl into fists.

It’s painfully tense as Oikawa attempts to muster up the courage to stand up to comfort you. He doesn’t want to regret his decision but he still hesitates, considering you’re now gazing at him.

“I-- I just,” you stutter, partially because you want to fill the awkward silence someway, and partially because you’re worried you’ve scared him. “I was scared…”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

Your heart feels like it’s in throbbing pain under Oikawa’s gaze.

His stomach clenches as you revert to silence.

Suddenly you hear the front door unlock and Iwaizumi call out that he's arrived. You feel your face burn up as you revert eye contact and lean on the counter to see Iwaizumi in the doorway of the bathroom.

“What the fuck happened,” he yells, visibly unamused that you both ditched him at a restaurant with people he didn’t know. You look at him with glazed eyes unable to utter a single word then that’s when he notices Oikawa’s appearance. “Shit.”

Oikawa’s face turns in a smirk. “You should have seen the other guy.”

“I did!” He protests. “Not even a scratch compared to you. You’re fucking stupid.”

"He hurt Y/N," Oikawa protest.

Iwaizumi's eyes widened looking towards you.

"He didn't hurt me," you reassure. "He just grabbed my bruised wrist."

Iwaizumi sighs, shaking his head. "You have to stop running off like that."

Oikawa watches the intimate interaction of indescribable energy or chemistry that lingers in the air between the two of you. He didn’t like it. Not even one bit.

[manie-sans-delire-x]

I'm sorry but there is evidence of Depp's violence, one of them domestic, outside of his relationship with Amber, in addition to him being intoxicated and high inappropriately for a long time now. Since Heard is his most recent serious relationship, his past domestic history is kind of a moot point. Not to mention how the court has already found sufficient evidence of 12 cases of abuse prior to this defamation case. Oh, but Amber must've bribed the judge, right? He believed her because she's a woman, right?

I also think it's sad that you can say "Depp may have lied about his injury to defend amber as abuse victims tend to do" and then say "Why did amber not record the abuse/go to a doctor after the rape?". Please tell me you can see your double standards (not to mention how she HAS taken photos, such as her bruising, with everyone strawmanning saying it's photoshop, makeup, nail polish, fucking botox... They don't believe women.) Depp has told multiple people, not just the doctors, that he cut his own finger off. Let's say he did it to lay low as you say, there's still proof, CE included, that amber had gashes from her wrists to elbows and feet, and Depp may have hidden the abuse from others but somehow Amber couldn't have done that? Does that really make sense to you? She has medical documents. But oh they're probably fake, right? +All of Amber's past spouses/partners speak highly of her as well, or at least don't say anything against her. They're not really comparable considering how publicized Depp's relationships are compared to Amber's, though.

Depp's own witnesses have testified against him (albeit kind of unknowingly) declaring abuse. If you're following the case closely you'll know how the trial is happening in virginia and not cali and why this is the case, and how the psychiatrist that assessed Amber is complete BS and not even board certified, about the damning info about his lawyer, about the bot accounts, about the kind of people Depp is friends with... does none of that scream shady to you, but Heard not having full capital E Evidence makes you think Depp is innocent?

I'm not saying Amber is an angel, I'm sure she had her mistakes, but if I had to believe anyone it wouldn't be the middle aged man with substance issues that has married a woman half her age, fantasized openly about burning and then raping the corpse of the said woman, has dated a teenager, and one that laughs at amber's face and acts like a fucking baby in court.

Actually, fuck that. Not to sound like a radfem, but at this point I don't care if Depp's is innocent or not. What his actions are leading to is inherently harmful to me and my life as a woman. I'm no activist, I've never donated a nickel to a charity in my life, but this trial has taught me a lot, and it's that yes all men. The entire thing is a fucking circus show with the abused woman as the jester; men may think she's entertaining and they're sooo funny but I'm about to pull an Aileen Wuornos and be fucking hilarious. It's self preservation at this point.

Oh ok, idk I haven't heard of previous DV but I wouldn't be very surprised, you might be right about that. I know he's attacked paparazzi before, but many celebs do, understandably. Depp is definitely an alcoholic and drug addict, but that doesn't mean he's an abuser. Heard is undeniably an alcoholic as well. I wouldn't say his past domestic history is moot at all, past behavior is the best indicator of future behavior, its very telling. Yeah I've only recently heard about the 12 previous abuses, and you're right, that is a big point for Heard. I hope they discuss it in this defamation trial. I have no idea what the details of that are, so I cant say anything there.

Heard was clearly in the habit of taking pictures of any wounds, and constantly recording, she made a point of it, so no I don't think its a double standard to ask, well why not the time when it was most severe? Sure, she could have simply been too traumatized to think clearly like that, and thats certainly possible and understandable. It could also just mean it didnt happen. If the vaginal injuries that she said occurred occurred, she definitely would have needed to go to a hospital. And again, why was abuse not caught on tape when she secretly recorded so often? Hm...I've heard all the opposite of that- that Heard's exs talk badly about her. I hate how hard it is to know what the truth is... Ultimately only Depp and Heard will ever know the truth. The experts keep saying her wounds were faked, and what basis do I have to argue against that, I don't fucking know anything. I can't just assume they're wrong because I want them to be or don't like their professional opinion. Pros can absolutely be wrong or lie though, I understand your doubt. From what Ive heard no one has ever seen wounds on Heard...

Uh, I haven't heard a single of Depp's witnesses say basically anything against him. All of them speak quite highly of him. I'll look that up later, since of course I haven't watched every bit of the trial. Oh, I didn't know that about Virginia. Why is it not set in Cali? If thats true, wtf, I dont understand how the courts would let a uncertified person give professional testimony? I definitely think it's sketchy that Depp is friends with Marilyn Manson, and that Manson also recently sued his ex, who claimed abuse, for defamation. That's a red flag, I agree, and its one of the reasons why I swung over to Heard's side for a while. But still, legally speaking, that is not any evidence of guilt.

Heard also has substance abuse issues, but yeah I agree that dating someone half your age is another red flag. And yeah the raping the corpse text was vile, but again, either of these things are a crime. And as much as it suggests Depp being abusive or misogynistic, it could also be seen as an abuse victim (who is prob drunk/high) showing anger and resentment about his abuser/toxic relationship to a friend. Same with how he acts in court, I could see a victim being so sick of the manipulation, and angry, that they just laugh at the absurdity of the blatant lies. Just saying, its possible. I personally find that dubious as well though. From what I've seen he's been fairly respectful throughout the trial though. Snarky sometimes, but I don't hold that against him. Anyone would in that situation, especially with a lawyer like Mr. Rottenborn. I also admit that I find him witty and charming, even endearing, even wise, his subtle insults are undeniably funny, so yeah that definitely makes me and other people biased and favored to him. Unfortunately Heard simply does not have that social power.

I feel your pain, this is the reason why I sometimes feel genuinely emotionally/mentally impacted by this case. I've always been a fan of Depp as an actor, and as a person. I would have considered him a celebrity crush, which is rare since usually I give zero shits about any celebrity. Yet again, another man, stranger as he is, may have betrayed my affection, admiration, and general trust in the most disgusting manner. Makes me want to kill him too. No matter what happens in this trial, the doubt will always be there now, and I'll never see Depp the same way again. And jesus christ, if Heard has been truthful- how horrid, how evil, how sickening this whole thing is for a victim. Its enough to make you lose all faith in society, humanity, lose all hope for women ever being free.

[azzydoesntexist]

I made a playlist! Its loooong and has almost everyone i could think of! Let me know your thoughts <3

List of songs/people under the cut

Edge of Dawn - Amalee

Black Eagles: Trouble - Valerie Broussord

Edlegard: Monster - Crashing Atlas

Hubert: Reaper - Glaceo

Ferdinand: Tomorrow - SR71

Dorothea: Shangri-La - Caitlyn Scarlett

Bernadetta: Born Sad - Mary Lambert

Petra: Finish Line - He is We

Caspar: Call me fighter - matt beilis

Linhardt: Amber - 311

Crimson Flower: Jericho - Celdweller

--

Blue Lions: Panic Room - Au/Ra

Dimitri: It Knows Me - Avi

Dedue: Dragons - Built By Titans

Felix: Playing God - Paramore

Ashe: Heroes - Emmy Curie

Sylvain: Sky Full Of Song - Florence & the Machine

Ingrid: Handmaid - Xenen

Mercedes: Stand In The Light - Brody Ray

Annette: Climb Higher - PinkZebra

Azure Moon: Heirloom - Sleeping At Last

--

Golden Deer: Freaks Like Us - Sleeping Wolf

Claude: Run - One Republic

Hilda: Shake It Off - Taylor Swift

Lorenz: Prodigal Son - Rationale

Lysthiea: Future Me - Echosmith

Ignatz: Run Boy Run - Wood Kid

Ralpheal: From The Heart - Hoobastank

Marianne: Everything Makes Me Sad - SAINTE

Leonie: Keep Fighting - FireFlight

Verdent Wind: Into The Wild - Connel Cruise

--

Abyss: Can't Go To Hell - Sin Shake Sin

Ashen Wolves: Alarm - Score

Yuri: Monet Issues - Chase Petra

Hapi: Like That - Bea Miller

Constance: Talk Too Much - Coin

Balthus: Botton Is A Rock - Mother Mother

Alfreic: Cruel - Everlove

Cindered Shadows: Breath Of Life - Florence & the Machine

--

Church Of Serios: Come With Me - Chxlotte

Catherine: Paper Crown - Kevin Krust

Shamir: Gasoline - Halsey

Cyril: Let Me Down Slowly - Alec Benjamin

Alois: Golden - Harry Styles

Gilbert: Just Dont Care - Matt Maeson

Hannamen: Bad Habit - Ben Platt

Manuela: Cartoons & Vodka - Jinx Monsoon

Silver Snow: Battle Scars Acoustic - Paradise Fears

--

Saints: Trees - The Oh Hellos

Rhea/Serios: Plenty - Aeseaes

Seteth/Cichol: Bartholomew - The Silent Comedy

Flayn/Cethleann: The Glow - Shannon Saunders

Indech: Chasing Twister - Delta Rea

Macuil: Feel Good - Weathers

Aubin: Make Them Hear You - nine

Chevalier: Legacy - Lost Star

Noa: Pretty Pills for Broken Hearts - Cloudy June

Timotheos: Narcissistic Cannible - Early Rise

Sothis: Legends Never Die - Ty Brown

--

Agarthians: Hush - One True God

Solon: Violence Fetish - Disturbed

Thales: Long Forgotton Sons - Rise Against

Kronya: Warpath - Tim Halpern

Cornelia: Alpha - Little Destroyer

Myson: Me and Mine - The Brothers Bright

--

(Elites)

Nemisis: Woke Up A Rebel - Ruebens and the Dark

Blaiddyd: Run Wild - Laney Jones

Fraldarious: Dare Ye Cry Mercy - Sirena

Dominic: Dawn - Echo Black

Daphnel: Empire - Rockit Gaming

Charon: Savage Daughter - Sarah Hester Ross

Lamaine: Dragons Accoustic - Annelle Staal

Gautier: Soldier - Fleurie

Gloucester: Crooked Ways - Motion City Soundtrack

Goneril: Kangaroo Court - Capital Cities

Riegen: The Darker The Weather/The Better The Man - Missio

Maurice: Twisted - Missio

--

(Other)

Jeralt: Trust - half/alive

Byleth F: Valley Of The Dolls - Marina

Byleth M: Wrong Side Of History - Red Vox

Anna: Rich Girl - Gwen Stefani

Jeritza: Just Did A Bad Thing - Bill Wurtz

Sitri: Solitude - Volhore

[korobizaka]

the most annoying thing about the whole depp situation thing is that the minute that you express that you support amber its “wHaT aBouT maLE vicTUIMS?!?!?!”

as if these people even care about women victims anyways LMAO? do they care that josh brolin was arrested for domestic assault against diane lane?? do they care that pam anderson was beat by tommy lee while carrying her infant child, or are they the kind of people who make fun of her and call her a bimbo?

and then do these people actually CARE about men who step up about their abuse?? did they support terry crews and brandon fraser or mock them? do they condem and spew the same vitriol they did to amber heard as they did to kevin spacey, who assaulted and raped minors?? or do they are like “oh yeah he suckss!! but his acting is still amazing i love his movies!!!” and keep him up on this pedestal? do they care that one supporter of depp, emma roberts, was arrested herself for domestic abuse of evan peters?

i believe men can be victims of domestic abuse of course! i believe ioan gruffudd and his girlfriend were harassed by his abusive ex-wife! i believe women can be abusers and perpetrators of assault! another VOCAL supporter of depp is naomi campbell who has been accused of assault 11 times, and convicted on 4 of those occasions! depp truly has some upstanding people who are supporting him, and are totally not trying to uphold this man who is guilty of violence so their own histories can be whitewashed :)

i dont think i need to really go into detail about how fucking stupid you all are to prop up ONE chopped up audio file leaked by depp’s lawyer to youtuber as DEFINITIVE evidence that amber was the abusive one. like im sorry but if you still come to that conclusion despite all evidence, you are deeply stupid. a woman who is having a breakdown after being abused for years, trying to get her husband sober and failing. ignore all the context of a woman being raped and abused by the man she loves for years for the GOTCHA soundbite. you are the teacher who punishes the child who punches back after being abused by bullies for years. that is not “mutual bullying” like people are trying to frame the situation as “mutual abuse” now.

amber heard was abused by depp, and documented all of this. she has SO much more evidence than most abuse victims. what more would you need to prove that she was a victim? a video of her getting RAPED and BEAT? and what do you think an abusive man would do if he found his victim to be recording this? she documented everything and divorced him before #metoo even began. so how on earth would it be possible for her to have developed this elaborate take down prior to the marriage BEFORE THE MOVEMENT EVEN EXISTED?

you all are so desperate to perpetuate the misogynistic idea of a devious, evil woman manipulating poor old beloved actor that you don’t see how stupid your whole argument is. studios were more than willing to cast him until he stupidly sued the sun in the first place and lost his court case. he even got his GLOWING endorsement from jk rowling right beforehand LMAO. amber heard did NOT damage his career, he did by being drunk and unprofessional.

have you partaken in the same vile, vitriolic hate campaigns against MALE abusers, or did you only keep this energy for amber heard?

[sunlightdances]

Two Hearts on Fire

Title: Two Hearts on Fire Author: Katie @sunlightdances​ Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female Reader Prompt: “If you need my shoulder, or my hand, or a hug-” Rating/genre/warnings: PG-13. Mentions of alcohol, canon-typical violence, and swearing. Summary: 3 times Dean was there for you when you needed it + 1 time you were able to repay the favor. Disclaimer: I don’t own Supernatural or Dean Winchester. Please don’t repost my work on any other sites without my written permission! Reblogs are encouraged! Please, please, please reblog creators’ work if you like it. Likes are amazing and beautiful, but sharing your favorite work has such a big impact and really makes my day. Author’s Note: I reference the Reader’s military history only because I just rewatched Generation Kill and have First Recon on the brain. I’m aware that the Marines don’t allow women into that Battalion, but let’s just pretend they do.

Links to my full masterlist can be found on my blog!

One.

You’re in a bar, the kind your mother always told you to stay away from, but you’re a little drunk, a little reckless, and a lot sad.

You concentrate on the amber liquid swirling in the glass in front of you, the sounds of the jukebox in the corner as some old, sad country song plays, and the way the world is just a little fuzzy at the edges.

Someone sits down next to you.

Not too close, but close enough that you can smell the musky scent of his cologne, and something sharp and metallic underneath. He’s tall. Broad. He glances at you, double takes. You mentally roll your eyes, preparing yourself for the inevitable pick-up line, but it never comes.

He drinks slowly, like you are. He doesn’t say anything, just a few murmured words to the bartender when he wants another glass.

He doesn’t even look at you, really, until someone sits down on your other side. Too close. Wandering eyes. Your shoulders tense. You prepare yourself for the inevitable line - what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this, or some similar variation, but it doesn’t come.

Instead, a hand, low on your hip, a threatening voice in your ear.

“One wrong move and I’ll kill you and the girl my friend over there just met in front of this entire bar,” he says, and you struggle to keep your face neutral as you look across the bar, a girl who can’t be older than nineteen giggling as a man twice her age whispers to her, his eyes locked on you.

“What are you?” You ask conversationally, taking another sip of whiskey.

“Like you don’t know.”

“I’m not hunting you.” You tell him, and his grip on you falters. It’s the truth - you’re a hunter, but you’re not hunting. Not tonight, anyway. You would laugh if you weren’t in a potentially life threatening situation - it figures the one night you want to take a break and relax, you end up mixed up in someone else’s hunt.

“What the fuck are you talking about? We scented you outside--”

“She might not be hunting, but we are.” The man on the other side of you speaks up, and you glance at him sharply, wondering how much of this entire exchange he heard. He tilts his head in the direction of the door. Another man dressed similarly in plaid and jeans stands there, twirling a knife in his hands, eyes hard.

“What the hell is this,” the man at your back growls.

“You’ve been terrorizing this town long enough. Time for your friend and you to eat one.” The man says, gulping the last bit of his drink, before standing and facing the two of you.

Despite yourself, your pulse starts to race. This isn’t ideal - a threat at your back where you’re vulnerable, a girl who has no idea what she’s walked into across the bar, probably close to being dinner for the men you’ve figured out are werewolves.

“Seems like a lose-lose,” you say casually, making eye contact with the hunter in front of you, trying like hell to figure out his next move.

The air is tense, and almost as if you’ve practiced it before, a wink from the hunter is your cue to elbow your assailant in the ribs hard, stomping on his feet at the same time.

You duck, just in time for the hunter to sucker punch the wolf with a hard left hook, his grip loosening enough for you to get out of the way. The man across the bar growls loud enough for you to hear, and you only hesitate for a half second before you’re moving, him meeting you halfway.

The other patrons are scrambling, the bartender yelling, but you ignore it all, concentrating with all your might on subduing him enough to get yourself and this innocent girl out of the bar.

You dodge a few swipes, alarmed when you see his claws out, and you curse under your breath, your reflexes slowed by alcohol just a bit, enough to make you nervous. The fight closer to the bar continues, and just as you think you’re about to bite it, another hand grips your shoulder, shoving you aside in time for you to regain your footing.

The two werewolves fully engaged, you grab the young girl’s arm, her eyes wide and filled with tears. You drag her outside, ignoring the fight behind you as people spill out of the bar, the bartender yelling that he’s called the police.

“Listen to me. You need to get on a bus, and get the hell out of town. Don’t come back for a week or two, maybe longer.” You find your wallet, shoving a few bills in her hand. She just stares at you. “Do you understand? Go!”

She nods frantically, taking the money and turning before running down the street.

Sighing, you turn back towards the bar, cracking your knuckles. Before you can do anything else, the noise stops, and the door opens. The hunter who had been with you at the bar looks around quickly before his eyes land on you.

“You okay?” He asks, gruff.

“Fine.”

“They’re dead,” he says bluntly. “Knocked the bartender out long enough to get them outside. The police are on their way, though.”

You nod. “Need help with the bodies?”

He considers it, but shakes his head slowly. “We got this one.” He tilts his head, “You really weren’t after them?”

You grit your teeth. “It’s my night off.”

He stiffens. “We don’t get nights off.”

You roll your eyes. “Well, whatever. Thanks for your help, but I--” really, really don’t need this tonight, you think, but decide just to stop talking. “I have to go.”

When the other hunter comes out of the bar and stands there, tall and imposing, you realize who they are. And you definitely don’t need to get involved in whatever shit the Winchesters are dealing with these days.

“Good luck,” you say, waving a hand nonchalantly before heading out to your car, passing the infamous black Impala on your way. You’d laugh if you weren’t so depressed.

They’re still there watching you when you glance in your rearview as you drive away.

Two.

“Any day now, Claire,” you say through grit teeth as you shove all your body weight against the closed door at your back, trying like hell to keep this angry spirit out, though a voice in the back of your head tells you it could just give up and go right through the wall.

“Going as fast as I can!” The younger girl tells you, and finally, finally the lighter in her hand whooshes to life, the canvas in her other hand lighting quickly.

The lights flicker like mad as the spirit screams, and then it’s all quiet, and you slump against the door, nodding at Claire across from you. “Good job, kiddo.”

Footsteps on the stairs startle you, as does the doorknob rattling.

“Shit, not again,” Claire swears, and then the unmistakable voice of Dean Winchester is on the other side of the door.

“Claire, open up!”

“Oh, come on…” You groan, pulling away from the door so you can open it. Yanking the door open, you’re greeted with Dean’s surprised expression.

“Oh.”

“What are you doing here?!” Claire nearly wails, clearly upset. “I told Jody I had a partner for this one, I had it under control!”

Dean, to his credit, looks a little chagrined. “She just said--”

“That I need a babysitter?”

You look back and forth between them, really not wanting to get in between whatever pseudo-family drama is brewing here.

“I think that’s my cue,” you say quietly. “So I’m just gonna--”

“How come she doesn’t get yelled at?” Claire asks, and you’re suddenly reminded about how young she is.

Dean snorts. “Because she’s a grown ass woman, and Jody didn’t send us here to yell at her.” He looks over at you, a smirk barely repressed.

You roll your eyes. “I don’t really do family drama, so if you’ll excuse me--”

“Wait!” Claire calls, and when you turn around, she’s already there throwing her arms around your shoulders, hugging you close. You stiffen. You’re not used to this affection - the way the young hunter is still so full of life and enthusiasm… it’s the way you remember being a long, long time ago. “Thank you,” she whispers before letting you go.

Head down, you smile gently. “No problem, kiddo. Stay out of trouble.”

You shrug past Dean Winchester in the doorway, his impossibly imposing figure making it hard to get by without brushing against him a little, and you scowl when he grins at you. Antagonizing little shit, you think, but you’re smiling a little too.

He finds you later at the 24-hour diner down the street, like you suspected he would.

A cup of steaming coffee is set down in front of you, and then he’s there, like he’s been conjured out of thin air.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

You hum in agreement.

“You don’t say much, do you?” He asks, but it’s not tinged with annoyance or mocking like you’d expect.

“I don’t know you. What do you want, my life story?”

He shrugs. “Your name would be a start.” He winces at himself, “that sounded like a line. Not how I meant it.” He takes a sip of his own coffee. “Claire talks about you like you’re old friends.”

You meet his eyes. “She’s a good kid.”

He nods. “I know she is. Just gets in over her head sometimes.”

You’re both quiet for a second. You have purposefully isolated yourself from anyone else in the hunting community because you’ve had enough camaraderie to last a lifetime. It never left you with anything but a broken spirit. Why Dean Winchester thinks he’s going to change that, you have no idea, but you suppose you can’t fault him.

You’ve heard all about him - the most surprising thing (heard from Claire and from Jody) being the way he seems to adopt every single person he meets. Everyone becomes part of the family whether he wants them to or not.

You tell him your name.

He frowns. “Why do I know that name?”

You tense up again, and he looks at you dead in the eyes, really looks at you.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“You’ll figure it out eventually,” you sigh. “I was in the Marines. First Recon. I was a medic, and it was a total shit show. When I came back, I wasn’t the same person. I couldn’t fathom working at an office or some other shitty job. I met a friend of a friend who had a connection to hunting. Really hush hush. I had the skills. They needed help. The end.”

He looks surprised, but he regains his composure quickly. “And the friends?”

Your hard stare meets his. “Gone.”

He doesn’t press you. Doesn’t ask you who they were or what happened, he just takes the information for what it is - a story a thousand hunters have about a hunt gone wrong and an accident. No one’s fault, except you had your share of not-your-fault incidents in Iraq that still led to your friends dying. You were tired of it.

“Well. If you ever need any help or get in a pinch, we’re happy to help.” He says.

You know you won’t take him up on it. By the cautious look in his eyes, you think he knows that too. Still, it’s the thought that counts.

After he leaves, a waitress slides a slice of pie in front of you.

Confused, you look up, “I didn’t order this.”

“Your friend did.” She says, winking.

Dean Winchester, you think, the exact sort of friend I don’t need.

Three.

You’re pretty sure this is it.

There’s a blade at your throat, and the only reason you aren’t already dead is because the fucking vampires can’t stop arguing with each other.

You wonder if you’ll see your guys again in heaven, if that’s where you end up. Judging by the amount of civilian death you saw in Iraq, you’re not so sure. You picture the men you couldn’t save, the blood that you swear still stains your hands, and think that it’ll be nice to see them again. If only so you can properly repent.

You wonder if your hunter friends will be there too.

You’re distracted from your admittedly morbid thoughts by a knock on the door. It’s loud.

The vampires stop.

“Who is knocking?”

The other one literally shrugs. You roll your eyes. Is this a buddy comedy or a hunt?

One vamp tiptoes close to the door, and before they can do anything, the door flies open, splinters raining down, and the vamp is nailed in the face with the door, falling to the floor unconscious.

“Sorry to barge in,” Dean says. “You’ve got something I want.”

You snort, and have to laugh when you can see Sam Winchester over Dean’s shoulder rolling his eyes.

“What is this, SVU?”

“A little gratitude would be nice.” Dean says, frowning.

The vamp still holding a blade to your throat makes a choked noise. “Excuse me?!”

Dean’s eyes flick to his. The green in his eyes goes from warm to icy in a second. “Sorry, am I keeping you from something?”

“One more step and the girl dies.”

Sam steps into the room and smiles sunnily at you. “I feel like we’ve done this before.”

“Seems familiar, yeah.” You reply.

“Enough!” The blade digs into your throat.

The bickering and bantering has given you more than enough time to saw through the bindings on your wrist, but you’re in no hurry to give away the game. You feel a trickle of blood run down your neck and see Dean’s eyes narrow in on the spot. You just hope he keeps his cool long enough for you to work your way out of this.

“Let her go.” Sam says coolly.

“I don’t think so. Just to get my head chopped off?”

“Seems like a you problem.” Dean says.

“Boys, it’s been fun. But I have to go.” You say, seconds before you rear back, headbutting the vamp behind you. He drops the knife, sending it clattering to the ground, and you’re out of your seat to throw a hard right hook before he can react.

Sam and Dean react quickly, brandishing machetes and taking care of business while you check the other rooms in the house to make sure you’re alone.

Meeting back in the kitchen, you’re already recovering your bag that was taken from you and digging through it for your aid kit.

“How’d you do that?” Sam asks quietly. His eyes stray down to your neck as you wince, pressing a pad of gauze to your wound. “Get out of the ropes, I mean.”

You take out a long bandage, winding it around your neck. Without prompting, Sam steps closer and takes the loose end, helping you tuck it in where you can’t see.

“Thanks,” you say, distracted. “I keep a knife taped to my forearm,” you say. “Took forever to get it loose, but they didn’t check before they tied me up.”

Sam nods. Dean walks in a second later, eyes narrowing at the point where you and Sam are touching. You’d roll your eyes if you weren’t trying to make sure you don’t bleed to death.

“Need stitches?” His voice is gruff.

You shake your head. “No. Should be fine. Just a graze.”

He nods.

“How’d you know I was here?”

“Jody called. Said you were supposed to meet up and you never showed. Tracked you down from there.”

Digging through your bag one more time, you find your phone. “Feels like this is beginning to be a habit. You might as well put your numbers in.”

Dean looks like he wants to make a smart remark, but he doesn’t. You’re grateful. “Are you good?” He asks, eyes on your neck again.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t get all emotional or anything.” He teases, and you roll your eyes yet again.

“Asshole.” You murmur, but there’s no heat behind it. “I have to go.”

They give you a ride back to the rest stop where the vamps ambushed you. You’re so tired you wonder if you shouldn’t take them up on the offer to keep you company, but then the faces of all the friends you’ve lost swim in front of you, and you remember why you can’t get close to them.

The Winchesters are too much trouble, even for you.

+1

You keep dreaming that your phone is ringing.

You wake up to someone pounding on your door, your heart racing, and you grip your gun tight as you make your way to the door.

“Open up!” A gruff voice demands, and your shoulders slump.

“Christ,” you mutter. Opening the door, you’re greeted with a pale and shaken Dean, Sam’s arm slung over his shoulder. “What the fuck happened?”

“Stabbed,” he says in a rush. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Get him inside and on the bed.” You say quickly, darting to the bathroom to dig out the med kit you keep fully stocked but luckily haven’t had to use since Iraq.

Back in your bedroom, Sam is groaning, and Dean is muttering platitudes.

“Sam? Sam, hey.” You say, hovering over him. “Look at me, Sam.” He meets your eyes. Luckily his pupils are both the same size, and you smile at him. “There you are. Hi, Sam. You’re going to be okay.”

Dean hovers, and you try to ignore the feeling of his eyes on you as you work.

“I’ve got to get the shirt off,” you tell Sam. “Don’t read anything into it.”

He smiles despite the pain he’s clearly in.

“Sam, can you breathe okay?”

He doesn’t answer. He’s writhing a little, and you force yourself to concentrate.

“Sam,” you repeat, more forcefully, trying to get his focus. “Can you breathe?”

“Yeah, I can breathe. Jesus Christ.”

“Good, that’s good. You’re going to be okay, Sam.”

The wound isn’t too deep. Missed anything important. You relay the information to Dean, who settles a little, perched on the side of the bed as you begin cleaning Sam up.

“Stop squirming,” you chide softly. “Dean, grab his hand or something. He needs to stop moving so I can stitch him.”

The process of cleaning him up and getting him stitched is almost robotic. You can’t count how many times you’ve had to do this in the Marines. You just pray that this time ends better than some of the others.

“Sam, can you squeeze my hand?” You ask, stopping what you’re doing and reaching for the hand that’s not currently being held by Dean. He squeezes tightly. “There you go,” You soothe. “Gonna have a scar, Sammy. I’ve been told women like that sort of thing.”

“Shut up,” he mutters, but he’s smiling when you look up. “Fuck, that hurts.”

“Sorry,” you say, pulling the last stitch and tying it off as quickly as you can. “You have to stay put for a while, okay?”

“I was going to run a marathon.” He deadpans.

You chuckle and meet Dean’s eyes. He’s not smiling, not even a hint of his lips twitching, and you start to panic that he might be hurt too before he lets go of Sam’s hand and heads towards your kitchen.

Finishing up with Sam, you tell him to rest and that you’ll check on him in a few minutes. He squeezes your hand again, and then you head to check on his brother.

A glass clinking draws your attention to the kitchen table. Dean’s found your whiskey stash.

“Dean?”

He looks up. “Sorry for barging in here like this.”

You shake your head. “Don’t be.” Sitting across from him, you watch him carefully. “He’s going to be okay.”

Dean takes a deep breath. “I panicked. I’ve stitched him a million times, but he was bleeding so much-- I didn’t know what else to do.”

“That’s okay, Dean.” A beat, and then you add, ““If you need my shoulder, or my hand, or a hug-”

He lets out a watery laugh. “Shut up.”

You grin, plucking the glass from his hand and taking a sip.

“You don’t do hugs.” He adds.

You shrug. “I don’t know. I might, for you.”

His eyes are dark when they meet yours. “I’m really glad I met you,” he says softly.

It sounds crazy, but you think you can literally feel some of the darkness that’s hovered over you for years starting to clear. “I’m glad I met you too.” You reply, just as quiet, the two of you sharing the same glass of whiskey until it’s gone.

Maybe this is how you find your peace. Maybe you let these two guys in, let them be there for you in a way you’ve rarely let other people.

Maybe there’s something more here than just you watching your own back at every turn.

Later, when the two of you are squeezed onto your bed on either side of Sam, trying to catch a few hours of sleep while keeping an eye on him, you meet Dean’s eyes again. Wordlessly, his hand reaches for yours and gives it a squeeze.

You don’t let go, and neither does he.

You finally fall asleep, your heart already feeling lighter.

For the first time in almost a decade, you have no nightmares.

[xxisxxisxxis]

Gateway Drug | Part Eighty-Seven

Words: 4.5k

Warning(s): explicit language, sexual situations, drug abuse, violence

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NIKKI

"Nikki, what the hell are you doing?" Vivian asks me as we walk down the stairs of the law firm. 

"I've broken every fuckin' vow except 'till death do us part' and I'll be fucked to hell if we stuck it out and stayed with each other after the worst bullshit just to fucking divorce." I state and she stays quiet for a moment before I'm stumbling back when she halts and snatches away from me, glaring up at me. 

"What if I want a divorce?" She asks. 

"I'd tell you you're full of shit." I snap and she raises a brow and crosses her arms. 

"Then what the hell was the point of hounding me for a divorce just to do this?!" She barks at me. 

"To prove a point I guess, I don't fucking know." I admit. 

"To prove a point?! What point were you trying to prove?! That even when we're not together you still have the control in the relationship?!" She yells.

"I don't have any fucking control in this relationship, are you fucking me?! I haven't had any control since day fucking one, Vivian!" 

"Are you fucking serious?!" She screams at me, frustration all over her face. "You have always had control, Nikki, trust me, I know, I'm the one that had to lay down and take your bullshit and give up what I wanted to do just so you'd feel in control!"

"I told you to go to fucking New York to go to school, did I not? What the hell did you do? You stayed! You can't get pissed at me for not giving you what you supposedly think I promised you!" 

"No, Nikki, I'm not pissed at you for not giving me what you promised--I'm pissed because you've given me years of fucked up shit that was never supposed to even be a part of the plan!" She has tears in her eyes, her voice shaking…

She's right. I'm not going to tell her she's wrong…

I sigh and rub the back of my neck, exhaling, as she wipes her eyes. 

"...Look, me and the guys are going to a different rehab, and I'll actually stick with it, and I want to work this out." I tell her, honestly. "I just don't know how to come back from the shit we've done to each other, Viv, but if we can figure out how, then I wanna do it." 

She doesn't say anything, looking at me with her pretty green eyes, nodding slightly. 

I didn't realize that once we agreed to work on our marriage, that all hell would break loose in the midst of repairing the damage. 

Me and the guys, except Mick, were sent to another rehab because the first one was too obnoxious, and by the second one, we were actually getting somewhere with each other as a band and individually, including the people closest to us in our lives. For me, that was Vivian.

My leg can't stop shaking as I repeatedly tap my foot, waiting for my counselor to get in and meet Vivian for the first time.

I exhale and glance at her, her red hair curled, reaching just over her boobs, long legs taken up by black stockings that have lace trim mid-thigh, just peeking out from under her black dress, black heels tapping quietly on the floor, her dark red nails standing out against the cover of the shitty crossword she's flipping through. Her perfume has the whole little area she's in smelling good and her red lips rub together for a moment as she doesn't even notice me staring at her. 

It's a Saturday and I'm assuming she's going out with Sharise or something when she leaves here, or she dressed like this to torture me, knowing I haven't had sex in nearly two months, starting in Japan back in December, and my right hand is my best friend currently. 

My fucking balls hurt as she shifts her legs, uncrossing them to cross them the opposite, now. 

If it were up to me they'd be wide open and either around my hips or my head. 

I keep my hand pressed to my lips, resting my elbow on the arm of the chair, focused on her.

I slide down in my chair a little to try to see what kind of panties she's wearing--if she's wearing any at all. 

It wouldn't surprise me if she's not wearing any at all. Just to fuck with my head like she loves to do. 

"Take a picture and it'll last longer." She tells me flatly, not taking her eyes off the book. 

"I would if I had a camera." I don't even deny staring at her and she flicks her gaze to me. "Or a video camera. That'd be better." I add. 

"Ha. Ha." She sarcastically lets out and I smirk, watching her get up to grab her purse from the empty chair adjacent to me, leaning down to dig through it. 

It takes everything in my power not to get behind her, bend her over it, slide her panties to the side and start poun--

"We're here to start the process of fixing things between us and you're here only focused on sex." She states and I snap out of it. 

"No, I'm not." I argue, furrowing my brows. 

"Nikki, I know when you're picturing having sex with me." 

"I'm always picturing having sex with you." I state. "And you know exactly what you're doing." 

The faintest, smallest little grin comes to her lips as she goes to sit down again. 

"I don't know what you're talking about." She mumbles and I look at her. 

"You're cruel." I mumble and she rolls her eyes. 

"Oh, whatever." She replies. 

"You look hot." 

"Shut up." 

"We can be done in ten seconds." I say next and she goes red. 

"Stop, Nikki!" She scolds me.

"C'mon, Viv, we've never fucked on a desk before." I point out. 

"We've broken into Doc's office just to mess around on his desk, Nikki." She reminds me. 

"Well, we've never fucked on a therapist's desk, so c'mon, it'll be quick."

"I--" she starts laughing, not believing me, "--am not having sex in a rehab facility. I'm not that horny." 

"So you admit you are horny to some degree, though." I say and she rolls her eyes. 

"Shut up."

"Just flash me or something." 

"Nikki."

"Please?"

"You're so weird." She ignores my request while I'm pinching the bridge of my nose. 

"I'm in pain, Vivian." I say next, groaning, exaggerating. 

"Sounds like a personal problem." 

"Fuck." I lean my head back, rubbing my face. 

The door opens and my counselor comes in, smiling at us. 

"Sorry, I'm late." She says, stepping to Vivian, extending her hand. "I have heard lots about you, I'm Amber." 

"Vivian. It's nice to meet you." Vivian replies, smiling her shiny smile that should win her an Oscar because she wears it so well even when she's fucking miserable--I obviously know from experience. 

Amber sits behind her desk as Vivian sits back down in the chair, and she looks up from her paperwork at us, raising her brows. 

"If we're going to start this grueling process, I highly suggest you two get comfortable being within three feet of each other, again." She adds.

Me and Vivian exchange looks, before she sighs and stands up, walking to the little couch I'm sitting on, plopping down beside me. 

I smirk to myself, looking at her from the side of my eye. 

"Okay, let's just get to it, Vivian, I've gotten a brief history of your husband, and I feel as though I can sort of, kind of, pin point a thing or two that has lead to the point that you two are at currently, but I'd really like to learn a little bit about you because all that's portrayed publicly to all of us is he's this nitty gritty, abrasive rock God, and you're the angel that tamed him to settle down." She explains and Vivian scoffs, raising her brows. "I know it sounds ridiculous but that's what's given in magazines and pictures taken of you two." 

"Yeah." Vivian nods. 

"And I don't think that's true, I don't think everything is happy and sunshine and, 'oh, we're opposites but that's what we love about each other,' and blah, blah, or else neither of you would be here admitting your marriage is in shambles...so, becoming familiar with Nikki--sober--the way that I have the past week gives me a sense of who he really is without the drugs and the cameras and the fans and the girls, because in here he's only got himself. He doesn't have to upkeep the persona he puts on to make it seem like everything's perfect. And, although you aren't a patient here, I really want you to allow yourself to just be and differentiate between who you are to the public, and who you are privately, because--from what I've heard--they're two completely different people." She says next and Vivian nods. "So, who is Vivian Kinston and how did she get together with Nikki Sixx?" She offers a warm smile and Vivian exhales, already looking overwhelmed…"In three descriptions, who were you when you met Nikki?" 

"A very religious, ballet dancing, perfectionist." Vivian says and Amber nods. 

"Let's dissect that and break it down for a moment." She says next. "Okay, religious--was that on your own or passed through your family or…?"

"Both of my parents, but mainly my mom." She replies and Amber nods. 

"Okay, and what is mom like?" 

"Very strict Christian, we couldn't have anything secular in the house...I'm not sure what she's like now but when I last saw her she had the pastor I grew up with trying to exorcise a demon from me because she found out I was engaged to Nikki." She tells her and Amber's brows shoot up. 

"When was that?" 

"'82, '83, around that time." Vivian explains. 

"So you haven't seen mom in close to six years." 

"Yeah." 

"Okay...you were a ballet dancer when you met," she starts the next point. 

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"Since I can remember." Vivian informs her. 

"So, a strict Christian upbringing, and a very, very, intricate form of dance that requires a lot of discipline, since you were probably a toddler." 

"Yeah." 

"And is that where the perfectionism comes in, through your background with dance?"

"No." 

"No, okay."

"My mom and my upbringing." Vivian explains. "Anytime I did something my mom didn't like or approve of or thought other people would lose their minds over if they knew I was doing it, she'd get onto me and would constantly drill into my head, 'this is not what we do, Vivian'." 

"Wow." Amber nods, her brows slightly furrowed. "So, it doesn't come from a place of that physical drive to be perfect at most things you do, it comes from a mental and emotional drive of not wanting people to know what skeletons are in the closet that would make them think less of you." 

Vivian nods, taking a deep breath. 

"Okay, and do you think that sense of perfectionism from your mother has helped you or harmed you in the long run?" 

"Harmed." She's saying it nearly before Amber can get her words out of her mouth. 

"And why is that?" 

"Because I grew up with her holding me to a nearly unreachable standard, and hounding unrealistic expectations onto me." 

"And in turn…"

"...It's made me do the same to him." Vivian says and I stare at the floor. 

"What unrealistic expectations, or unreachable standard have you held him to?" 

"Not doing the things that he's done." She says next. 

"What things?" 

"Infidelity and drug and alcohol addiction." 

"Why is expecting your husband not to cheat on you or put drugs and alcohol before you an unrealistic expectation that is unattainable for him?" Amber asks next and I rub my lips together. 

"Because of who he is and what he does." Vivian says next and Amber raises her brows. 

"So you think because he's Nikki Sixx--big time rockstar--that it's not realistic to expect him to do what he is supposed to do as your husband which is stay faithful and not put substances before you?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh, I see." Amber looks at me and I sigh. "Was your relationship ever open or polygamous, during or prior to marriage?" 

"No." She shakes her head. 

"Was he addicted to anything when you got married?"

"He did drugs and drank but at that point in time he didn't have a heavy reliance on it, no."

"An unrealistic expectation would be you telling him he can sleep with other women but then you getting angry every time he did. That's setting an unrealistic expectation of, 'I'm giving you permission to indulge in sex with other women but I expect you not to,' or him being addicted to heroin when you got married and you expecting him to drop any addiction he has solely based on the fact that you two got married. That's an unrealistic expectation. Him being a famous rock musician has nothing to do with his ability, or lack thereof, to be monogamous and sober." She explains to Vivian. "So you wanting your husband to not have an affair and not get strung out was not an unrealistic expectation that you had in a moment of naivety." She assures her.

"Okay." Vivian sounds like she's been waiting to hear that for a while…

"And I believe the issues you two are facing the most from both Nikki, and yourself, have grown from the root of how you two think. I know we hear the saying, 'opposites attract,' but we don't think about how sometimes when people are too opposite it acts like hot and cold air when it mixes and if it's in a big enough whirl, or big enough of a spectrum, it creates a tornado or a hurricane." She says next. "Religion equals a sense of morality, your history with ballet equipped you with a fair amount of discipline, and that perfectionism that you spoke on is your way of caring so much about what others think of you, you sacrifice yourself and just smile to keep things looking amazing on the outside."

Vivian nods. 

"I asked him to describe you in three words, and he said, 'beautiful, depressed, belligerent'." She tells her and I slowly see tears coming to Vivian's eyes. "Nikki admitted to me that when he met you, he had no sense of morality, he was doing whatever he wanted, when he wanted, he had no discipline in terms of controlling himself around drugs and women, and he couldn't give less of a care about what people thought of him." She explains. "And that might even been fun and exciting when you were just starting out but once you're married and he's gotten all these eyes on him suddenly, there are expectations put on the both of you to be this couple who has everything, and you're both attractive, and he's the bad boy and you're the good girl and you just fell in love is the only explanation you have for making the relationship work to the point of wanting to get married and you have a great house and matching cars and all this and all that and you're in the press smiling and laughing and holding hands and hugging up on each other and oh, it's a wonderful life, but as soon as you get alone…" she trails off, looking at the both of us knowingly. "He's high, you're suffering, and both of you are living a hell. But nobody can know that because you're Nikki and Vivian Sixx. You two are perfect because he doesn't cheat on you like other rockstars do to their wives and girlfriends. He doesn't put drugs and alcohol before you like so many others do to their girlfriends and their wives. He doesn't turn into this monster you don't recognize and lash out like a dog at you after a night of sitting in his closet and shooting up, because he 'loves' you, and you don't have to keep quiet for years while it just keeps adding up and adding up until finally you beat on your husband and those around you over minuet instances because the big things you were probably justified to get that angry over were swept under the rug and were never dealt with for years--because that's not what you do." She ties it right back to Vivian's mother. 

A tear rolls down Vivian's cheek, neither of us expecting it to be this heavy just during her introduction to Viv. 

"If we don't stop that mentality, it's going to poison every relationship around you that it hasn't already and when you have children it's going to be a curse on them just like it's a curse on you." She tells her, as Viv sniffles, trying to keep up with wiping her tears away. "I've already been on him about his upbringing burdening him, so please don't think this is a personal attack on you."

Viv nods, mouthing, "okay."

"You two want to make this relationship better and be better for one another, we are going to have to tear down six years worth of walls and blockades and gut this entire thing completely and start again. It's not going to be easy, you're probably going to learn things about each other you've been hiding and maybe even amicably decide to divorce before it's all over with, but you are both going to heal and start the process of forgiveness. With yourselves, with your parents, with your friends, and with each other."

She gives the both of us some homework...

"I want you two to prepare to tell each other everything you've not told one another for next time we meet." Amber tells us and the color drains from Viv's face, I know for a fucking fact that I don't look much different from her.

"What?" Vivian asks her.

"If we're healing this relationship we need everything in the dark in the light so we aren't building on an old foundation of secrets." She states. Vivian just nods hesitantly before we're dismissed.

"Vivian." I stop her out in the hall before she can leave, grabbing gently at her wrist.

"Yeah?" She asks me. 

"I love you." I tell her and she looks at me, smiling a little. 

"I'll see you Wednesday." She replies, squeezing my hand before she walks away. 

What the hell? I tell her and I love her and she just fucking says, "I'll see you Wednesday'?" 

I watch as she goes down the hall, heels clicking, hair down her back…

Goddamn. 

This is definitely my payback for taking my time with her for granted, because now that I'm in my right mind and not ruining our marriage, she barely even looks at me. 

At least she was actually wanting to work things out, because after the Vanity bullshit, I thought we'd never make it out after the first time I saw her since it had happened.

July 1987

I brace myself against the bathroom wall as my whole body goes numb for a moment, my eyes rolling momentarily. 

"Sixx, c'mon, we gotta get goin', Viv's here!" Fred yells from behind the door, his fist beating at it. 

Fuck him. Fuck this tour. Fuck this band. Fuck everything right now. 

Viv's just got here from the airport, she flew back in earlier this morning and I've been hiding, completely avoiding her, but I can't anymore. 

The media's in a frenzy since Vanity aired all of our dirty laundry, only making Viv and I both on edge even more. 

We've been denying the shit out of Vanity's engagement claims, but I don't think people are buying it as much as we'd like to think they are. 

I take in a breath and stumble to the mirror, looking at myself. 

Not too bad for a low down, dirty, bastard. 

Opening the bathroom door to see where Fred's waiting for me, I glance past his shoulder to see Vivian.

She looks like she feels like hell, but has managed to pull herself together. 

Makes two of us--well, kind of, at least. 

"C'mon, the guys are already at the venue." 

Fred tells me. 

"Great." I smirk, patting his shoulder, stepping to Vivian. 

I don't think either of us are taking into consideration the amount of utter bullshitting we're about to have to do. 

I also don't expect the amount of paparazzi waiting for us right outside the hotel's doors.

As soon as the door opens, screaming, flashes, invasive questions come hurtling our way. It feels closterphobic enough to make Vivian grab my hand, tight, curling closer into me as if trying to hide away from prying cameras and questions about my alleged affair.

I feel her being tugged at once, and just as she says, "Nikki," I'm snatching my hand from hers to beat repeatedly, as hard as I can, at the forearm of the perpetrator, a media creep trying to get her attention. 

"Don't fucking touch her!" I bark out over the noise and he stumbles back, holding at his arm as I put my arm around her waist, tightly, getting to the car. 

When we get inside, Vivian's obviously distraught over what just happened, shoving herself away from me. 

I turn my anger to Fred. 

"What the fuck is the point of  having fucking security if you're not going to keep people from touching her?" I sneer. 

"Because I'm a bodyguard, but you're a fucking Rottweiler." He states back without hesitation and I just roll my jaw, glancing at Vivian and she doesn't even look at me. 

I sigh and dig in my pocket for the little baggie I got earlier, grabbing my hotel room key to take a bump to help me wake up for this show, and when we get to the venue, I'm getting out of the car and waiting for Fred to get out. 

He does, and I stop Vivian, nudging her back inside before saying, "we'll be there in a second."

Fred just looks at me and exhales, rolling his eyes before stepping inside. 

Vivian sighs out as I look at her, avoiding looking at me…

"Vivian, are we gonna talk about it or…?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"I think we should."

"You proposed to her, Nikki."

"Allegedly." I add.

"You. Proposed. To. Her." She says it sharply and I lean back. "You had an affair with her. I trusted you. I trusted the both of you. And you lied to me." She hisses. "So, no, there is nothing to talk about...just let me out of the damn car." She slides over and opens the door but I reach over her and slam it shut.

She takes heavy breaths from where she's sitting, my body hovering over hers, the tips of our noses brushing together…

I lean down, my lips pressing to her's for just a second before she lets go of the fact I completely screwed her over. 

I'm about to pull away when she pushes her tongue past my lips, her nails running over my back through my shirt as her legs wrap around my hips, one of her hands in my knotted hair.

As always, I end up eating her like a starved pervert, relishing in the sounds of her moans and gasps. 

The truth is, she may hate me, but I'm good at getting her off and she knows it.

Once she comes and we start getting ourselves together to go inside, I look over at her. 

"So, are we good?" I ask her, oh, so fucking stupidly, and she blinks at me. 

"What?" 

"Are we good?" 

She catches on to what I mean, and rubs her lips together. 

"Nikki, you could fuck me into oblivion, which you can't because I'm never letting you fucking touch me again, and we still wouldn't be good. Not even close to 'good'. You can't have an affair with my friend and then expect everything to be good just because we fooled around while you were stoned out of your mind." She snaps and I roll my jaw as she gets out and slams the door, stomping to the back entrance of the venue. 

For the first time I feel the sting of rejection. 

Is this how groupies feel? 

I never thought once about getting head, leaving them in the limo and going on about my business. 

Anger boils in me, Sikki chomping at the bit. 

That selfish bitch! 

I get out and go after her. 

I don't know what the fuck I'm gonna say to her, but I'm mad. 

"How dare you use me to get your rocks off and then toss me aside?", no, because I've done that to her a couple times...but that's because she's into it. 

I swear she comes harder when I randomly come up behind her and just start going at it because she knows I'm just using her to get off and then leave her wherever I stopped her, and go out right after and wouldn't think twice about it. 

But me? I'm so used to her looking at me like I'm God while I have my full attention on making her feel good, and she has the audacity to get off on my face and then kick me to the curb and tell me I'm never touching her again?! 

I decided it wasn't worth the fist fight it would inevitably turn into by the time I got inside, but and looking back, she had every reason to get me horny and then swear off ever letting me get near her again. It was petty, but smart. And despite having sex one last time not long after that instance, the point was still made clear. For the first time in our relationship, the acceptance of sexual advances didn't take the place of forgiveness.

[irenadel]

i wanna talk books so I made a meme

@doorsclosingslowly here’s the answers to your questions :)

6. If you read in more than one language, is there a difference between the experience of reading in your native language(s) and reading in other languages?

Virginia Woolf has a great quote in A Room of One’s Own where she says that women writers need to develop their own “sentence” and that this can only be developed through creating a tradition of female writing. She says that while reading male writers is pleasurable, it isn’t useful for the female writer, that she can’t learn from the way men write. Their “sentence” isn’t suitable for female writing. I’m.... unsure of how much I agree with her on this but I find the theory useful for describing how I approach literature in Spanish vs English.

Especially in terms of language, not so much in regards to narrative or worldbuilding or even themes, I find Spanish to be pleasurable but not useful. I very rarely find myself reading something in Spanish and thinking “ooooh, I wish I could do that! I want to steal that! How did they come up with this?” The “sentence” for writing in Spanish isn’t one I recognize or want to imitate... except maybe for VERY few exceptions like Carlos Fuentes and Borges. Whereas I can spend a lot of time reading English un-selfconsciously and then suddenly be struck by a turn of phrase that I must somehow or other make my own. That almost never happens to me when reading Spanish.

9. Fiction or non-fiction or both? In what ratio? Where do you draw the line between the two?

Oh god, this is embarassing. Erm... fiction to a fault. On 2020 and 2019 I did try to make a concerted effort to read more nonfiction, ESPECIALLY more popular science books. I still kind of childishly consider myself to not be “smart like that” and that science isn’t for me, because I don’t understand it. I used to think science fiction wasn’t for me, for similar reasons. When I do read nonfiction it tends to be history and literary criticism.

I’m finishing my degree on English literature and though I had a period of hating hard on literary criticism, I think it was mostly me rebelling against the French brand of it. I HAVE to admit I love reading new historicism, especially now that I’m working on my dissertation and I had to read a lot on Elizabethan and Jacobean theatre.

Hopefully 2021 will be the year I read a bit more science.

11. The worst book hangover you’ve ever had

Augh... I remember two in recent years. Let me see... in 2017 I finished the last book in the Realm of the Elderlings. I had read the first book in the series around maybe the mid 2000s. I devoured it in a single weekend, still hungry for more of the story. I did not have access to the rest of the trilogy for a couple of years after, but as soon as I got them I read them as fast as I could. I remember reading those books during class, pretending to pay attention to a lecture on Linguistics but actually fully engrossed in Robin Hobb’s world.

It’s a world that was with me for more than 10 years. Characters that I knew intimately from multiple re-readings for more than 10 years. My dissertationg is about the first trilogy for crying out loud! I hadn’t wanted to read the last trilogy and the last book on the trilogy because I didn’t want that connection to end. But finally I gave in...

It was a book hangover because I was reading late at night when I realized, halfway through the book, a character I loved deeply was probably going to die and I just HAD to know, I HAD to be sure. So I read through the night going from disbelief to anger, to grief, to grim acceptance. I wasn’t able to put down the book until 11 am the next day, by which point I was openly sobbing and would have thrown the book across the room except I think I was reading in my computer.

The second book hangover I remember was less because of sprinting through the book and more because of the circumstances. Last December I had decided to finish as many books I could in hopes of reaching my Good Reads goal (which I didn’’t) and I was going through His Dark Materials pretty quickly when on the 25th I got the news that my grandmother died. I wasn’t able to go see her at the hospital or at a funeral, or even go see my dad and uncles because she had died of covid-19 and the situation was still pretty dire in the city.

Then Philip Pullman decided to be an absolute asshole to me and the characters in his book arrived to the Land of the Dead. Being an atheist fantasy series and me having just recently come to terms with the fact that I’m not even agnostic... it was very tough to go through Pullman’s exploration of mortality and the importance of life on Earth. I agreed completely that materiality and the here-and-now far outweigh any contemplations of an afterlife... but my grandmother had died very suddenly.... she had still been a pretty strong old lady before she contracted covid... I had spoken to her a couple of days before and she was still strong enough to bitch about litter getting inside her room...

I finished The Amber Spyglass in a rush as well and somehow it got mixed with my mourning process and my anger at myself for having taken my grandmother’s life for granted... for not having cherished the materiality of her existence when I had the chance... I hadn’t finished writing my dissertation’s first draft yet and there were some heavy issues going on in my household.... I was exhausted from having to survive the year and I think I still am... and it all mixed up with the bittersweet ending of Pullman’s His Dark Materials and the inevitability of loss... all I remember from between the 25th and the 31st of December 2020 was exhaustedly reheating Christmas food, trying to write, and slogging through The Amber Spyglass... it feels like it was a week-long literary hangover...

14. The book that, in hindsight, really should have clued you in to the fact that you’re _________ (queer/in love/doomed to be an academic/etc)

So this is slightly NSFW but I should have known, and stopped being such a snob about it, that I had WAY MORE in common with the furries than I cared to admit given that my first impression of Smaug the Golden when reading The Hobbit at the tender age of 8 was “wow! he’s dreamy!” *facepalm *(also betraying a worrying tendency to crushing on irredeemable assholes and other miscellaneous villains...) I have accepted my status as a weird monsterfucker AND a weird alienfucker. Inhuman anatomy makes me hot, and I should have known it from DAY ONE!

23. The book you expected to hate, didn’t, and then got angry about not hating

The Hunger Games, which I’m STILL salty about and will probably remain salty about for the rest of my life.

I hateread it because a friend told me about how he hated it, given his bitter ex loved it and though I agree with all his criticisms and have a bunch of my own... I still cannot stop finding stupid Katniss profoundly likeable! CURSES! A pox upon your house Suzanne Collins! I still think your dystopia is a cowardly, white-lady-who-has-never-feared-state-violence dystopia, I still think your love triangle was absolutely unnecessary and I still think you tried to cop out of admitting you (and your character) like pretty dresses by making the pretty dresses compulsory. Be brave! Don’t give me this “I’m not like other girls” bullshit! Be brave! Make your violent spectacle reality show as a criticism of the USA’s consumerism and callousness a voluntary thing! Don’t wash your heroine’s hands clean of the sin of wanting fame and fortune and survival at all costs!

But... fuck... I... still like Katniss... I’m glad little girls in 2008 got a heroine who kicked ass, looked good and wasn’t a perfectly strong and powerful person all the time. I’m glad they got competence and vulnerability... Fuck my life...

31. Bonus question: rec me something!

This is hard... since I get the feeling we have very different tastes in reading material but... If you haven’t heard of the Vampire: The Masquerade roleplaying game (or even if you have) take a crack at the Baali Clanbook. Even if you don’t understand the game mechanics I think you’ll enjoy the history portion because it’s about a clan of devil-worshipping vampires who do their devil worshipping through implanting evil insects on people... and I suspect it might be up your alley...

[hellsbellschime]

this stan behavior is super troubling to me. like let's just rewrite history like we didn't see him drunk af and flip out and try to attack when he found out amber was recording him. like i'm sure amber was not an innocent victim, but she was a victim. and him dragging this shit on when she's clearly trying to move forward is classic abuser 101 behavior. like his films/characters all you want, but stfu about him being an innocent victim, because like amber, he's not innocent.

Honestly it’s SO STUPID. ARGUING ABOUT THIS IS POINTLESS. KNOW WHY?!?! BECAUSE OF JABRONIS LIKE THAT. Like the argument of whether or not he did it is absolutely irrelevant at this point because it makes absolutely no difference on how people will treat him or see him. Anyone with two eyeballs in their head and two brain cells to rub together can put together that a man who has been acting out violently and going out of his way to get into relationships with much younger women and has been abusing substances severely enough that it was a publicly noticeable problem for longer than most people on this hellsite HAVE BEEN ALIVE and is now being accused of domestic violence PROBABLY DID IT, especially since statistically speaking pretty much everyone accused of domestic violence PROBABLY DID IT. But oh, because this motherfucker used to be hot and made some good movies TWENTY YEARS AGO and because he’s dragging every motherfucker on his payroll into court so they can call his ex-wife a show pony cunt and say that they never saw him abuse her and he’s so super nice so clearly it can’t be true then HE MUST BE TELLING THE TRUTH. 

And here is why this is a fucking dumbass idiot argument that is completely irrelevant and no one should give two shits what I think either way. Because IT LITERALLY DOES NOT MATTER IF HE DID IT OR NOT. Nearly everyone on fucking planet earth does not care if he did it or not. The fact that I’m continually getting these defenses of him PROVES THAT NO ONE FUCKING CARES IF HE DID IT OR NOT. PEOPLE WILL OVERLOOK EVIDENCE AND COMMON SENSE TO EXCUSE A SHITHEAD 99% OF THE GODDAMN TIME. My opinion here is fucking irrelevant, just as whether or not he even did it is irrelevant, because NO ONE FUCKING CARES. 

[kadywicker]

Amber Heard was definitely abused by Depp, but she also abused him too. I’m not defending Depp, I’m just saying that it was a toxic relationship all round. Depp has a history of violence, but so does Heard; she abused her past girlfriend. Depp being an Abuser doesn’t mean Amber wasn’t an abuser too. Relationships have enough space for more than one person to be an abuser and I think it’s pretty gross to make out like she‘s innocent when they were both bad as each other.

bro she was not abusive to her ex. read this. here's the most important part:

from what we hear of the incidents from their own mouths, depp abused her and she retaliated. like there's certainly the possibility that both were abusers but everyone on this site and twitter is like "omg depp said he's not abusive stop victim blaming him!!!" like idk how to tell yall that abusers aren't gonna say "yes I'm an abuser I just love abusing people 💖"

like we know nothing abt their personal lives and in situations like this ig it would depend on who started it and the power dynamics. and the power dynamics between a world famous actor with a shitton of money who's decades older and a then more unknown model/actress.... is pretty clear. now idk who started it and idk every detail but like. what we have on him being the abuser is her word, recorded couples counseling sessions, the words of the lawyers involved, friends' testimonies, etc. what we have on her is him saying "oh no not me I could never be abusive SHES the abusive one" which is a classic abuser move and this thing abt her ex gf that even her ex gf says isn't true. I'll tell you which one sounds more convincing.

and like even if she WAS also abusive to him and it was mutually toxic I'm simply so fucking tired of men being believed the second they say they aren't abusers and instead the victims were the ones that hurt them. it's a go to move of a majority of abusers. my own dad tried to pull it even though I was literally a 15 year old kid w no autonomy and the worst thing I ever did was yell back at him. I'm Exhausted with abusers being unquestionably believed when their victims speak up and face 100000 miles of questioning of their claims. if she WAS abusive, fine, it's mutually toxic and they both suck. but the internet still shouldn't be up depps ass being like "omg we need to apologize to him" the second he claims he never did anything wrong. it's insulting to victims.

[aenwoedbeannaa]

Dancing Twilight | Geralt x Fae!Reader

Summary: (Requested by anon.) You are a Fae princess, the last of your kind. Then one day, a stranger appears in your forest, and the two of you recognize the loneliness in one another. Perhaps you are not alone in this world, not anymore. 

A/N: One of the oneshots for my little oneshot request game/thing/whatever.  Thanks for reading, yada yada–kofi here, masterlist here, taglist here. Enjoy!

The forest is draped in shadowed twilight, the sun having just disappeared below the horizon, still casting barely-perceptible light through the trees. The fire before you casts everything, including the stranger sitting on the opposite end of the log you yourself are perched on, in warm light. The night is warm, but not too hot - a perfect summer evening in the north. 

Perhaps that is why you revealed yourself to him. You haven’t exactly worked out that particular question yet, but it seems as good a reason as any. You’ve been alone in the forest for so long.

Well, not really alone. You’ve had the birds, the foxes and rabbits, even the trees and plants to speak with, but they are different. They can only be spoken to in the language of the Fae - a language long-lost to the elves, humans, and all manner of other races that now roam the planet that was once yours. 

Besides, this man was... different. First, he had not simply passed through the wood as quickly as possible, as most travelers do. You’d observed him from your perch in the trees, from behind bushes, and from the opposite bank of the small river for days now. For days, it had been only himself and a mare he called Roach. Roach was the only thing he talked to. 

Despite his rounded ears and clearly human build, you’d been immediately interested by this particular fact. You heart had soared, at first, thinking that perhaps you’d finally found a creature like you; one long-forgotten by the inhabitants of the Continent. And yet, you’d been wrong. The horse, though you’d deduced that she grasped some of the his words’ meanings, did not understand him the same way she understood you when you crept close last night to speak to her yourself. 

You’d been disappointed - but only slightly. This man was still different. His eyes were like drops of amber, and he seemed quite content alone. Except, you realized, in the late hours of the evening, when he clutched at a threadbare blanket in his sleep, eventually blinking his eyes open and staring off at the millions of pinprick stars for hours at a time.

And so, this afternoon, you’d finally made your presence known. You could hide among the leaves and branches, the bushes, the stream - any natural element could conceal you forever, if you wished it. You were like the twilight; an in-between. Not quite shadow, but not quite light, either. But something had drawn you to this man, something had drawn you from your blanket of silence and shadow and made you reveal yourself to him. 

One of the ancient race of the Fae; more of a myth than a real being. He’d said as much when he studied your pointed ears and large eyes. He’d not even mistaken you for an elf, surprisingly. 

So now you sat at the edge of the fire, both of you speaking in hushed tones as you had been for nearly an hour now. 

“Do you have any idea,” you asked, “how very hard it is to be the last of your kind?”

Geralt pauses for a moment, his amber, inhuman eyes lowering to the fire in front of you. When he raises his gaze again, his eyes are liquid gold.

“I do not,” he admits. “But I do have an idea what it is like to be of a... dying breed.”

You can’t help the sadness that seeps into your eyes as you sit with a stillness only the fae can achieve—though the Witcher comes quite close—focused on him. You can see the pain in his eyes. You recognize that pain.

“A dying breed?” you ask, finding yourself nervous to speak the words for fear of upsetting him and sending him on his way.

“I’m a Witcher,” he explains, and you nod. You have had little contact with anyone over the years, but you’d learned much about the world from your hiding place in the shadows. “A mutant... made to kill monsters.” 

“You’re an Other,” you muse.

“What?

“An Other; someone not like everyone else.” It was the term the Fae had used when the Aen Sidhe first arrived, and one that was promptly turned back on them when it became clear whose numbers were larger. 

Geralt’s lips twitch upward in a sort of half-smile, “Yes, I suppose that is a good way of describing what I am.” 

 You don’t dare ask if being an Other has made him a target of persecution, of violence. You don’t ask why his race is dying. Though he is only a stranger, you do not want to dig up any old memories and create fresh wounds from them. Nevertheless, he continues on with his story and you listen, leaning slightly toward him with interest in your eyes. 

“After the Conjunction, there were a great deal of monsters; monsters that humans could not kill.” He sighs, resting his elbows on his knees. “But the Witchers were relatively successful, even if we were never well-liked. Humans used to need us.”

Catching the meaning of his glance around the nighttime forest, you nod slowly, “And now there are very few monsters, so there is little need for monster slayers.”

Geralt responds with a wry smile, taking a sip from his wineskin, “Oh, there are plenty of monsters. But humans don’t need mutants to kill other humans.”

“The only constant thing in this world,” you begin, letting your hand trail softly over the grass, “is the existence of monsters.” The wind seems to blow a bit harder at those words, an indignant huff. You smile softly and add, “That, and the forces of Nature.” 

Geralt, seemingly stunned by this small communication, is staring now. You respond with a wry smile of your own, “They really have wiped us from history, haven’t they?” This particular musing was more to yourself than to him, but he looks at you with such interest that you can’t help but continue.

“The Fae... We were here, before the Conjunction.” You chew on your lower lip, feeling the urge to wrap your arms around yourself at the memories clawing to the surface. You haven’t had anyone to speak to for so long, the words come pouring out. “And then there were the Aen Sidhe. They wanted the land, the sea, the forests... everything.”

“There was talk of peaceful negotiations, but it was a sham—a trap.”

“I’m so, so sorry,” Geralt says. Normally, you’d brush off pity—you’d spent a great deal of time telling yourself that you didn’t want it. But the warmth in his voice, and in his eyes, and even the heat of his body—which seems to have somehow drawn closer without you realizing it—are actually comforting.

“This land was ours once.” As you close your eyes, you can picture it so vividly it makes your chest ache. “My father was High King of the Forest Fae, my mother was Queen, naturally, and then there was me—their only child.”

The look of shock on Geralt’s face actually makes the corners of your mouth twitch up ever so slightly. You take a shaky breath before continuing, “They came one night... took me. Told my parents they would give me back if they surrendered our land.”

“Fucking bastards,” Geralt blurts, shaking his head.

“We were more powerful, but so outnumbered. They surrendered, but they killed them anyway.” You are speaking through clenched teeth now, “They wouldn’t killed me, but they couldn’t. Not with all their fucking armies.”

“How did you? I mean...” His sentence trails off, but the meaning is clear enough.

“They called me the Princess of Dancing Twilight because I could do things that even most Fae couldn’t. A shadow, a gust of wind, whatever. Nature protects me; they couldn’t touch me.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding before turning to him, “Long story short—I am very good at hiding. They never found me. And that’s how I learned how it felt to become the last of my kind.”

Silence creeps over the two of you, and you curl in on yourself slightly, wondering if you’d said too much. But then, you feel the warmth of his hand on your shoulder. The two of you are now merely inches apart. 

“I am... truly sorry for your loss,” he speaks in almost a whisper.

You turn to face him, wide eyes locking with his, “No need to apologize, you don’t look like an Aen Sidhe to me.” In any case, you know most of them departed this world as well, bound for somewhere else, leaving behind the elves as their descendants. 

“Nope,” he says, “Just an Other, like you.” 

You find yourself smiling at the man, leaning into his warmth. “Yes... I suppose I am.” 

Another moment passes, the kind of silence that stretches on when you stare too long into someone’s eyes as if you are being held there by magnetic force. But finally, you bring yourself to speak. 

“Speaking of you,” you say in a tone you’ve not used in recent memory, “What have you been doing in my forest these last three days?” 

“Oh, you’ve been watching me?” he smirks. 

“You didn’t answer my question.” 

You could swear he moves in even closer, that his hand lightly brushes your hair as he speaks next, “Traveling. I have nowhere to be and no one to see,” he says.

For a moment, sadness washes over you again at the thought of someone else, so much like you, alone in this unfriendly world, and you whisper, “You’re all alone.”

But when you look back up at him, he appears utterly transfixed on you. “Maybe... But perhaps not anymore?”

When you lean in, mirroring his movements, and press your lips to his, you can’t help but smile.

No. Perhaps we are not alone, not anymore. 

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