#shadow and the midnight misery

[lianahayze]

Shadow and the Midnight Misery: Chapter 14

Masterlist

Nothing to say; let's get to it!

Chapter 14. Then... nothing

With it being common for celebrities to seek treatment, there is little surprise at seeing the twenty-two-year-old rockstar turn herself in. Her father, lead singer of the 90s alt-band The Nixers, did his own stint in rehab for a slew of drugs, including heroin. It is unknown why she checked herself in, but according to its website, the Garver Institute “specializes in alcohol and drug addictions.” At the time of publication, Shadow Greere has declined to comment.

Bottle pressed to my lips, I chug. The more I drink, the more I can forget. And boy am I trying to forget.

The article came out yesterday, and I can’t even begin to guess how many times I've already read it. It starts out great. There is a piece about the new studio, a section about how I want the band to go our own way. But then Garver was brought up and it got real bad real fast.

The pictures are slightly grainy and had clearly been taken at a distance. However, they're not grainy enough for me to even pretend that that it’s not me. Everything in the pictures give it away: my hair, the clothes I'm wearing, a general scowl. All of it is one hundred percent me, and anyone is going to be able to tell.

The guys have seen it. I’m certain they have. They've called me a couple of times, but I haven't picked up. I'd rather wallow in self-pity. Dean’s not big on social media, so he probably hasn’t seen it yet. Always a day or two beyond, I have some time before he finds it. Either way, I'm fucked.

I did not want this to get out. I'd been hoping I could just sweep it under the rug and be done with it. Continuing to meet with Dr. Norris is fine, but having all of my dirty laundry aired out for anyone to see? No, it's an absolute nightmare.

I should have said something to Larissa. I could have made up any bullshit excuse. Hell, I could have said I was visiting or even fucking volunteering and that last paragraph would sound completely different. But, instead, I'd freaked out. I’d done this to myself.

I stop drinking for a moment. I haven't binged like this in a while and my body knows it. There's going to be hell to pay in a few hours, but, right now, I don’t care. Right now, I desperate to forget.

I switch to another bottle. It's new and takes me several seconds to open. I sway before I finally break the seal. The bottle firmly attached to my mouth, I walk out of the kitchen and into the living room.

Though I don't plan on staying in here, I turn on the TV. I need noise. The silence in the house is killing me. I turn up the volume before tossing the remote onto the couch. I walk out into the hallway.

Ugh, has there ever been a time when I haven't fucked something up? Maybe that's why the guys wanted me to put away: not because I'm a danger, but because I'm such a massive fuck up. I get it now.

I go upstairs. Not bothering to turn the lights on, I crawl into bed. I almost drop the bottle in my hand but catch it at the last moment. I continue drinking from it, chugging so quickly that it makes my brain hurt.

Everyone is going to be talking shit about me. Even more than they already do. I can't face the internet right now, but part of me is curious. I need to know what they're saying, and I need to know what I'm up against. I'm not the first celebrity whose mental health issues have been exposed, but it still hurts. I’ve been reduced to a headline and a cheap article?

My phone dings but I don't bother checking it. I want to smoke a joint. I want to smoke and drink and pass out. I don't know where my purse is, though, and that's where all my weed is. Is probably in the room somewhere, but I don't care enough to try to find it. Instead, I just keep drinking.

My phone goes off again. I follow the light from the screen, reaching across the bed to grab it. I squint as I look down.

Oh, I have missed calls. And a lot of texts. It's a good thing I have all my notifications turned off for social media because that would probably be blowing up my phone now too.

I look at the text notifications but don't actually open the messages. Most of them are from the guys, but, as I expected, there's nothing from Dean. Good. I should reach out to him and just tell him myself, but I don't think I'm going to. After all, I already had my chance to tell him; instead, I’d spent the entire time complaining about the band.

I check the calls. Most of them are from Wyatt. He's called me five times in total, the last one coming just a few minutes ago when I'd been downstairs deciding which liquor to get into. Maybe they’ve decided that he's the one who’s going to fire me.

I go through my texts from him. There are a lot of them with just one or two words, but it's the last one that really catches me off-guard.

About 5 mins away. At your house soon.

I stare at it. Not trusting my eyes, I read over it again, but still don’t think it’s right. There’s no way he’s trying to come see me right now.

Putting the bottle on the floor, I text him back:

Not here.

I stare down at the screen. A second later he says,

Yeah u are. Pulling up your street

I frown. Seriously, can't this wait until tomorrow?

Knowing that my front door's locked, I decide to get comfortable. He won't be able to talk to me if he can't get in, and there's no way I'm answering the door.

My phone goes off again. I groan and read.

He's here. Great. Just great.

When I don't respond, he sends,

Open the front door.

I huff. I don't want to talk to him; is that really so hard to understand?

Busy.

No you're not. Open the door.

Not interested.

Shadow, don't make me call the cops. I NEED to see that you're okay.

I bolt up. If he calls the cops, I’ll be back at Garver in a heartbeat, only this time it probably won’t be so easy to get out. "Fuck’s sake," I mutter, "fine." Standing up, I drop my phone on the pillow, pick the bottle back up, and slowly head downstairs.

Wyatt's finger is firmly on the doorbell when I answer. He looks down at me, surprised. I move out of the way, letting him in.

He shuts the door behind himself. "You're drinking right now?" he asks, louder than he needs to be. "Shadow, what the hell are you doing?"

"Feeling sorry for myself." I smile up at him. Feeling light on my feet, I lean against the wall. "Throwing myself a party. Whatever you want to call it, but you weren't invited."

"So, you know about the article then?"

"Hmm."

"I can't believe they printed that without telling you." When I tell him that I knew, he gasps. "You just let them?"

"No. But I didn't tell them no."

He stares at me. I can tell that he knows he in over his head and doesn't know what to do. Pissed off, angry Shadow he can deal with; pitiful pathetic Shadow he cannot.

I take another drink.

"Can you... Can you not do that right now?" He yanks the bottle from my hand. Some of the vodka spills onto the floor, causing me to say,

"Hey! Stop making a mess!"

He walks into the kitchen. I follow behind but it takes a while because my legs feel like jelly. When I finally do get to him, he's opening up all the cabinets, saying, "Where's all your booze?" I giggle. "Fuck, Shadow, I'm serious. Now is not the time to go on a bender."

"Oops." Seeing him freak out makes me laugh. It's actually very funny. Him and the other guys have been trying to control my narrative for so long and he's panicking now that he can't. It's the ultimate karma.

He walks over to me. I'm swaying as I look up at him, and he puts his hands on my arms. As he steadies me, I realize I don’t want to be standing up; laying down would be so much better.

"How much did you drink?" he says. It's a good question, but I don't answer. He gives me a slight shake. "Shadow. How much?"

He's acting like he's never seen me drunk before, but nothing could be further from the truth. How many late nights did we have after concerts, passing around bottle after bottle? I have a pretty good tolerance, but he could drink me under the table. Maybe I'm not the one who should have gone to Garver.

"You're not supposed to drink when you're depressed."

Depressed? Who said anything about being depressed? I am finnnnnne.

"Have you still been drinking and doing drugs this entire time?"

Holding back a laugh, I say, "My body, my choice."

"This is not a joke! You're going to hurt yourself!"

"My doctor thinks I'm not a danger, and we can trust my doctor. Right? After all, everyone wanted me to go see one. Remember?"

Leading me over to the table, he sighs. He tried to get me to sit in one of the chairs, but I instead choose the floor. "We wanted you to see a doctor because we were worried about you. Your cocaine habit has gone through the roof." Then, almost so quietly that I can't hear, he adds, "Apparently we should have been more worried about your drinking."

Having been kneeling in front of me, he stands back up. Continuing to go through my cabinets, he says, "We already spoke with the label. As soon as we saw it, we got on the phone with them. We wanted you to join the conversation, but you never answered your phone." He looks over his shoulder at me. "Now I can see why."

He's judging me and I can't decide whether to let it go or complain about it. Stomach pressed against the tile, I spread out on the floor like a starfish. It gets uncomfortable really quick, though, and I flip to my back. The sudden motion makes the contents of my stomach slosh around.

"I don't know what to do with you." I look over at him. "We want you to get better. When we rescheduled that interview, we thought..." I see him shake his head. "I know it's important for you--We know talking about the band is important to you." He pauses. "Even if the spread was entirely about you."

"So, you're not mad about the studio?"

He shakes his head, and I'm surprised. This is the most honest conversation we've had in a while without yelling. I should say something but can’t come up with anything.

"We just want to know what was wrong with your dad's studio, but other than that it's fine."

"Too many bad memories. Can't go there anymore."

"Because we told you that you needed help?"

"And cornered me with a doctor." I turn onto my other cheek so that I'm facing away from him. "It wasn't fair."

I hear him sigh, but he doesn't say anything. I hear the heels of his boots walking across the tile, coming towards me. A few seconds later, arms crossed, he stands over me. I don't move but look up at him out of the corner of my eye.

"Look," he says, "you can be pissed about it. I get that you're pissed about it. But we tried to bring it up before and you just weren't listening."

I frown. "No, you never brought it up."

"Yes. We did. Several times. You might have just been high, and we couldn’t tell. But we did bring it up."

He walks away, leaving on my own. I wonder if what he's said is true. Had they actually mentioned it before? If they had, why don't I remember it? And if he was right and I had been high, what does that say about me?

It means I have a problem.

Standing up, I go over to the counter. Wyatt's placed the bottle of vodka that I'd had earlier by the sink. I look around but don't see him. I'm not sure where he's gone, but, not wanting to wait for him to return, I pick up the bottle, bring it to my lips, and drink. I'm so engrossed in getting as much alcohol in my system as possible that I don't hear him return until,

"Shadow!" He yanks the bottle away. Before I can stop him, he tips it upside down and the vodka pours down the sink.

"Hey!" I start to reach for it, but he holds me back.

"Do not try my patience right now."

He's being obnoxious; why won’t he let me have a little fun?

"Why are you even here?" I ask him. "I didn't ask you to come." Plus, I'd been doing fine on my own. I'd been enjoying sitting in the dark; it made my head hurt less.

"I'm here to take care of you, apparently, because you weren't answering your phone."

"I don't need a babysitter."

"I beg to differ. When did you eat last?"

I frown. "Why, do I look fat, or something?"

"You've never looked fat a day in your life." He sounds annoyed as he speaks. "But you need to eat." I tell him I'm not hungry. "I don't care," he replies. "You need food in your system."

"Usually, I just do cocaine when I'm hungry." He looks at me like I'm crazy. "What? I don't have to stop what I'm doing to eat, and it keeps me in shape." He gives me a look over. "Duh."

"Shadow, when people talk about ‘getting in shape,’ that’s not code for developing a drug habit."

He goes to open the fridge, but he won't have much to work with. I haven't gone grocery shopping in a while, so everything that's in there is probably at least a few weeks old.

"Wow, slim pickin’s around here, huh?" He closes the fridge. Pulling out his phone, he says, "What do you want to eat? I'm going to have Ethan stop."

"Stop where?"

"Stop at the store or get takeout. He's on his way over here. So is Dave."

My heart stops. They're coming over here, too? Right now? I shake my head in disbelief. "Tell them not to come."

"They're already on their way."

I continue to shake my head. "No! I do not need a fucking intervention in my own home!" I'm panicking, ready to kick or punch him.

He puts his hands up, saying, "Shadow, we're not trying to intervene on anything. We're just checking on you."

But I don't believe it.

Abruptly turning away from him, I storm out of the kitchen. Well, I storm out the best I can. My legs are wobbly and my head is spinning and my breathing is shallow, but I storm off. Wyatt calls for me, but I ignore him. Maybe if I barricade myself in my room before the other two get here, they'll eventually just give up and leave. Can't have an intervention if they can't see me.

I stumble into my room. I press my body against the door for a moment, blinking slowly. Why is the room spinning? Doing my best to disregard the movements, I lock the door and go straight over to my bed.

I fall onto it face first. It’s pretty comfortable, so I don't move. It's only when I realize that I'm having trouble breathing that I shift onto my side.

My stomach doesn't feel so great. When I rub my hands over my middle, it only makes it worse. I close my eyes and groan. I curl up and lay like that for who knows how long. It's probably just a couple of seconds, but it's enough for me almost to fall asleep.

The only reason I don't is because of a loud thump at the door.

"Shadow! Unlock the door!"

I cover my ears. Why is he shouting? Doesn't he know it's making me feel even worse?

Wyatt keeps pounding on the door. "I seriously just came over here to check on you! The other guys just want to check on you too. We're not kicking you out of the band or whatever other conspiracy theory you have in your head."

If I do have any conspiracy theories, it's because they put them there.

"Seriously. You don't need to be alone right now."

He's wrong. Being alone is exactly what I need.

I continue to try my best to ignore him. He makes it hard, though, and I eventually grab onto a pillow, pressing it over my head. It makes my skull hurt, but I'd rather feel that than listen to Wyatt.

Eventually, though, the pounding stops. I pull down the pillow and look cautiously over at the door. I sit up; there's complete silence. Being as quiet as I can, I get out of bed and tiptoe over to the door. I lean forward and listen, but still, I hear nothing.

Maybe he's just pretending he's not there anymore to trick me into opening the door. "Wyatt?" I say. He doesn't answer. Slowly, I unlock the door, crack it open just an inch, and look outside.

He's not there. Opening the door all the way, I step out into the hallway. Wyatt is nowhere to be found. Confused, I lean against the wall. Where did he go? Did he just give up? It that's the case, the least he could have done is said goodbye.

"Wyatt?"

He doesn't respond. When I toddle down the hall, I suddenly realize why.

Standing at the top of the stairs, I hear the front door opening, Wyatt standing in front of it. In walk Ethan and Dave.

I start to make my way down the stairs.

"Get out of my house!" I yell, causing them to look up. They’re alarmed, but I don't care. "I'll call the police!"

Dave, smug as ever, doesn't buy it. "You're going to call the police on the people who came to check on you?"

"Not now Dave," says Wyatt.

"Fuck off!" I yell at them. "I didn't ask you to come here; I don't want you here. Leave. Me. Alone!"

"You don't mean that, Shadow."

I turn to Ethan. I'm still on the stairs, gripping the banister, so I have to look down at him. He looks tired, more tired than I feel. "Ethan, if you had any common sense, you'd ditch these two. All they're going to do is complain and gang up on you and ruin your whole entire life."

Dave starts to say something, but Wyatt stops him.

"No, go head. What did you want to tell me?"

"He doesn't want to tell you anything," says Wyatt. "We just came to see how you were after the article."

"I feel like shit. I think it's obvious." I start to walk towards them. I'm about halfway down the stairs now, and, looking at all of them in turn, I say, "I need a drink."

None of them seem amused. They move to block the way. I get down to the bottom step and try to push passed them but they're stronger and I fail.

"Move," I say. When they don't, I repeat myself, this time with more force. "Move!"

Ethan asks me how much I've had to drink but I ignore him. They're not my parents; I don't have to answer to them.

Wyatt attempts to reach for me, but I push his hands away. I almost lose my footing, but Dave catches me. I yank myself out of his grasp.

"Shadow," says Wyatt, "you need to calm down. Let's find a place to relax. You're going to drink water and I'm going to order you food."

I don't like his plan--and not just because he's talking to me like I'm a child.

I shake my head. "No."

I start back up the stairs, but he reaches for me. This time his grasp is strong, and I can feel a bruise forming on my wrist. I try to wriggle away but can't. Either he's been working out or I'm way more inebriated than I thought.

It doesn't stop me from continuing to pull away. I tell him to let me go, but he doesn't. I try to push him away, but he doesn't budge. All the while, he's asking me to stop moving but all I want to do is run away. It gets so bad, that, as I'm yelling and pulling, my foot slips, I lose my footing, and go flying.

Only this time, no one catches me.

I crash against the stairs, first my arms, then my shoulder. I cry out in pain, looking up at the guys. They look horrified, but I can't keep my focus on them for too long. Soon, everything goes blurry and my vision cuts in and out.

Then... nothing.

-

This is probably one of my favorite chapters I've written for this story so far. Thanks for reading.

-L.H.

[mariasont]

dangerous currents

sharing a wall with hotch means resorting to a midnight swim, you weren't expecting him to join you

pairing: aaron hotchner x sweetheart!reader warnings: fem!reader, midnight swim, reader alluding to some naughty thoughts, hotch accidentally grabs readers ass prompt: here wc: 1.2k

Honestly, you don’t recall consciously deciding to go swimming. One minute you’re wrestling with sheets that somehow manage to be both itchy and disappointingly thin, trapped in the endless loop of your overly chatty brain, and the next you’re thigh-deep in moonlit waves, saltwater lapping around you like a peace offering for your misery.

If you’re being brutally honest (and lately, brutal honesty seems to be your new best friend), your insomnia might have something, just a smidge, to do with Hotch lying just inches away, separated by drywall and what might as well be actual paper for insulation.

Your hearing has leveled up overnight, picking up every breath, every toss and turn from his side. 

It feels wrong, intrusive even, but also exhilaratingly intimate.

Which explains why, at two in the morning, you’re out here, counting on saltwater to settle your overactive mind and extinguish the stubborn heat flooding your face.

You’re mid-float when your instincts snap you upright, adrenaline spiking so fast you almost inhale a lungful of ocean.

There’s a shadow on the shoreline.

But then it steps forward, moonlight carving out the unmistakable angles of a handsome face that sends your stomach tumbling into your feet for a different but no less stressful reason.

Hotch.

You could laugh or cry, but instead, you quietly make your way towards the shore, waves breaking around your ankles.

“You scared me half to death,” you mumble, hugging your arms around your chilled body and feeling every bit like a reckless kid who’s just disappointed the one person she desperately wanted to impress.

“Do you know how unsafe it is to swim alone at night?” His lips press into a straight line. “Anything could’ve happened, and none of us would have any idea.”

“Sorry,” you exhale, sincerity tangled up with humiliation as your gaze flickers upward through wet lashes. 

You mean it. Of course you do — he looks worried, and that worry always seems worse when it’s aimed directly at you.

Hotch studies you for a second, then asks, “Do you plan on coming inside anytime soon?”

Going inside would be simpler. Easier. You could neatly sidestep this entire messy situation.

But the moment you close the door behind you, it’s back to square one — too quiet, too dark, thoughts screaming at you in surround sound.

A single creak of his bed, and suddenly you’re in dangerous territory. What if he sleeps shirtless? Or in boxers? What if that sound he just made is the result of an indecent dream?

And then, somehow, you are the indecent one, palms tingling with a restless need that used to feel rare but lately shows up with frustrating frequency.

All because of him.

“I think I’ll stay out for a little longer,” you say, tossing a forced shrug. “The ocean hasn’t tried to kill me yet, so I figure we’re on decent terms.” 

Hotch arches a brow at that, clearly unamused. He glances at the ocean, then back to you, a silent calculation taking place behind dark eyes.

Then, without warning, he grabs the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion, folding it once before tossing it onto the sand.

“What are you doing?”

He gives you a faint, reckless half-smile. “Making a bad decision.”

You laugh, more out of shock than anything else.

He steps toward the water, shirtless, and suddenly every thought you’ve ever had vacates your head.

Sure, yesterday you’d seen him on the beach, but that was distant and crowded, shielded by sunglasses and casual team conversation. 

Here, now, it’s just you, him, and the unsparing glow of moonlight revealing every agonizing thing you absolutely shouldn't notice. Like the dark dusting of chest hair, the disciplined sculpt of muscle across his torso, the line of hair drawing your gaze lower, lower —

You swallow roughly, stepping deeper into the water to physically pull yourself out of danger, but your gaze betrays you once more, darting sideways in helpless fascination.

“How did you know I was out here?”

“You’re not exactly quiet.”

Your blood turns to ice, then instantly flares hot. How did it never occur to you that if you could practically track his breathing patterns, he could easily have heard your shifting, your whispered curses, or worse, that one barely suppressed sigh when your imagination got carried away earlier.

“I guess not,” you mutter, “I didn’t realize you were listening.”

His laugh is quiet but genuine, and you’re surprised to find yourself smiling in return. How bizarre yet wonderful it is to witness the softer version of Hotch, miles away from the person he has to be at Quantico. You suddenly want very much to keep him like this.

“Funny,” he murmurs, “I was thinking the same thing about you.”

Your face instantly burns, and you’re suddenly extremely grateful for the darkness, although knowing your luck, that probably isn’t really doing you any favors. You force a shaky laugh, pretending you didn’t just hear the tease in his voice, or at least pretending it didn’t affect you.

“You really didn’t have to come out here,” you say, eyes fixed stubbornly on the horizon past his shoulders. “I would’ve been fine, you know.”

The water rises around your collarbones, licking under your chin with every small movement. Hotch stands barely submerged past his chest. Even nature is unreasonably biased toward him.

You dig your toes deeper into the sand, resisting the tide and the impulse that keeps nudging you closer to him.

“Someone has to make sure you don’t drown.” 

You open your mouth — to protest, maybe flirt (wishful thinking, obviously), or perhaps just awkwardly deflect — but before you can embarrass yourself further, a sudden wave crashes forward, knocking you straight into him.

Hotch barely budges, absorbing most of your momentum, but your hands land catastrophically. One lands safely on his chest, but the other falls disproportionately lower, fingers splayed over the enticing line of hair disappearing beneath his waistband. 

Simultaneously, his own hand catches your hip, then slides, firm and unintentional, on your ass.

Both of you freeze. 

“Sorry — I — um, the wave.” As if that clarifies anything at all.

Beneath your hand, his stomach tenses, his chest lifting with increasingly rapid breaths.

Still, Hotch doesn’t move, doesn't shift away. His palm stays exactly where it landed, warm, and surely, he has to know exactly what he’s doing. He has to.

“You’re freezing.”

“I —,” you start but whatever you meant to say disappears before it finishes forming. 

He slowly, almost reluctantly lifts his hand from you. Your skin sparks at the loss, hypersensitive where he just was.

When you meet his eyes again, something new flickers there — something you’re certain wasn’t present before tonight. 

Want.

It’s a look he’s taught you to recognize — eyes darkening, pupils dilating, respiration just a bit quicker. Except this isn’t an interrogation room, and the person in front of you is not a suspect, he’s Hotch.

And this want feels very, very personal.

But he only nods once, then glances toward the beach house.

“We should get out of the water.” 

You don’t want to get out. Every part of you rebels at the idea of leaving this bubble. This fragile space that’s somehow made everything else feel distant, unreal.

But you can’t deny the truth in what he doesn't say. If this boundary were broken tonight, there’s no going back, no returning to the careful neutrality you’ve both perfected.

So, you nod slowly, forcing acceptance as your heart protests.

He moves first, and you fall into step beside him, close enough that your shadows merge.

join me at the beach for my 1 year/4k event!

day 1 extras

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maria's spring break getaway masterlist

[littlerequiem]

we mourned the sea ˚⁎⁺ chapter 4

> Crossposted on AO3

Levi hasn't seen you in a year, and he wonders how you will find him. Changed, perhaps. Lost, definitely. Or: After the war, you and Levi learn to live in this new world.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 - Levi Ackerman / Female Reader (Attack on Titan)

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 - Rated Explicit (18+). Post-Canon, Post-War, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Domestic, Fluff, Angst, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Grumpy/Sunshine, Friends to Lovers, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Chronic Pain, Panic Attack, Depression, Ambulatory Wheelchair Use (WC: 4.1k) A special thanks to @sixpennydame for her help on this chapter.

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Your eyes lock with his. Amber light kisses half of his face, placing the shadows under his eyes in the spotlight. They seem more present the nights before expeditions.

He raises a brow, as if asking, ‘what demons are you running from?’

“I draw,” your voice fills the silence. “Nights before expeditions. It helps me clear my head.”

.

.

.

The first memory Levi has of his mother is him combing through her long, black hair.

Not many could keep long hair in the Underground. The lack of sun exposure, for one, made it hard to keep healthy hair. And if not that, the lice usually did it. When it struck a brothel, women and men either found a way to kill those nasty fuckers or they were forced to shave their hair and wear cheap wigs instead.

And yet, his mother did manage. It was one of the things that drew men to her—Olympia and her hair that shone like midnight.

Kuchel’s hair was black, and it did, at times, seem to be made of darkness itself. Only, it was none of the misery found in the shadows of the Underground. Instead, it felt more like the darkness found in the night sky. Liquid starlight. Levi remembers running his fingers through her hair, marveling at the contrast of it against the paleness of his skin. 

Yes, Kuchel Ackerman’s hair was beautiful. Elegant, even.

When she died, people often told Levi he was her spitting image. He doesn’t know about that—he often wonders if people only said this out of pity, a handout to somehow assuage his grief, or if they truly meant it. But Levi supposes that if he inherited something, it is his mother’s hair. He has a decent amount of it, thick and dark, and when he runs his hand through it, he feels a little part of his mother in him.

Beyond that, he is different.

Levi has known for a long time that he is nothing special to look at. He’s boyish, nothing like the people Levi’s met over the years—men and women born with the right set of genes under the right set of circumstances. Levi isn’t like that, and that’s fine. He’s not a self-conscious man. He knows his worth.

Still, the question begs to be asked: knowing all of this, why do you choose him as your subject today?

Levi looks up from his reading, considering this very question. Early morning is in full bloom, and Levi’s sitting around the table on the porch, enjoying his first tea of the day while reading the newspaper—two activities he’s neglected these past minutes. 

He’s been too busy pretending not to see you hiding your sketchbook.

What are you even hiding it for? You’re not fooling anyone. If your seated position—knees pulled in under a blanket, tools tucked behind both—wasn’t a dead giveaway, your face is. It always carries an intensity to it whenever you draw. Tight, puckered lips, like you were extorting all the pressure to the center of your face. A crinkling of concentrated brows. Vivid eyes, sharp with focus.

Levi reels all his restlessness in his fists. He should not interrupt you. He will not.

This is, as far as Levi is aware, the first time you are picking up a pencil in the last three years. The first time you show an interest in getting back into drawing at all, in fact, in the time since the Rumbling.

Which explains why Levi’s frozen like a statue, scared to pop this moment.

Don’t say anything, he tells himself. Don’t fucking ruin it for her.

Levi remembers the first time he caught you drawing like this. It was an evening before an expedition, one of the first ones that followed Isabel’s and Furlan’s deaths. Everyone huddled around the campfire, but you sat alone. He’d approached you then, the loner he was, seeking your presence like a moth to a flame. He remembers that look you wore when he caught you—wide eyes and parted lips. You thought he’d come to judge, to call you a creep for drawing others.

Instead, Levi asked if he could watch.

(Later, he would even tell you the hard truth—to keep on doing what you did, because this was the only way to immortalize every face, that many men and women in your drawings would not come back.)

From there on, Levi would often catch you drawing here and there. Cadets, squad leaders, horses—no subject seemed out of reach. He remembers Hange even trying to convince you to draw titans on a particular expedition (“Unfortunately, Hange, I think drawing a real-life titan, while also on a moving horse, would end in my untimely death.” “Boo…”).

You loved to draw and Levi loved to watch.

They say an artist’s gaze is alluring, and while Levi can agree your eyes have this magnetic way of pulling him in, there’s another thing Levi loves to watch.

It’s your hands. With them, you draw lines on paper. With them, you bring tenderness and kindness. With them, you heal people.

Recently, Levi's started to wonder how your hands would feel on him. The memories of last night are still on his mind; Levi remembers just how close you got to him.

“Hey, what do you think Erwin and Hange would be doing if they were with us?” your voice cuts through the silence.

Levi’s fingers twitch against the newspaper in his lap. For a moment, he wonders if he misheard you.

But no… you really asked.

And Levi has no answer. 

This is the first time you’ve brought up this subject—brought them up. It isn’t that Levi doesn’t want to talk about Erwin and Hange, but he doesn’t remember the last time he could talk about anyone from his past. He thinks the 104th sometimes walks on eggshells around him, as if bringing names up might summon a curse best left forgotten.

But he supposes, if anyone would want to talk about the Survey Corps veterans, it would be you.

He’s grateful that it’s you.

“Erwin,” Levi clears his throat, “Erwin would bury himself in knowledge. That know-it-all would probably run the local library by now.”

You perk up, eyes bright. “Ohh, good one. See, I would have bet on him becoming a teacher, but now that you mention that, well, I change my mind.”

Levi grunts in agreement, imagining Erwin following in his father’s footsteps. Fitting. "He’d do both. Read a book while lecturing you about another one." 

“He totally would.”

An excited smile graces your lips then, just as you focus back on your sketchbook. The low morning light catches the scar on your face, and Levi thinks he would love to trace over it with his fingertips, to bestow softness where there was once pain.

Instead, he watches as you turn back to your sketchbook.

“Erwin would have books from everywhere, I’m sure of it,” you muse. “He’d have an entire collection of it.”

“Yeah, his home would be a mess.”

You snort, raising a brow at him. “You’d help him sort it out, wouldn’t you?”

“Fuck no, I'm not his fucking maid.” Levi scrunches his nose, remembering how often he used to clean after Hange and Erwin. “Erwin would need to learn to clean once and for all. Until then, I’m not stepping foot into his house.”

“Tough love, huh? Well... that just means he’d have an excuse to come here then, to enjoy the porch the way we are now.”

Levi makes a non-committal noise. 

“What kind of book do you reckon he’d be reading?”

Levi shrugs, throwing an arm to the back of the chair. “You’d know better. You were a member of his book cult.”

You roll your eyes. “It wasn't a cult, 'Vi.”

“At one point, you met every Sunday evening. Sounds like a cult to me.”

You tilt your head, amusement gleaming in your eyes. “You know, some might call knowing so much about a bookclub you’re not a part of rather creepy.”

“Please.” Levi shoots you a look. “You wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“That’s because we always hoped you’d join on your own. We all considered you our non-official member, you know.” Amusement flashes across your face as you seemingly scour past memories. “Like... a grumpy mascot, or something.”

Levi clicks his tongue, shaking his head dismissively.

Silence falls. Levi takes to watching the horizon. This side of the house with the porch faces the ocean; from here, it’s just a few minutes walk to the beach. Levi can tell that the waves are calm today, that the tide is low; he can’t make out the sound of water. 

“What about Hange, then?”

Levi’s gaze focuses back on you as you ask this question; you’ve placed your bare feet on the chair, one arm looped around your knees and propping your chin on it.

“I think Hange would’ve poured themselves into modern inventions,” you say. “They only got to see some of Marley’s technology, but Kopon’s nation is more advanced, so I’m sure they would have wanted to go there... or at least see what remains of it.” 

Levi thinks if Hange’s life hadn’t been cut short, that they would have followed in Onyonkopon’s footsteps and ended up working on those damn flying machines. They showed such an interest for trains and moving vehicles—something Levi could never understand. Flying seems like the natural next step. 

He tells you as much.

“Walls, you’re right," you say. "We’d look up at the sky and see one of their inventions. I’m sure about it.”

“Yeah,” Levi suspects there’s fondness in his tone just about now, “we would.”

There’s a lull in the conversation, where Levi can just admire the sky and the clouds and you. He thinks this exact view would make a nice subject for a drawing—if he could draw.

It might be this realization that causes him to speak up, “Hey…”

“Mm?

“What are you sneaking around for?”

Your eyes fleet up, at first surprised, before melting away into a sheepish expression. You lift a hand to scratch the back of your neck, like Levi catching you hiding your sketchbook was somehow shameful. 

“You noticed, huh?”

“Hard to miss,” Levi mutters, brows scrunching low, “you’re shit at hiding.”

“Hey!”

“Face the truth, Adler. I’m half-blind and even I noticed.”

“You say that like you’re not one of the most perceptive people I know... I’m pretty sure you’re still leagues above everyone else.” You take to tapping the eraser side of the pencil against the arms of the seat. When you glance back at him, your expression softens. “Fine, you caught me. I was drawing you. But... well. It’s just that you’re easy to draw, Levi. Drawing you feels… natural, I guess. Always did.”

At that, Levi doesn’t have a reply. There’s a burning sensation forming in his belly, a flutter that’s close to panic, only he knows it is not quite that.

“Sorry,” you say, “does it... does it bother you? I can stop.”

“It’s fine…” Levi exhales, heat prickling at his cheeks. His fingers tighten on his knee. "Though I don't know why you bother." 

A light breeze picks up his bangs; he gets a whiff of salt and sand. 

“I guess I never told you before, but… you’ve always been a good subject,” you say. “See, everyone always thought of you as this no-nonsense soldier and, sure, you were that, too, but... I don't know. Those evenings when you’d sit by the fire and read, or stare into the flames, there was... something that slipped through the cracks.”

“Something.”

“Yeah. Something.”

“And now? Why draw me now?”

“And now… and now it seems like the easiest thing. Muscle memory, you know? My emotions are easier on paper than they are in my head.”

A ball forms in Levi’s throat. He wants to ask you about what sort of emotions you’re trying to make sense of, but saying those words seems unwise right now. Impossible, some might even say. 

“Keep on drawing, then,” is all he manages. 

For the rest of the morning, Levi sits in the quiet, watching you draw—something he never thought he’d get to experience again.

.

.

.

“Stay safe,” you tell him by the stables. You’re geared up for the expedition, your horse’s reins in hand.

Levi says nothing, but he squeezes your shoulder to convey his own words: Don’t die.

.

.

.

“Marigolds, periwinkles, carnations. These flowers will go right here, here, and… here. What do you think, ‘Vi?”

Levi squints, trying to ignore the glare in his eyes cast by the sun. He follows your delicate finger, pointing to spots in the garden, filled with different colors and scents.

“Looks like flowers in dirt,” Levi mutters.

You chuckle, placing a marker beside each plot of turned soil.

As promised, Levi is helping you decide what to plant where today. Ever since lunch, the two of you have been treating the space like a canvas that’s yours to fill—sectioning the land, preparing the soil, uprooting and transplanting potted flowers out of their containers, assigning them to specific spots of dirt. 

“I picked these flowers because they’re supposed to be good for beginners.” You roll your shoulders back as you shrug off your stiff crouching position. “I wonder if they’ll thrive.”

Levi makes a noncommittal noise in response, not knowing the answer to that question. He shifts his weight from one leg to another, trying to ignore the way his shirts clings to his skin. 

On account of the warm weather today, Levi has rolled up the sleeves of his flannel shirt. He’s currently trying to ignore the urge to scratch at his forearms—rashes from an overexposure of sun. Levi knows he ought to go back inside, but he stays rooted to his spot. He tells himself it’s because he promised to help, though he knows you’d chastise him if you noticed the state of his skin.    

He slides his sleeves back down before you notice. 

“They look like every other flower to me,” he finally declares, eying the delicate petals between your fingers, “fragile.”

“Well, flowers are more vulnerable than other plants, I’ll give you that. But you gotta trust in the process, right?”

“S’not about trust,” Levi places a hand on his hip, attempting to fan himself using the edge of his shirt, “just don’t want you getting all mopey if they die.”

You snort. “I won’t. We used to grow herbs near the infirmary back on Paradis, remember? Sure it’s not much different.”

Levi isn’t so sure about that, but he doesn’t say a thing. What does he know about growing things, anyway? All he’s ever seen of flowers is how they’re laid on graves. 

From the corner of his eye, he catches you looking at him. Something soft lingers in your expression, like you want to say something, but you don’t. He looks away before you can. There’s dirt smudged across your cheek, he realizes. He should tell you. Or wipe it off. But he does neither.

“Hey, did you know flowers have unique meanings here in Marley?” you say, breaking the silence. “That each color and species is symbolic of a specific emotion?” You point to a cluster of yellow petals. “The girl working in the library, she explained it to me. Yellow marigolds represent passion. Purple periwinkles serenity. And pink carnations are all about gratitude.”

Levi studies each one, committing the names to memory without really knowing why. “So you use them to express feelings and shit?” 

“Something like that.”

“Sounds like a pain.”

“Maybe. But some people like the poetry behind such gifts. Others like the game. And sometimes, people are just too shy to say the words out-loud, so they find comfort in finding other ways to express themselves.” 

“Is there a flower that says you’re a pain in the ass?” 

“Not that I know of.” You quirk a brow up at him. “Is that one directed at me?”

“Who else?”

That isn't the whole story. If flowers really meant something, you’d need a whole damn garden for everything he doesn’t say. No flower could say it all. But Levi doesn’t quite say that, either. 

Instead, he gestures toward the porch stairs. “What about those?”

You follow his line of sight, spotting the blue flowers you planted your first weekend here. 

“Oh, that’s technically a herb,” you say. “Myosotis. The forget-me-not flower. It represents... love, in many ways.”

Levi watches the forget-me-nots shift with the wind. In the distance, Scout lunges at a butterfly, and misses. He exhales through his nose, watching her try again. Stubborn little thing.

“Hey, can I ask for your help?” You shift beside him, adjusting your grip on a bundle of flowers. “I’m having a hard time digging this hole. I think there're pebbles blocking the way, but I’m scared these flowers will get all tangled up if they're not held properly.”

Levi peers over the edge of the garden plot. You’re planting carnations, holding them with one hand as you attempt to shovel a hole with the other. 

He grumbles something beneath his breath but walks closer anyway, his cane digging against the turned soil. With a slow, careful movement, Levi lowers himself onto the grass, shifting onto his uninjured leg before dropping onto his ass with a dull thud. He leans his cane against his knee and reaches for the flowers.

With a parting smile, you move back to your task. You shift your weight by pressing onto your knees, using the small shovel to push stubborn roots and obstacles aside.

Incidentally, it also gives Levi the perfect view of your ass.

And fuck, if your gardening outfit (worn-out denim overalls with a white t-shirt) didn’t already make his mind swim, this view now certainly does.

Not for the first time since you arrived, Levi has to wonder about the questionable fashion choices from Marley, and why it's having such an effect on him all of a sudden. Levi’s lived through war, through hell, and yet here he is, losing a battle against a damn pair of overalls.

His fingers tighten slightly around the stems in his hand before he can help it, but he forces them to relax. 

What a pain. 

Levi knows human attraction is perfectly natural; he's experienced his share of it across his life. But human attraction hasn't mattered to him for a long time. 

He’d be lying if it didn't matter now.

Because, not for the first time since you arrived—Levi finds his mind wandering. He imagines leaning back into the grass, his hand pressed on your lower back as he helps you stay balanced crouching. He tries to envision the texture of your overalls under his fingers. Would it be rough, or would it be soft—soft, like what he pictures your skin’s texture to be? How would you even react if he touched you? His touch would probably repulse you, right?

And yet, last night, he swore—

Levi closes his eyes, groaning inwardly.

This is ridiculous. 

Is this really all because of last night, when he thought he saw you leaning in? Fuck, for all he knows, everything he saw was just a figment of his imagination. A trick of the light. He’s only able to see from one eye—should he really be relying on his sight to make judgment calls? 

Sweat trickles now down his back, thick like honey. 

“Oi,” he blurs out, desperate to derail his own thoughts. “After all this shit grows, what then? Gonna run a flower empire or what?”

“Hm... I’m not sure if I’d make for a very good florist.”

“You'd learn.”

“Maybe, but I’m afraid my motivations are more... selfish, in that regard. I guess I just wanted to experience what it was like, to tend to a garden. Do things normal people do, you know?” 

Levi stays silent. Scout meows in the distance, missing her butterfly again.

“And I figured you might like something nice in your home,” you add casually.  

At that, Levi has to click his tongue, the sound sharp against the wind. He looks out at the horizon. “I’m not much for pretty things.”

(That’s not entirely true. There’s you, and he’s certainly into your prettiness, as exemplified by the way his body is reacting in your proximity.)

“Who ever needs pretty things?” you point out. Levi frowns, turning his attention to you again. The sight of you surrounded by a myriad of flowers is like something straight out of a painting. Enchanting.“That’s the point of prettiness. It’s there to bring people joy, it’s there to be admired and inspiring. It may not be needed, but it’s appreciated, right?”

Levi's suddenly reminded of his mother, of the way she used to keep the house clean, of the way she used to teach him to drink tea. 

He remembers asking her why she bothered. In his memories, her voice is soft like a feather. “Because it is pretty and elegant,” his mother answered, “and you are all those things, my Levi.” 

“Are you aware that even animals like pretty things?” By now, you’re a little out of breath from all the shoveling. You wipe your forehead with the back of your hand. “Take pigs, for example. We think of them as dirty animals because of how they’re kept by humans, but... out in the wild, they’re pretty clean. They even like to decorate their homes with things they collect.”

“Tch. Are you comparing this to a pig’s sty?”

You laugh. “'Course not. But what I’m trying to say... what I’m trying to say is that this garden feels like planting something… I don’t know, hopeful. Not because we need it for anything, but because it just... it just exists.”

Levi doesn’t respond right away. Instead, his hand test the soil between his fingertips. He thinks about how he used to hate the feel of dirt under his nails—how it reminded him of crawling his way out the Underground, of survival. That sentiment hasn’t changed here, only he finds himself being... willing to be in this state. 

“S'not so bad,” he murmurs. 

Later, when Levi finally reaches out to place his handkerchief in your hand, telling you there's dirt on your face, he’ll come to another realization: that for the first time, he doesn’t have to worry that it’s blood you’re wiping away.  

Just a bit of dirt. 

.

.

.

It’s like blood rains from the skies that day.

The expedition is declared a disaster.

.

.

.

A few days later, when Levi comes home from work, he finds another gift waiting for him on his dresser.

You’re not home tonight; you’ve volunteered to help with the preparations for the upcoming festival, so he doesn’t get any opportunities to scold you for spending your money on him—again. 

Instead, Levi unravels your letter. 

Levi, Mark my words, you’ll see that flowers have their use-cases, even for a tea-maniac like you. I hope this suits your taste. -A

Levi unwraps the gift, guessing already what its content might be. He isn’t disappointed. The bag contains loose tea leaves, filled to the brim, along with tiny white buds that remind Levi of snow. 

Elegant cursive adorns the note on the satchel, its reading clear as day: 

Jasmine flower tea. 

I hope you enjoyed this update. The plot is going to start picking up from next chapter onwards, so I hope you can look forward to that ^^ If you have time, I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments as they really keep me going. Take care!

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[dilf-docs]

Misery Reigns My Lonely Neon Nights

old man!logan x younger fem!reader

summary: logan should've said no. should've just drove the pretty waitress home. that's his job. hers is to serve his cup of coffee to the brim. so why is he riding you to his house?

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap (cause we have a small daddy kink going on here.. hence the blog name BUT I DO HAVE A GOOD DAD), smut, this reeks of corruption kink for no reason other than me being a virgin whore, like he gets stalker-ish for a second but its logan howlett so we forgive him<3 ya está viejito, brief mention of suicide, sub logan edging on praising kink (if u squint), no protection but u gotta put the hat on the cowboy to ride the horse alr, riding, breeding kink??? angst (the depressing vibes are there cause they follow my writing like a shadow ijbol)

word count: 6,102 words (at the v crack of dawn.. i think i've gone insane FR it's 02:07 am and my brain its eating itself like im gonna start seeing logan in the corner of my room)

side note: newbie here after reading so many fanfics on tumblr but never publishing my own!! its hugh's birthday (well, its past midnight so no more but still!!! it was a couple hours ago) so i figured i should give it a try today cause that man does things to me ESPECIALLY as old man logan i can't lie and say the thought of him fucking me good and slow hasn't crossed my mind too many times 😩 we love sad hot old people in here so naturally my inaguration fic had to be done by him. also, i'm tired of scrapping for votes, comments, and interactions on wattpad so please treat me well during our first:// it's me moving to tumblr it's me hi i'm the problem it's me. i'm a feedback whore so pls leave tons of those!! also, english isn't my first language so if i make a grammar mistake pls do not tell me bc i have no respect for this language ―it just makes me cringe less to write smut on a language that isn't mine lol<3 but if there's any other mistake yes pls do tell me thank u OKAY BYE i needa quit yapping ENJOY dilf town<3

So it started something like this.

It was another simple nightshift for Logan. The weather humid, uncomfortably sticking the fabric of his white button shirt onto his skin. Even with the windows down. Those nights that the driving dragged on for long, like those cigarettes that now made him cough more than relax. The roads felt too long; his eyes too heavy.

Nothing new. Just about what to expect: money short, clients and traffic equally annoying. But that was the problem; nothing was new anymore.

He'd just finish dropping a customer close by, and since the tiring feeling didn't seem to leave his body just yet, a coffee wouldn't hurt. As a matter of fact, the need for a boost to make it home makes him get out of the car and limp his way into the first place his tired vision sees.

The rim of his recently adquired reading glasses slips as he climbs the stairs into the decades old diner, the decoration outdated. He understands; he feels the same way.

Neon lights flash his face when he enters the place and sits in the farthest booth he can find. The air is impregnated in grease and cheap coffee, but he waits at least fifty minutes to order, giving his body some time to rest. In the meanwhile, he tries to distract himself with the newspaper resting on the table, but God knows his eyes are too tired and his mind drifts every two words.

He hopes he doesn't get kicked out, judging from the attentive look he's receiving by a waitress resting on the bar. She looks as bored and tired as he does.

Maybe that's why he chooses her, raising his hand with order in mind. A black coffee. The waitress slides from her position and takes some steps to where he sits.

Her voice is sweet when she introduces herself, and Logan finds himself asking her again what her name is, pretending he's half deaf just to listen to it again.

"It's y/n" you repeat, oh so sickeningly sweet, he might have to skip on asking for sugar.

"Y/n" he savours the name on his lips, trying the tender sound, his eyes darting to the name tag, like he's confirming it. Testing to see if the young woman in front of him is real. Maybe his eyes linger a little too long, and the tip of your ears start to heat. Its the way he examines every feature on your face, like memorizing it in a sense, that makes you squirm. But maybe, just maybe, it's the small―brief, peak he gives to your exposed cleavage, pushing itself against the tight fabric of your uniform what truly gets your heart beating fast.

He looks like what your parents would warn you to stay away and your friends would talk behind your back. Rugged in a way that screams heartbreak, rough around edges your kind nature wishes to soften. It's unresonable to feel this way about a client you just met, but his aloof demeanor peaks your interest, so different from your usual costumers and familiar faces that pop up at the diner.

"Can I order you, darling?" his voice comes out deep, almost passing as a grunt. Just what you imagined it to sound. Why he's acting as his past self so effortlessly, after closing himself off to the point of going by entire days without talking more than three words, is concerning. Why the cute waitress who looks at him with doe eyes, expectant to take his order, is making him break the promise he made to himself not to get attached again―just live by enough to make it to the sea and put a bullet in his head.

"Well, that's just about my job" you joke, feeling confident for no reason. "But you can't order me".

"A damn shame" he chuckles, the sound deep, rumbling on his chest. It's been so long since he's laughed like that: carefree, without that pressing weight on his chest, that despite the sinking notion, sometimes feels more like a hole carved where his heart is supposed to be.

"So..." you trail off, unsure where to proceed after that sound that jolted your entire system awake, "what will you take?"

The banter dies, and Logan is dissapointed when she scribbles the dark coffee on her pretty round letter and walks away. He doesn't miss the sway of her hips, and almost calls her back just to hear her voice again. But he stops himself, because it's getting pathetic.

When she returns with her order, he almost regrets the comeback of his enhaced senses, her honeyed perfume mixed with the bitter smell of the freshly brewed coffee, creating an intoxicating mix.

His lips burn when he sips it, but that doesn't stop him from emptying the cup. Again. And again. All in the name for asking for more coffee, a magnetic force pulling him to the ground, making him forget he's a 200 and something year old man begging like a starved man for at least a fraction of her attention. He feels unworthy of your warmth.

He feigns interest on the newspaper when you return again (he's been stuck on the same paragraph ever since he sat down), the pot in your hands. If you've noticed he's emptied the cups faster than a normal person, you don't ask questions. He's thankful, but can see the amusement and confusion laced across your pretty face.

"More?" you ask, but it's unnecesary. He only nods, and you miss the chatter.

The closeness it's a challenge itself, the uniform's neckline practically shoved down his nose while she fills the cup to the brim. He hears his own heartbeat, the sound averting his attention from another "brief" glance at the cleavage. Is it intentional? Is your goodwill and act? Are you this cruel, playing with an old touch starved man like that?

God knows it's been long since he's had a helping hand during his relief hours.

He can't help it; he's a man, after all. So he seizes the moment and steals a glance. But his eyes meet yours, the wary green clashing with the cozy chocolate. There's warmth on your eyes, and he's looking at your tits like an animal. He pulls away, ashamed. The shirt feels a bit suffocating, and there's sweat on his forehead again. Great, you'll think he's a perv.

"Excuse me" you say, leaving his table. Logan is afraid of having fucked it up for thinking with this dick and not with his head. You were messing too much with his head, and now he'll pay the price. Fair, he thinks, for a perverted old man trying to woo a girl younger and far more innocent than him.

There's benevolance on her smile and blood on his hands.

The whole situation is stupid.

But then he's thinking of excuses (like saying it's his failing eyesight's fault) and something close to an apology, as if he cares a little too much about what you think. And then you come back.

"I forgot to bring you a napkin" she lies, leaving the piece of paper in the middle of the table. You laugh, and Logan let's you because 1. He deserves it, and 2. It's a sound as saccharine as the smell the freshly heated pies emit on the table across him.

You leave before he can even open his mouth, so all he's left with is the napkin that seems to have something written on it. Pervert, he reads, on the same calligraphy you scribbled on your bloc. He can't help but laugh, even with your watchful look on him.

That's how it continued.

Even if he had other rides and more energy to drive, he kept coming to the decaying diner just to see you. Almost as if he was forgetting his desperate need for the money, the boat goal further and further.

"You've forgotten about me" complained Charles, although his tone lacked of bite. "But I'm not mad that you've had".

He'd go on, rambling about living life but Logan just laughed. Yet, maybe he was right. Didn't even need his powers to know it.

Now, you? you simply couldn't get enough of your favorite costumer. Of his late stays until you closed, sometimes not muttering more than necessary, yet his company, even if curt, proved to be what you needed to make it through work, giving you a legitimate reason to yearn the before tedious night shifts.

Despite this two month weird relationship, Logan is as a stranger to you as he was the first day, no matter how many times you've tried to get him to talk. In the end, all your conversation efforts feel more of a monologue than a chat.

He knows about your mom and your dad, one strict the other dead. He knows most of your friends names, what you're studying and what you wanted to. Your dreams and your hopes, your aspirations, failures, and some other things you'd never say to anyone else out loud. All and nothing. And he listens, sometimes asking questions, but never about himself. He never takes the lead.

So frustration from the Logan enigma pours into you, the puzzle pieces layed out over your mind, consuming your thoughts. So now you're stubbornly cleaning the same grease spot on a table you've already wipped before, and that, coincidentally, it's the booth in front of Logan, the permanent resident of your head during these past weeks. You might as well make him start paying rent by now, his power and hold over you ridiculous.

"It's not going anywhere. Take it easy" he mocks you.

There's a bit of annoyance when you reply back, although it's mostly superficial. "Don't know what you're talking about" comes out your dry response, earning a low chuckle from him.

"How about you sit for a moment?" he offers, ignoring your apathy. "You're almost done cleaning up".

If his ever changing attitude isn't enough, closing this night's shift is as tiring.

Logan doesn't expect you to obey, but now you're sitting across from him, and a voice in his head says you maybe feel sorry for this lunatic old man.

You're so close, he can see the eye bags and sorrow you are far tired to try to hide.

"I have to finish cleaning" you explain, "we're about to close".

He doesn't know why he says it, or what takes over him when he says:

"I could wait for you"

He surprises himself and surprises you too.

"No need" you assure, and why does he feel so dissapointed. It's stupid. "My friend picks me up".

Ah, yes. The friend with the perfect stupid smile that picks you up every night. Not like he parks his car until you leave and sees the scene unfold each time, his white knuckle grip on the wheel a bit too much when the young boy opens up your door. Makes him see red, knowing he's your age and maybe the breathe of fresh air you need. Not a man far older, who bears too many sins and scars in and out.

"I see" he says after some minutes in silence, retracting his impulsiveness. "I'm sorry if I made you-"

"No!" you clarify hastily, "it doesn't bother me".

He smiles unconsciously in relief.

"Well, me neither. I insist. If you change your mind" he's practically begging, despite his monotone tone.

But you don't.

The place closes and Logan is forced to get in the car. He lights a cigarette, in no hurry to return home. The lighter lights up while the diner's light goes off. You and your boss come out, biding each other goodbye. She leaves and you're is left alone, hugging your body in the early morning cold. 

He sees you wearing particular clothes, for the first time. He takes a slow drag on his cigarette, eyes running up and down your bare legs, the fragile fabric of the skirt fluttering in the wind. He exhales, watching as you dials your phone several times, getting no response, obviously frustrated.

He mutters something under his breath, and maybe there is a God after all. He starts the car, approaching her, who has already noticed it, probably because of the noise of the engine.

She looks scared, but Logan rolls down the window so she can see it's him.

"Need'a ride?"

Just by his reverberant sound you could accept. But you try to play cool for a while, despite your aching bones and need to get home.

"He doesn't answer" he was right, "my friend".

I know, he wishes to say, but he's the same hot headed asshole who walked through the doors of the X mansion for the first time, so his tone will be laced with irony. He doesn't want you to see him as an intense hot blooded mouth.

I could take you. His head pounds but he shuts the emotions down.

He shoves the knot on his throat down and asks as casually as possible, "do you live close?"

"Just around the corner" you answer. A beat, your frame bending so he can see your face from the driver's sit, the cleavage saying hello again. How considerate of you. "Do you really want to do this?"

Do you really want to do this?

The question rings on his ears. It holds more than just the favor. Logan knows they have a certain tension between them that he no longer wants to ignore. For the first time it seems to be reciprocated; palpable, and he is surprised to hear his heart beating loudly, so accustomed to hearing others' with his sharp senses, constantly forgetting what his own sounds like. Yours also beats erratically, despite your calm composure.

You arch an eyebrow, amused. "I can't believe you waited for me. Your family must be worried."

Logan realizes you're trying to test waters. So he raises his hand discreetly and places it on the door, so you can see the lack of a ring. As expected, your eyes travel to his free finger, and he can swear he sees you breathe with relief, which is funny, because in case you hadn't picked up until now, Logan is very much fucking alone.

"In case you changed your mind," he answers. "I have nowhere else to be."

That is enough of an invitation for you to get in the car.

"I was going to open that door for you" he protests.

You only laugh as you buckle the seatbelt. "It's not that big of a deal, really. You've already done enough for me by doing me the favor".

"It's not that big of a deal" he repeats your words, "as long as I'm of help, that's enough for me".

He smiles wistfully, remembering better times. A part of him still aspires to be that hero everyone loved and remembered, something that clearly doesn't happen anymore (or if it does, it's rare), given the lack of recognition of his former identity in El Paso. He shakes his head, focusing back on the street in front of him. It's too late to get fucking sentimental.

"I like to help too…" you confess, meekly. Logan sighs, how could he not know? "My father used to say that I had the kindest heart he'd ever met. I hope it stays that way, and that when he looks down on me, he's proud".

It hurts Logan to see you be so hard on yourself, as if he didn't do the same.

"I bet all the customers in the place would say you're the sweetest thing they've met", he sees you smile from the corner of his eye, and can't help but emulate it. "Believe me, you're their favorite".

"Thank you, Logan" you say sincerely. However, the affliction that he hates to see crosses your face. So gloomy that you don't even seem the same person.

You wipe away an unexpected tear, but Howlett is faster and notices. You turn around, looking towards the window. Then, you catch a glimpse of his license.

"So… you're a driver" you try to break the silence that Logan has put without knowing why. Maybe to give you some space after being sentimental and opening up again to this closed off wall name Logan, but he knows it's a lie. He's scared. After wanting so much to be closer to you, he cowers, not trusting himself and what he would do trapped in a small space with such an attractive woman. Besides, the tension from the previous conversation was still there.

"You judging me now, honey?" the pet name rolls off his tongue before he catches it. He tries to play it cool, continuing the banter, carrying the same tone. "The only thing necessary to make you trust me was to give you a free ride?

"I'm in your car, Logan. I got in without thinking" you laugh. "I believe that's enough trust"

"Then, I'll keep doing you favors. Maybe if I do…" he trails off.

Your voice drops an octave, provocative. "Maybe what?"

His knuckles grip the steering wheel until they turn white.

"Maybe…" he hesitates, "maybe…"

"It's here" you point out. Shit, Logan curses, braking abruptly without meaning to.

"See you tomorrow" you bid as a goodbye, getting out of the car. Logan misses your smell.

So he sticks his head out the window, like a begging dog.

"How about now?" he says a bit forcefully.

Your face shows surprise and something else.

"You're getting attached" you reply, and he doesn't know why there seems to be sadness in your voice.

"I just keep coming back for the coffee" he defends himself.

You laugh, shaking your head "Now, then. For the coffee, clearly."

"I can leave" he says. Yet, makes no move to leave.

You sigh, giving him one last look. Surrender, he reads.

"You're a driver, right?" he nods, taking in every word coming of your pink plush lips. "Then let's drive off. Anywhere" your voice trails off, and you're just so tired of everything, you'll just let go yourself with the flow. "I'll go wherever you go..."

And this is how it ends.

When you wake up, it's almost dawn.

Logan had suggested you to sleep, claming the road where he was taking you to be long. He had covered you with his jacket, even if your body was burning from nerves.

Why had you agreed? Your mom would probably smack your head in search for some sense, and your reckless friends would encourage you to do it for the sake of a story. But something about Logan makes you feel safe, despite not knowing anything from him. It's sort of a sense of protection―like he would never hurt you, that envelops him. Everyone else would call you crazy; only you can understand that.

When your eyes adjust to the light, you realize you're in a line of cars.

"Did you bring me to the border?" you exclaim groggily, still in a sleepy voice.

"Good morning" he answers instead.

You rub yoou eyes, settling into the passenger seat.

"You're not going to kidnap me, right?" you question, half joking half serious.

Logan laughs, "Not only that. I'm also going to throw your body in a mass grave"

"It's not funny," you pout, although you're laughing too.

Once you've crossed the border, Logan drives a few more minutes, until he reaches a restricted area.

“I live here” he answers before you can ask, “saves rent and questions”

After opening the locks, you can better appreciate the place. Well, appreciate may not be the right word.

“It's an abandoned smelting plant” you voice out loud.

Logan just nods. You realize that he didn't like the comment, so you try not to talk about it anymore.

“Come” he gets out of the car, going to open your door. He offers you a hand, and you fail to hide your smile.

“You didn't miss this time, huh? Quite a gentleman” you praise. Then, add jokingly, “if you choose to kill me, at least I'll die taken care of".

“Stop talking nonsense and go inside” he scolds but smiles.

Inside, the abandoned plant is exactly what you expected.

"We're alone" Logan says, after leaving to check. He opens the door to his room, letting you in. There's not much inside, just a bed and scattered things. A yellowish light begins to filter through the broken glass. "I'mma change. Be right back".

You begin to explore your surroundings, to avoid thinking about the impact of the situation. Two things could happen: leave or stay. Maybe everything was going too fast, but you prided yourself on your spontaneity, often confused with impulsiveness. Others would say it was your naive nature: too innocent for your own good.

What had led you to accept without further ado? Was trust enough, that you had even fallen asleep in his car?

"S'rry for the wait"

You notice that Logan's gotten rid of his formal attire, leaving him in just slacks and an old white tank top. His muscles flex with every movement, making you swallow involuntarily. He still retains his extraordinary physique, despite his greying hair. She can't help but stare at the scars that cover his exposed skin, her fingers itching to trace them.

"Haven't they told ya' t's rude to stare?"

You look away, embarrassed. Logan walks over to the bed, bumping into you in the process, bodies barely touching. Still, an electric shock runs through you. You hug yourself, scared, aware of the effect he has on you.

"Logan" she dares to ask, "what are we doing?"

He finally looks at you. You feel naked under his intense gaze.

"What do you want us to do?"

His voice comes out low, like a growl. You stand in place stiff, unable to form a word.

"Come on, honey", the nickname comes out of his lips so easily, it hurts. "Are ya losing your voice now? Got into my car a while ago without thinkin', what's changed?"

You slowly approach Logan, each stride calculated. He watches you in silence, a silence as hostile as the wind hitting the broken windows, watching you remove your clothes, until all that's left is your bra and that skimpy skirt, as if you knew he liked it.

"Logan…" you whisper his name like a prayer, letting yourself fall on his legs. He holds you with his hard calloused fingers, like a promise.

Don't let me fall. Don't let me go. Don't leave me.

"Use your words, sweet thing" the trepidation condenses between, "we're grown up now, aren't we? Use your words"

If by words he meant feeling your lips against his, it's enough to have Logan following his impulses, using his strength to embrace your body until they feel like one, the scars on his hands feeling like your own. Your lips move in sync, and it's almost so casual, so learned, so meant to be, that fear appears in Logan, soon forgotten with the symphony of moans that come from your lips.

"Tell me" he pauses, breaking away from the kiss (something you don't like and express in the form of a pout), "what do you want?"

Logan tastes like cigars and whiskey, a combination you hate and the reason you quit your old job at the bar, but on his lips, it's an intoxicating taste.

"I want you, Logan" you whisper, hot breath against his skin, “you”.

He resumes the kiss, an electric shock of hunger and need between you: lips parted, colliding, teeth almost clashing against each other.

His fingers hesitate with a delicacy that belies his rough touch, the tips of his worn fingers lifting the fragile cloth of your skirt first, revealing soaking wet panties he goes crazy just at the sight of. The smell is sugary, sicklingly, so now he's hard and pulling at the clasp of your bra first, exposing your nipples, which he rolls and pinches mercilessly. A gasp escapes you—then another, and another as Logan pushes his thigh between your legs. The friction is delicious, almost painful against your pulsing center.

His hand firm up his position, securing itself onyour bare legs as you digs her nails into him. His labored moans turn into a guttural growl.

“You think I’m not capable?” he mocks, stealing another moan from her, “that I can’t keep up with you, you pretty young thing?”

You deny it, but Logan takes it upon himself to show you that he can take you like he's in heat, the ghost of his old self taking over in his almost animal way of fucking you, hips arched, muscles flexed and tense, his teeth appearing every time he opens his mouth, reminding you of fangs. They dig into your exposed skin, leaving bruises that will take time to disappear from your shoulders and neck, marking what belongs to him.

The hardness of his skin meets your soft when he grabs you by the waist.

"Look at you" it slips from his tongue, ecstatic. He's a goner, saliva dripping from the messy and sloppy kisses he leaves through your collarbone, "so good and so pure. I bet you're innocent, that you haven't seen what I've seen..."

His pupils darken, a strange mix between torment and desire in his gaze. Hungry and violent.

"Will you let me show you how's a real man s'ppossed to treat a woman?"

He feels shame settle in his belly, the hunger to possess her almost virgin body fueling his dark desire of errasing her sweet smile until she's an unintelligible mess of sobs. To show her what she would complain about, so she'll never slettle for less. So you can feel what it's to be taken care of―handled. And then he'll fill you up with his seed, so no other man will take what's his. His sweet little thing. Oh, he's so going to hell for this.

But maybe he likes pain.

"That's it, honey" he plays with the fabric of your wet panties, pulling at the loose threads in the delicate fabric. "Let me show you".

You take it off, and Logan lies back against the bed, spreading his legs and unbuttoning his belt and pants―a clear invitation to repeat the previous position, except this time, his hands are on top of your hips, squeezing the soft skin. He doesn't take his eyes off you, his gaze reserved only on you. If the adrenaline from before pushed you, now the confidence gained motions you to finish the task. It's just the push you need, remembering that this is what it feels like to be with a real man as you throw a leg over his hips, sitting your ass right on top of the bulge marked on his underwear.

“Right… there…” he barely manages to formulate a coherent train of words, the years of lack of help in attending to his needs leading to overstimulation, “good girl.”

The compliment makes you increase the pace of your hips, his labored breaths a sound so rich and so manly it makes you squirm.

You need it desperately, rubbing your increasingly wet clit against him, riding the fabric. His scruffy beard barely hides the smug smile that graces his lips.

“Like this?” she whispers, and Logan can no longer contain himself, staring at his sweaty, ripped body failing to please her completely. It feels so good it aches, and he can't believe this is how he's ended. But if that means having your pretty face on top of him, covered in his marks, dripping on your joint sweats, well maybe it isn't so bad.

“How can I repay you, honey?” he pleads. He'll try he's best. He just wants to give you a glimpse of the way his whole world has light up ever since he stumbled in that greasy diner.

“You said you were going to show me” it comes out almost as a purr, expectant, “and I’m waiting”.

Logan takes it as his cue, pulling down his underwear until his member is exposed, chuckling darkly when you swallow at the sight.

"Don't tell me you're scared already" he teases, "look how you have me… you can't leave me like this…"

You stifle a scream as you feel every inch of his thick cock enter your sensible walls, trying to fit his member inside of your needy body.

"So tight for me" he stammers, using his hands to keep you in place, on top of him. The only sound in the silence of that place that smells of death is that of their skin colliding―vulgar, the obscenity highlighted by being the only thing that can be heard in the small room.

Even though his stamina has dropped over the years, he thrusts into you relentlessly. Logan fucks you senseless, his balls buried deep in your dripping pussy, a constant rhythm of avid suction with each entry to your walls.

He takes a moment to see you as you take something from the nighstand he doesn't remember putting there.

"Look what I found" you whisper in the middle of your moans. Logan recognizes the shine of metal in front of his eyes, "so Wolverine?"

You say it so easily, like it's not the first time. With acceptance; it scares him.

Do you recognize him? Are you not scared? Why haven't your eyes go from curiosity and kindness to cold and rejection?

He should panic, rip off his dog tags from your hands and pretend he doesn't know who he used to be, but he's so deep inside you and so enraptured, he can only manage to gently take them from between your fingers and put them around your neck, the cold metal against your warm, bare skin creating an electric shock.

"I want to see them on you"

He likes to watch it hang over his face while you're on top, panting heavily as she repeats his name, slurring her words. It dangles with every thrust, the silver glistens in the seeping sun, just like the sweat that adorns her skin.

"Are you that needy of your old man? " he teases, caressing her. He smacks the curve of his ass, “You want more?”

His veiny length makes quick work of your needy hole, more moans escaping your lips.

“Shit,” you curse, wincing at the pain that begins to increase. “Yes, Logan. Just like that. Nobody ever treated me like that, nobody's made me feel like this-”

He moans, pleased with the praise, seeing he isn't as lacking as he thought. Making you feel good is his priority, but he won't lie and say he doesn't want to feel it too.

In an attempt to distract yourself, your eyes try to focus on him: searching his features, memorizing every scar, every wrinkle, every little grey hair.

“You’re perfect, Logan,” you mumble through a moan, the confession hiding more than you want to say and more than he cares to admit.

Before he can process it though, the fire in his stomach signals the arrival of his impending orgasm.

There's something delightful about the way you can barely speak, a mess of moans that sound like his name, eyes half-lidded and lips swollen alongside your messy hair.

He feels almost sick to be consuming something that doesn't and shouldn't belong to him. He doesn't deserve to have such a beautiful, young woman riding him while she clings to him like he's the last thing in this world, him: a worn, old man who can't keep up with her.

His member spasms, and it's got you feeling it all inside your walls, causing him to close his eyes in the process as well.

It's too soon, Logan thinks in shame, but it's been so long and you feels so good, he let's it go:

Thick whips of his cum shoot out of his member, drawing out more than you would've imagined. You don't have much time to think about it, for the orgasm hits you immediately, fingers curling and eyes rolling to the back of your skull.

Logan feels his tip getting wetter, and the extra lubrication is a nice finishing touch.

“God,” he gasps, “what a mess…”

You avoid looking at him, taking one of his hands in yours, kissing the red and violet painted knuckles. If you do, you'll give away what you feel, the same way her memory burns in Logan's chest, more now than ever, as his mouth tastes just like you.

Dependency.

Devotion. Absolute. Sick.

Maybe that was what he felt. This weird feeling. That abyss piercing his chest but never killing him (so much for regenerating...), pressing his heart with a crushing force whenever it threathened to beat again. Logan was content with rather nothing, always a man who didn't ask for much, and since the death of his family―the X-men, less.

"You should go" he mutters in defeat, the shame washing over. Even if he'll miss your warmth, even if he doesn't want you to leave at all. "It's for your own good, y/n. Pretend you don't know me and turn around. Go away" he insists yet gets stuck on his words, "you're not stupid. Then you'll know it's good for you and you'll never speak to me again"

He looks at the ground, cowardly, because he wants your lust filled warm look to be the last memory he remembers. Not whatever look you're giving him now.

So Logan closes his eyes and counts to ten. When he opens them, you'll be gone. It'll be a dream, something too good to be true. Short lived, like every good thing in his life.

"Logan..." you calls his name. So softly it seems like a breath.

You're still here.

"Logan" you call again, more firmly.

"Logan" you don't give up, cupping with one hand his face gently, "look at me".

When he looks up, he comes across a heartbreaking vision. You cry, tears falling like waterfalls down your cheeks. But that's not the most devastating thing, no: it's the look in your eyes, as if you've shared his pain. As if you've had suffered the same things he had suffered; a twisted reflection of him.

"Of course I understand you" you take his hands, and Logan feels that same strange warmth he felt the first time when your hands brushed his with the diner's menu. "I've also lost people… people I loved. Don't you think it hurts me to see the world go on as if nothing happened? Everyone forgets, Logan. But I can't; there's not a day that goes by when I don't think about them"

For a moment, you stop crying, and the hidden internal turmoil he tried so hard to decipher finally makes sense.

"I don't know what you've been through either, but I can promise you, that I understand you more than you think…" it seems like you'll say something else, but you stop and say instead. "Think, Lo: would these people want to see you like this?"

"It's what I deserve" he murmurs barely, his voice constipated but without shedding a single tear.

"It's not what we want, Logan. Please" you sniff, pained "stop being so hard on yourself".

"I'm not who you think I am" he insists. You're still naked on his bed, and he feels dirty for having you like this. For taking you to his home and fucking you raw out of your innocence. "I'm not a good person."

"No, Logan" you seem hurt by that statement. You trace one of his most recent scars with a touch so compassionate, that he feels your fingertips burn, "you are a hero".

Your words were so sweet, so comforting. He wanted to sink into your lap, which smelled like flowers and tasted like safety. A home; a life that had been taken from him. He wanted to believe everything you said―feel who you believed he was. Not this pathetic, tired and apathetic version of himself, but the old version: the version that inspired respect, that despite his tough exterior, had a family he loved. Because he had a heart. Now he feels like he has no soul: no purpose, nothing.

But maybe you are the answer.

Before he can change his mind, you blurt out “can I stay?”

That morning, in that old bed that creaks under his weight, Logan discovers that feeling alive again isn't so bad.

credits: divider @kodaswrld / gif @userparamore

[marvelstoriesepic]

Angstober (day 18)

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

Prompt: Falling Stars

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: Two idiots not being able to confess their feelings; sad!Bucky, sad!Reader; Bucky is a playboy; hurt myself with this

Angstober Masterlist

You wince at the sharp clinking of your keys as you turn the right one in the deadbolt of your front door. It echoes around you, sounding in the hallway, way too loud for this hour.

You hadn’t intended for it to get this late. But Wanda had been bubbling over with stories about this new guy she was crushing on, Vision, and Nat just couldn’t resist tossing in sly jokes about his name every few minutes.

Also, there’s that something you have to talk about with Bucky. That something you’ve been trying to work up courage for to finally tell him. But you rather spend your time with distracting yourself.

So, you’re not that surprised that the planned girls' night out stretched far after midnight.

Fortunately, you’d kept yourself in check with the drinks, just enough to stay warm but not enough to make the way home fuzzy. You’re grateful you’ve got nothing to do tomorrow, besides perhaps a bit laundry, as you feel the tiredness creep in. Slipping off your shoes with a quiet sigh, you let the relief flood through your slightly sore feet.

The apartment is shrouded in soft shadows, and you decide against switching on any lights. The last thing you want is for that sliver of brightness to seep under Bucky’s door, disturbing his sleep. Instead, you use the wall and furniture for guidance, fingers skimming the cool wood.

Something halts you in your movements.

There is a hunched figure sitting outside on the fire escape, motionless, his silhouette outlined by the dulled glow of stars, the moon, and the city lights. You would have been scared, would have felt a shudder running down your spine, if you weren’t so familiar with the figure sitting there.

Concern replaces the tiredness in your veins and a frown pulls at your brows and twitches at the corners of your lips. What would pull Bucky out here, so late in the night, with all lights off, his gaze so intently fixed on the heavens as though he hopes for answers to questions too heavy to voice, too ingrained in his mind for you to know.

Though you have to admit to yourself, maybe you do know.

Things between Bucky and you have been distant lately, for the past few weeks. And that’s nobody’s fault but yours.

He’s been nothing but patient and kind as you’d started retreating from your usual nights spent watching movies, your late-night talks, mornings in the kitchen where you surrounded yourselves with freshly made pancakes and coffee, playing silly games as to who would find the loudest creaking floorboard of your apartment.

He noticed, and it was clear in his eyes how much it troubled him, throwing you a dim smile and a no problem doll! We’ll catch up on that later, yeah? after you gave him another excuse.

It’s not like you haven’t endured this before. Hell, you have. But it never gets easier to have sleepless and plagued nights filled with muffled sighs and moans creeping into the quiet of your room, haunting your rest, fending off nice dreams, and what hurts the most - penetrating the feelings you never planned on letting out. The misplaced feelings for your best friend that are nothing but the cause of your rising misery.

And, well, everybody has a breaking point.

It came one morning, just a few weeks ago when you left your room in hopes of covering up the bags under your eyes to find a trail of clothes scattered from the hallway to his door. His shirt and jacket tangled with something feminine and delicate - clothes they seemingly couldn’t wait to get rid of, hurriedly shedding them to leave them where they’d fallen.

It stung. God, it stung.

You were frozen, standing there and staring at the vivid remnants of the night he shared with someone else. Someone who either left with Bucky’s clothes on or was still lying there in his bed, perhaps wrapped up in his arms, relishing in the intimacy he gave so easily to others.

It hit you all at once, like a punch to your gut, your back, your face, even your legs because they felt so weak, so damn wobbly, and you thought about curling up on the floor, sinking into your sorrow, letting it wrap its arms around you if Bucky’s wouldn’t do it.

The pain was so sharp you could scarcely breathe through it, feeling it slice and tear, unraveling in your chest as each shatter of your heart was pulled in a different direction. A foreign ache pressed horribly against your ribs and you were almost too numb to feel the hot and unbidden burn of tears gathering under your lashes. You turned away, but the hurt followed.

And that’s when you decided you couldn’t keep doing this. Couldn’t keep hearing the muffled grunts and groans slipping through the walls more nights than not, the aching signs of yet another conquest tucked under his sheets. While you lie awake, barely breathing, as if being still enough would somehow make it hurt less, though it never did.

Then, after staring at the ceiling blankly even after it had gone silent, morning would inevitably come and you’d listen to Bucky usher the next girl out. He’d always keep his words polite but you hear that undertone of frustration easily crawling into his voice. It’s masked, but you hear it. You hear everything. Because he’s Bucky and you know him better than yourself.

Or that’s what you think.

You’d grown adept at reading the pauses, the tired restraint in his tone when she wants to make breakfast with him, refusing to leave. Even that barely audible sigh of relief as the door clicked shut, and the way he always stays rooted a few seconds too long before moving over to the kitchen and making you breakfast and coffee.

You only ever manage to leave your bed, trying to unhook this secret ache from your heart, when the smell of pancakes reaches you behind your door.

There was one time when Bucky couldn’t hold himself back like he usually did. You heard a girl tinker around in the kitchen through the door but weren’t in the state of mind to do something about it. But when your best friend left the bathroom to rush to the kitchen there was a loud crash, resounding around your shared space. It led to you sitting up in bed. Or perhaps you sat up because of the frustrated curses that left Bucky’s mouth.

They weren’t directed at the girl but then she started laughing, only exclaiming an oops that held a seductive tone, not sounding sorry at all for dropping something that wasn’t her own. It had been your favorite mug, you later found out.

“Alright, you need to go. Now. Come on, don’t make this difficult, I want you out.”

Bucky’s tone was clipped and tense, not necessarily raised but there was an edge to his voice you were surprised to hear. Never had he spoken to you like that before, never would you imagine he even could. And although this wasn’t at all directed at you, it surprised you nevertheless.

The girl left without a fuss.

But unfortunately, she didn’t leave with your bleeding heart. None of those girls did.

So, no you couldn’t keep doing this. And that’s when you started looking. Quietly, behind your closed door, without a word to your best friend, scrolling through endless apartment listings, combing through flatmate ads and real estate sites in search of an escape. You need distance, a new place to gather yourself and your feelings, even if that means giving up the ease and warmth of sharing a home with Bucky.

A few days ago you found a bright, little one-bedroom in Brooklyn, neat and sunlit, with a price tag that didn’t make your stomach drop. It was clean, affordable, everything you could want.

It just didn’t have Bucky.

He wouldn’t be just across the hall anymore.

No more of him, sprawled out on the couch with that boyish grin, claiming he didn’t wait for you to come home but whining when you were about to retreat to your room.

No more cozy breakfasts together with you making scrambled eggs or him making pancakes, the start of the day only just lighting up your kitchen.

No more laughing until your rips ached or sharing a blanket while trying to decipher the faded star constellations on the light-polluted night sky out on the fire escape.

No more rearranging your bookshelf in the hallway because Bucky’s nimble fingers deliberately destroyed your system once again, just so he had a reason to keep you out of your room. You never even thought about placing the shelf in your room in the first place.

And even though you haven’t yet found the courage to tell him, you know you have to. Because the appointment is set, a visit to your potential new apartment already on your calendar, and a part of you is resolved, even if it stings.

So yes, perhaps you do have an inkling of what’s weighing on Bucky’s mind tonight, might know some of the questions he’s casting into the unresponsive night sky. The thought twists inside you, pulling tight until it leaves a bitter taste at the back of your throat. The distance you built between you was never meant to hurt him. You never wanted him to feel confused, to wonder what had gone wrong, or to turn his gaze inward, picking himself apart in search of answers to questions you hadn’t dared voice.

But here he is, shoulders hunched under the weight of his own thoughts. Thoughts you had put there.

You can’t let him bear this.

Your feet carry you forward, steps carefully as you make your way to the fire escape. Slowly, watching for reactions from him, you slip out the window and settle down beside him on the cold metal. He gives you such a quick look, it’s hard to make out his features and angles his face downward a little, shadows lining his eyes.

With a heavy sigh, the sound trembling slightly, deep and unsteady, he readjusts his place on the ground, sitting up a little straighter and making enough room for you.

A dark blanket is draped around his shoulders and you watch him shift his arm, opening the space underneath it for you to sink into the warmth of the fabric. Without a word, you inch closer, settling into his side and he makes sure the blanket covers your form. You feel the warmth seep into your bones, though it’s not the blanket that gifts it to you.

Bucky doesn’t look your way, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the rooftops, but his arm settles securely around you. There’s a hesitance in his movements that makes your stomach churn uncomfortably but you try and let him ground you.

“Are you okay?”

Your question is soft as a breath, barely a whisper between the two of you. You search his profile, hoping he’ll at least give you anything, but his eyes remain fixed forward, jaw set tight, stubbornly resisting your gaze.

“I’m fine,” he then rasps, though the words sound brittle, cracked, like he hasn’t made use of his voice the whole day, roughened by hours of silence. His voice is thick, thicker than the blanket around your shoulders that’s supposed to keep out the cold, but a shudder runs down your spine nonetheless.

You keep watching him, unblinking, because he knows you see the lie. But he doesn’t take it back, doesn’t soften or explain, or even try to make it seem like he’s okay. Instead, he just sits there with those sad, distant eyes and slumped shoulders, lips pressed into a frown as his brows draw together in tired lines.

“No, you’re not.”

It’s gentle as you say it, careful. You can’t take your eyes off of him, watching his lips twitch in a humorless huff, a hollow, empty sound that’s swept away with the nightly breeze as soon as it leaves him. He takes a slow, steadying breath, as though the air itself might offer him something solid, and he clears his throat softly, eyes never leaving the stars.

You sit in the stillness, not even hearing the sounds of the city below, only hoping to hear him again, waiting for him to ask you what he meant to ask the night. But the silence stretches on, unbroken and filled with a tension you’re not used to feeling around Bucky.

Eventually, you avert your gaze and look out at the lights yourself, that’s wrapped in a darkness that usually feels comfortable. You’ve been in this position so many times before, sitting on the metal, cozying up against his side, with his arm slung over your shoulder, but there is so much space between you even though you feel the entirety of his left side pressed against your right.

You take a breath that fills you with a realization you’d like to swallow down again. This isn’t the moment to lay everything bare, to tell him what you know you have to, but in order to break through the barriers that built between you and Bucky, you’ll have to be honest. Yet, if you can’t bring yourself to speak of the feelings you’ve held so closely for him, then you’ll have to tell him the other truth. The one you’ve kept hidden for now. You’ll have to tell him you’re leaving, that soon there will be no more shared walls, no more lingering mornings, and touches on the couch during movie nights.

It’s the only way to unburden both of you, to allow him - and yourself - to stop searching the night for answers that have been locked in your heart all along.

This step away is the only way forward.

And he deserves to know. He deserves to experience it for himself.

“I have to tell you something.”

Your voice is once again just barely a murmur and this time it’s his turn to watch your profile, his eyes tracing your features as yours remain trained on the blurred constellation of city lights and their surrounding darkness, unseeing and unfocused.

Maybe he catches the undertone in your voice, that tremor of guilt, of reluctance - the suffocating fear that, once spoken aloud, your decision will become real. It won’t just be a simple hope to a relief anymore, it will be your reality and more than that - it will be Bucky’s too.

You pause, pulling in a shaky breath, feeling his steady gaze on you, waiting and patient like he always is. “I’ve been thinking. Lately. And I guess, maybe… I mean I believe it’s for the best-”

You let out a frustrated sigh, pressing your lips together, summoning every ounce of courage, forcing the words past the tightness in your throat.

“I’m planning on moving out.”

The words tumble from you in one rushed breath and you feel empty of air for a moment.

There’s no way you can keep breathing normally ever again at the sharp, strangled sound of Bucky’s own breath hitching, a choked inhale that makes your lungs gasp for a reprieve you’re not able to give, despite it being so easy.

Bucky goes impossibly still beside you, his shoulders no longer slumped but rigid, his body stiff as a board and his arm around you retreats slowly, almost mechanically. The warmth of his shoulder, which once felt so comforting, is now a firm weight against you. His gaze leaves needles prickling into your skin, so intense and confused, it fills you with a dread so unbearable, you wonder if you’ve made a mistake by telling him.

But there is no going back now.

“It wasn’t an easy decision, okay?” you start, trying to keep your voice as steady as it would go, but you know you fail. “And it’s not because of anything you did, or anything that’s happened between us, alright? I just… I just need this. For myself.”

Bucky still doesn’t say anything and you force yourself to meet his eyes. However, you couldn’t prepare yourself for what you see. The usually glowing blue of his eyes is pale and fractured with confusion and an exposed hurt so intense and laid open, it feels like a physical blow. You feel your heart screaming to take it back. To make what you said unheard.

You never meant for this - never intended to put that look in his eyes, to shove this desolation in his beautiful gaze, that sears its way into your chest, ripping it open to leave a gaping and bleeding wound.

“What did I do?” He doesn’t seem to manage anything other than a whisper, so soft, so fragile and broken it barely reaches you. Yet, it cuts deeper than anything he could have shouted, each word strained, painted with vulnerability. He sounds so small, so lost, a part of him crumbling in front of you, and the sight is enough to leave you torn.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Buck! Please, please believe me,” you beg, reaching out, but stopping short, fingers curling into your palms as you fight to keep yourself from holding him, from touching him like you always have. “I just… I have to deal with something, and I- I think it might be better this way.”

But his gaze doesn’t change, doesn’t yield to your explanation. The ache in his eyes is unforgiving, swirling in the wet sheen that has appeared with shock and a torment that seems to merge into something deeper, something that’s cutting him from the inside out.

You feel the sting behind your own eyes, hating how the tension pulls you further apart. Bucky’s eyes are rimmed red, faintly puffy and the sight grips you with fingers so bony, they leave marks on your skin. It’s a sign that whatever he’s holding inside, it’s something he’s struggled through alone already, something he’s been carrying before you came out here, something that’s been eating at him since the day you pulled back.

“You really want to do this?” It sounds as broken as the first time. Though this time he doesn’t seem to care what he sounds like anymore.

“I have to.”

He doesn’t respond. You don’t say more. You realize that no words, no explanations, could ease the ache you’ve cast into his eyes. No further explanation you could give him would uncoil the tightness in his shoulders, or soften the tension that has locked his body into a posture of heartache.

Even if you wanted to speak, you can’t. The knot in your throat has cemented itself, strangling any thought or apology before it can reach your lips. You hate it for letting anything pass in the first place.

You turn your gaze back to the city lights and hate the way they press on you. The glow of the streets and buildings you had looked upon so many times now feels lifeless, like an uninspired haze. There seems to be no color anymore, as though all the meaning has simply faded away, leaving only the dull aftermath of what you’ve set in motion.

A strained breath only leaves you, offering you no relief, and minutes stretch onward in excruciating stillness - one, two, five, maybe more, each one heavier than the last.

You still feel Bucky beside you, but never had you felt so detached. So apart from him in ways too painful to feel. But you have to feel it. Because it’s there. In every inch of space between your bodies.

It’s as though he’s fading from you, retreating into himself, covering himself with the hurt you laid out on him.

He’s sitting in the corner of your eye, breaths ragged and unsteady, yet he makes no move to contain it, no attempt to mask the sorrow that already drew him out here in the first place but feels so pronounced now. He’s letting it settle, letting it sink into him, surrendering to it.

You hate yourself for it. For the way, the words took shape, for the way they slipped past your lips, for the pain now etched into his features, and for the distance that feels too expansive to ever close with simple words.

He’ll understand eventually, you tell yourself, as if willing it into truth. Once you’ve moved out, once there’s finally a boundary between his life and yours, you’ll be able to breathe again, to find refuge from the endless loop of moments where he’s wrapped up in someone who isn’t you.

Maybe then you’ll be able to clear your head. Maybe the feelings twisting up your insides will loosen and fade if you’re lucky. Maybe you’ll be able to unravel them, to make sense of the longing that’s burrowed so deep it feels as if it’s become a part of you.

You could find a way to purge yourself of this deeply ingrained ache that thrums through your every thought of him. And then, with a little hope, you’ll be able to talk to him, as you used to, with honesty, ease, and that playful banter you miss so much, and this knot in your chest will dissolve, returning you to the friendship you both know best. So, maybe, freed from this unspoken tension, you’ll be able to look at him without feeling like you’re losing a little more of yourself with every passing glance.

You just need distance first.

And patience. A brutal patience, to endure the space that stretches between what is and what might be, to trust that the emotions which hold you close now might one day fade into the background, into something manageable, something you can breathe through.

And yet, sitting here beside him like you did so many times before, the silence heavy with words left unsaid, a part of you already knows that this patience you’re counting on, this idea that distance alone will fix what’s broken, may be the hardest illusion to cling to. But you have to try, for both your sakes, to believe there’s relief on the other side of goodbye.

Another minute goes by, stretching like the distance between you, pulling the silence tighter until the space between you feels like a chasm. You lift your glistening eyes to the night sky and something catches your attention. There is a streak of light brighter than the rest, sliding toward the earth in a slow, fading descent.

A falling star.

Its light shudders, then vanishes into the void, leaving you staring at a dark spot. Then, another appears, arcing through the dark sky, flaring for a heartbeat, and blinking away. Another follows, and another, an endless parade of wishes burning up in the night to disappear again.

You watch them fall, though with no joy. There’s no wonder, no awe, only an aching hollowness. You watch another of them light up and disappear because, at this moment, there is nothing else left to hold onto. These brief, dying sparks feel almost mocking, reminders of wishes made too late, of moments slipping out of reach before you even had the chance to claim them.

Out of the corner of your eye, you make out Bucky’s gaze lift, following the same fleeting lights. Make a wish. The thought echoes bitterly in your mind. The irony feels cruel, an old superstition dredged up in a moment where wishes hold little comfort.

But, despite yourself, you wonder what Bucky’s wish might be - what he might ask of the stars if he believed they were listening.

And as you think this, a truth rises, too sharp to ignore. You know your wish, the one you’ve been carrying all the time, the one sitting inches from you, close enough to touch but impossibly far. And there’s a twinge in realizing that he may never know, that your wish lives and breathes beside you, and he has no idea.

But you have no idea that the only thing Bucky Barnes could ever wish for is sitting right beside him too, equally unknown, equally close and painfully out of reach.

So, all you do is hold your breath, feeling the night press in, the stars disappearing one by one as their light flickers out, swallowed by the dark once again.

🍁 October Writing Challenges Masterlist 🍁

[cheriecoke]

it's been decades since you've last seen dazai; your lover & your maker. now that you're finally happy, he's haunting you again with a thousand buried memories.

overall contents. fem!reader, nsfw minors dni, exes to lover, gothic romance, blood drinking, vampire!reader, vampire!dazai, smut, cheating reader, complicated relationships, blood, gore, jealousy, manipulation, religious symbolism, betrayal, reunions, references to forced prostitution, dubcon/noncon

please heed the warnings for additional ones this chapter. chapter word count: 7.2k

PART VII ♰ MASTERLIST

By anyone’s standards, the night was young. A cool autumn evening had come in, the brisk breeze of winter just around the corner, biting at your exposed skin. The bells hadn’t yet chimed midnight, but the sun had set hours ago, leaving a gap in the evening, when the respectable citizens could return home and the salacious ones could terrorize the streets without reproach.

It was near dusk, but that meant your day was only just beginning. Your work resumed once the dark curtain of night fell over the town, shrouding everyone in tangible secrecy.

Your newest patron was a curly-haired bookkeeper, a crisp man with even sharper green eyes, lips puckered between distaste and seduction. He hardly seemed the type to linger in the wrong side of the city after hours, but you knew his delicate appearance was merely a ruse — a way to repent for his sins and keep them between him and God.

It was apparent, perhaps to you and you alone, that this was far from the first time he’d paid for a woman. His gaze grew hungrier with each passing second, as your fingertips danced along his skin. You scratched gently at his arm, with nails that were cut short and dirtied; pure evidence of your less than fortunate situation, a life so different than his own.

As they all did, he ignored signs that pointed towards your unclean soul. He spared one final glance towards the cathedral in the distance, then smiled at you lewdly. 

“Your father puts a high price on your head,” he said, guiding you closer to his side until you were wrapped up in him, giving you the allure of comfort when you knew it was power he sought. “I hope you’re worth it.”

Your ran your thumb along the lines of his palm. The tendons flexed as his breath hitched.

Even though you were nothing but a poor girl from the village, you knew that you still had a certain something to you — something that drove every man around to his knees. It never failed you, and now that it was the means of your livelihood, it couldn’t.

“Is it not better to brave the emptiness of another lonely evening with companionship?” you whispered, words tinted with beautiful melancholy.

His features pinched, mouth gaping, too slow to understand your meaning. To which you refrained from sighing, forcing an even tighter smile as you bat your eyelashes.

“I’ll be worth it.”

You had grown to hate nighttime, dark with its illustrious glow of stars. It held a promise of unknowable saltiness rubbed into wounds, an unwanted ache between your thighs that never seemed to ease.

Beauty did not come without pain, and the impossible splendor of the darkened heavens was no exception — you knew that more than anyone. You thought it every night as you slunk through the shadows like you belonged there, with nothing but the endless universe to swallow up your misery.

Sunlight would never compare to the otherworldliness of the moonbeams. But the mornings, with yellow and orange hues splashing against your face, bathing you in opalescent colors, set you free. 

“Remind me your name,” the green-eyed man said, slurring the final two words into one syllable, a testament to his sobriety. “I can’t believe it slipped my mind.”

If you told him, by the end of the evening, he’d forget it anyway. It was better that way, better for it to be a fleeting thought, than for your name to be imprinted on his soul, a dirtied and scornful word, sullied by your actions and desperation.

“Ah,” you pulled him out the door, to the alley, just around the corner from the bustling pub. It was loud, and empty enough outside that no one would take notice to either of you. Neither would they care. “You can call me whatever you want, sir.”

He smiled, but it was oily and sharp, causing you to nearly recoil with disgust. This was far from the first time you’d done this, but it never got easier, never made you feel less ashamed. Each touch still felt like an awful burn, crisping your skin until it was darkened with ash. Every kiss was a thousand knives ripping you apart, blood freely flowing down your neck until you’d run dry, as empty as your soul had become.

“Aren’t you a sweet one?” he said, sparing no time before he had you up against the wall, his palms digging into the bones of your hip. “I can see why you’re so popular around here.”

You swallowed, but plastered your seduction on thick, trying to emit something pleasurable when he swirled his thumb over your breast. It would be one of those times, it seemed, that they were less than gentle with you.

“The payment usually comes first.” You hated the way your voice cracked on the final word. “How can I trust that you’ll fulfill your end of the bargain otherwise?”

He glowered, retreating from abusing a wound into you neck, his lips already flushed with desire. To your relief, though, he pulled the cloth-wrapped coins from his pocket, and threw them on the ground. The money landed in a thick puddle of mud with a disgusting plop, the silver and bronze jingling against one another.

“There. You can dig it out of the mud yourself, whore.”

You didn’t have time to react before your skirt was hiked up to your thighs in a few quick movements, the remainder of the ruffles ripped apart. The sharp sound of linen tearing echoed in the alley. Your pastel blue evening wear now nothing more than cheap cloth.

He was more than eager as he dipped his dark lips back to your neck, running his tongue along the vein like a starved man. Hot hands launched up along your sides, possessive, before pulling at the tight lacing of your corset.

“Wait,” you said, your nails digging into his shoulders. It was hard not to cough up pain from his rough touches. “Don’t you want to go inside? I have a place where no one can hear us.”

The cruel man smiled, tucking your hair away from your face, his touch almost gentle, as if he could come to care for you, in another life. A glimmer of metal on his finger shone in the moonlight, sharp gold, like a curse. Reminding you of the thing he didn’t care to cherish, the one you’d lost, when your father had sold you to the first man that took interest.

“Doesn’t matter. I like to be watched.”

That was that.

He turned you around roughly, so your cheeks were pressed into brick, scuffing your skin with tiny little pinpricks. Though you’d hardly had enough time to become aroused, his hardness pressed against the small of your back, wasting no time before he sunk into you.

It hurt — more than you’d expected it to, with how many times you’d been abused and used in such a way. But you didn’t cry, escaping into your mind instead, trying to tell yourself that you’d get out someday, even if it was a simple fantasy to comfort you in your most vulnerable moments.

“Fuck,” the man groaned into your ear, his movements speeding up as he forced you impossibly closer into the wall. “You feel so good. Didn’t expect you to have such a tight cunt after being used by half the men in town.”

You didn’t say anything, only letting out a few audible sounds of pleasure to appease him. Not that it mattered anyway. You knew he didn’t want you to talk, he just wanted to stick his dick in someone other than his wife, who probably knew all about his infidelity, and couldn’t do a damn thing to stop him.

Finally, he came, spilling into you, despite your requests for him not to, and slumped against your back, breathing heavily. You’d gotten nowhere close to reaching an orgasm, but he didn’t care, even as he caressed your hair softly, pressed kisses into the space between your neck and jaw.

“You’re such a good whore. Pretty. Shame I can’t keep you all to myself.” His voice was low, raspy, tinged with ownership as much as it was disgust.

You prayed to a god that didn’t care, and smiled coolly over your shoulder. “You could always be a repeat customer. We can pretend, can’t we?”

He smiled, softened only from his orgasm, and laughed at that. You were grateful that your comment landed—some would have slapped you roughly for the sarcasm in your tone. “I’ll consider it.”

“I wouldn’t mind. You’re certainly not the worst I’ve ever had.”

A flicker of something appeared in his irises, but you were, for once, unsure if it was humor or uncertainty. “But not the best?” 

You steeled yourself, remained impassive, and shrugged, trying to play along. It was hard, more than it wasn’t, to gauge what it was these clients really wanted. Each time, you’d thought you’d had them figured out. Many were shallow creatures with desires that didn’t extend far past their loneliness and need for a quick release.

Some, with their deep-rooted disturbances and truly unspeakable desires, were near impossible to read.

This man, it seemed, was one of latter.

“Is that the case?” His face contorted with anger, and he pushed you hard against the wall, his fingers curling back under your skirt. “Fucking bitch. That wasn’t good enough for you? We can go again. I’ll make it better.”

Your eyes grew wide, and you shoved at his wrist, trying to get his thick fingers out from between your legs as tears welled up in your eyes. “No. No, I was just kidding, you were good, it was good,” you smiled, but it wasn’t enough, wasn't real enough, and he doubled his efforts.

“Don’t lie,” he spat, stroking himself until he was hard again, the disgusting, flushed organ pulsating in his hand. “I hate liars.”

You took a steadying breath, your thoughts flying through your mind too rapidly to be condensed into words. Panic took hold, but your strength waned, his body too strong and too large to push away. “We had an agreement,” you said, sounding anything but confident in your words. “Your time is over. It’ll cost extra.”

“I don’t give a fuck.” His face was dangerously close, and he wedged a knee between your legs to keep them apart. It hurt everywhere he touched, like his hands were made of liquid fire. “You think your father would believe you against me? He can’t keep a goddamn penny to his name so he passes you around, his pretty little whore.” The man laughed, so dark and careless. Just moments ago, he’d been smiling at you like you were a friend, and all it took was the wrong tone of voice, the wrong sort of joke for him to turn on you like an animal.

Sudden clarity passed over you as the ocean between your ears died down, giving way to the calmest of waters, smooth as glass, a resolution coming to mind. You fumbled under your bodice, for something wedged up between the tightest of laces, the failsafe, for the times that the situation got so fatally out of hand.

“You’re the smartest investment he’s ever—”

His words cut off, garbled, as he choked on the blood that started to seep from his throat. A beautiful river of scarlet poured from his neck, coloring the surrounding skin a muted pink.

For a moment, the scene passed as if you were reading it from a novel; present, but removed, a third person in the story.

You watched him slump forward, grab at his neck with terrified, wide eyes. Blood spewed through the cracks between his fingertips. The color drained from his face, dulling him to a corpse, the dark venom of his eyes becoming nothing more than a muddied brown. There was so much in his expression, and then there was nothing.

He fell to his knees, then clumsily onto his face, the last breath of oxygen escaping him.

In an instant, you were on him, barely registering the bloodied knife in your hand, as you brought it down over and over, sinking it into his back and pulling it out again. A crunch — the sound of bones and tendons splitting apart. Then a spray of blood splattered against your cheek, dripping to your jaw in a beautiful smear of maroon.

It would be hard to clean this one up, but you always managed somehow. You’d manage again. Again and again and again.

Once he was dead, so completely dead that you were sure you’d killed him twice, you stood up, breathing heavily. His body already started the process of rot, decaying in a puddle of his own fluids. Blood poured out from him so quickly that you felt it’d only be minutes before there wasn’t an ounce of it left in him.

It was as gruesome as it was liberating. How many times had you brought the knife down into his skin, how many times had you—

“You have a penchant for brutality.”

The voice came from behind you, materializing out of nowhere, a melodic whisper in the night. And though it felt like a song, a tune you could drown yourself in, you whirled around, taking the crimson shrouded blade to the stranger’s throat, eyes hard.

He smiled at the action, lips curling around shiny white teeth. “I would’ve thought cutting open his throat was enough to kill him.”

“It’s not what it looks like,” you said, so quickly that you felt your body was moving on instinct. An obvious lie, but denial was the only way to go, when you’d been caught so red-handed.

Briefly, you were met with terrible darkness, as the stranger, dancing with the blade of your knife, remained invisible in the black night. But the moon moved, clouds parting for its splendor, and the beams illuminated the icy stranger like the star of an eternal performance.

The once loud shouts of the pub became nothing more than whispers, the frigid air of a near November heating at an unthinkable pace. Around you, the world seemed to change in an instant, with the vastness of a man that seemed too beautiful to be human.

He cocked his head, smiled at you, and though it was surely mocking, the twist of humor in his eyes only made him that much more lovely. The allure of him transcended this realm, handed down from something otherworldly, something that you had never believed in until now. There was an indescribable distance in his eyes, so raw with wisdom, but exceedingly charming, and one glimpse had leveled you to the stupidest of women.

“No?” The stranger laughed, his melodic voice clearing you of your senselessness, reminding you of the less than ideal situation. “Because it looks like you killed someone in cold blood.”

Your lips parted, then you swallowed, knuckles paling around the hilt of the knife. It was difficult to look him in the eyes, and you dropped your gaze to his perfectly rounded lips, before letting them fall to the sharp lines of his jaw.

“Don’t look so scared. I hardly care about him.”

“He had it coming.” Your voice was unmistakably shaky, nervous. Even if you couldn’t identify the true root of your anxieties.

The handsome, transcendental stranger grinned easily, unfazed by the position he’d found himself in. As if death mattered naught to him — and why should it? It was something that touched you all, there was no escaping it. If you were to run your blade across his throat, what would be the harm? It would’ve happened eventually.

“I’m sure he did.” His voice was akin to a lullaby, rivaled even the greatest concertos. Then, he took a step back, away from the blade, running his eyes across you, observing with an inner wit you were certain you didn’t posses. “I’ve seen many in your shoes. I know of the cruelty of man.” He glimpsed past you, cocking his head at the sight of the brutalized body, near unrecognizable. “Yet none have taken such… drastic measures. It seems you are quite the vengeful angel.”

The words triggered the same sort of anger that had gotten your unsatisfactory patron killed, a flare of bubbling red beneath your skin.

You scowled, running your tongue along your teeth. “I’m no angel. Don’t call me that.”

“Ah.” The beautiful devil hummed, acknowledging the result of your rage and the blade dripping with blood. “Right. Well, I’m uncertain how to describe your beauty, if not angelic.”

It was cruel of your body to react with such warmth, a present trickling of heat over your cheeks, down your neck. Rarely, did the words of men affect you. They shouldn’t now. “I’ve heard that plenty of times in this line of work. While poetic, your words are unimpressive.”

“I doubt the rest of them have seen this side of you, and seen the beauty in you still.” He took a step towards you, then thought better of it, and paused his movements. “Or, do you often let people watch you sink a knife into your generous clients? Perhaps this is a custom I’m not familiar with around here.”

You weren’t sure how to read his dry tone, and you let your hand, still shaky with the blade, fall at your side. “It is a custom that comes to pass when one is desperate and out of options. Do not call such a thing beautiful.”

He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Silence fell between you, and though it was only for a moment, it unsettled you, thinking of all the ways this could end. You didn’t have it in you to kill someone else, another man, not without reason. You’d never enjoyed it, never liked the way the veins split open, the sharp noise of the skin breaking.

There was just no other way.

“How are you planning on cleaning this mess up?”

Your face fell, that once seize of panic grabbing hold once more. A sharp breath left you as you closed in on yourself, feeling so much smaller than you had only minutes before. “I don’t know.” You turned to stare at the body; his eyes were still open wide, staring at you with a kind of fear you didn’t know you were capable of causing. “Are you going to tell anyone?” you whispered.

There were hands on your forearm, and then they were gone, icy cold fingertips spinning a calming circle on your skin. Gently, the stranger eased the blade from your hand, wiping it on his robe, before tossing it in the mud. “Of course not. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Inhaling, you closed your eyes. “You could if you wanted to. You can do anything you want as long as you don’t tell anyone.” That realization alone made you afraid of the power he held over you, the weight of the secret he could pin you down with. “They’ll do much worse to me if they find out.”

“If I was concerned about turning you in, I don’t think I’d be having a conversation with you, now would I?”

“I don’t know. I rarely trust the word of men, even the kindest ones.”

He was silent. There were sounds of a scene that took place behind you — him stepping away, boots crunching in the dirt and mud. Then, the tune of the coins from the pouch, as he dumped them into a clean handkerchief, handing them back to your with a soft caress.

“Well, seeing as I did nothing as you committed a rather violent crime, I’m afraid I’m already complicit. I’d lose nothing by helping you dispose of the body.” He smiled, tilting his head, the brightness of his eyes near an iridescent glow. “I know you may not trust me with words, but my actions might suffice instead.”

Your stroll around the city was brief. Eventually, you found yourself in a pub that had been standing since your ancestors were children. The brick walls were older than even you, cracked and faded. Places like these seemed to be the only ones you found yourself often, as if beckoning you back, knowing the truth of who and what you were.

It was somewhere you could hide in a shaded normalcy; not meant to be seen, but unable to stay away.

This time, though, you had no desire to hide, to slink into the black corners until you faded easily into the shadows. You sought to be a member of them all, assimilating into the spaces that opened up for you, as you settled into the concave embrace of humanity.

The evening didn’t feel so cold and unwelcoming today. Instead, there was warmth, a kind that came with the sting of nostalgia. It was an enveloping embrace, so tight that it hurt, yet filled with steel-coated love.

Shadows cascaded on the far wall, creating dark outlines of the crowd. Each person seemed to move quickly, matching the static energy of the room, never settling, never still. It was just as hazy and cloudy as the outside, the stench of the old city tainted deep into the old walls. There was nowhere to inhale without sharing a breath with another, an intimately close gathering, one that almost reminded you of what it was like to be human.

Until a couple sat next to you, nosey and less than alert, their dark eyes roaming all over you with shameless curiosity.

You could smell their blood within seconds of them falling into the chairs next to you, so overwhelmingly sweet, mixed with the sharpness of of alcohol. The man’s metallic nectar was tinged with a putrid smell, layered from years of copious liquor and tobacco.

His wife’s was not so tainted — but no different than any of the other uninteresting humans that sat around in the room, so concerned with their bodily pleasures that any other sensations were outside of them.

“Hello,” the woman said, tall and thin, with silky black hair that was strung up tight with pearls. A few dark strands fell loose around her cheeks, which were highlighted by red pigment that had smeared from droplets of sweat. Her eyes, deep brown and alluring, were unfocused, pupils large and round.

She stared unabashedly at you, drinking you in, before she broke out into a fit of laughter, seemingly unrelated to her previous polite greeting. A slender hand came to cover her mouth, but you were unsure if it was out of shame for herself or for you.

Your nose wrinkled.

The woman stumbled back into her husband, and they spoke in hushed whispers, a conversation you didn’t care enough to eavesdrop on.

As the couple distracted themselves once again, you fixed your eyes on a man across the room. He wore a stiff military coat, and seemed deeply troubled, with a mind still gruesomely stuck in the field. His smile was awkward, but kind towards anyone who approached him, even while he appeared to be planning an escape out the window.

You considered his sobriety, his alertness, the way he was still nursing the same drink he’d bought when he walked in an hour ago. The uncomfortable little soldier would save you from losing your sense to intoxication, as the blood of anyone else in the room was surely tinged with liquor. But a small part of you craved the drink, longed for the bit of release that abstinence stole from you.

He would be an easy target, a safe target. But there was nothing interesting or irritating about him, save for the thunder of fear he had flooding around in his mind, the dread of returning to war in the upcoming weeks.

“I, um,” the husband of the bumbling woman, shorter, and round, with a thick mustache hiding his upper lip, coughed. Your attention drifted slowly over to him, eyes sliding like those of a snake. “I apologize for my wife. She’s had far too much to drink this evening.”

You met his gaze, but said nothing, leaving him to interpret just how you’d felt about their interruption. There was utter emptiness, perhaps soullessness, in your expression, and you’d thought that had been enough to deter him. But he was determined to remedy his wife’s behavior, and came closer, scooting his chair into the intimate space surrounding you.

“Are you new to town? We haven’t seen you here, and, well...” He clasped and unclasped his hands, unable to meet your eyes.

You remained silent.

He sighed. “Sorry. I don’t mean to prattle, but Cassandra—my wife, that is—is normally the talkative one. Right now, though she’s…” He glanced to the chair beside him, where his wife had sat herself again, slumping forward like she could hardly keep her head up. The man shook his head. “Well, anyway. She’s interested in making your acquaintance. You are quite…” He gesticulated around you like you’d know exactly the word he was searching for, language betraying him.

“Quite what?”

His eyebrows dipped together, before smoothing. There was a pause, like he was considering whether to indulge you with praise or ignore the sentiment completely. “Well, you know, we’ve just never seen you around here before.”

You exhaled, somehow disappointed by the exchange. Everything was still the same, then. For some reason, you’d expected fifty years to have altered the course of the human race, to have remedied the distinctly unlikable nature of the people that hailed from your hometown. How obsessed they’d always been with their appearance, climbing the social ladder by pushing the rest back down to the lowest ring.

“I see,” you nodded, returning your gaze to where the soldier had been. He’d left the bar now, standing outside, smoking a cigarette with shaky hands. Unsurprising and characterless. "I haven’t been home in quite a while, but I’m here now. For how long, I’m not sure. But I know these streets like I paved them myself, despite the changes that have sprung up in recent years. I doubt I’ll need a guide, if that’s what you’re offering.”

The plain stranger eyed you curiously, noting how old you appeared. It was more than obvious that he was unable to believe that so much had changed in the years you’d been away. Then, the skepticism faded, and his bright grin was back, a hand outstretched to greet yours.

“Oh, how wonderful to hear. I’m Gustav, and my wife’s Cassandra, as I mentioned. We’ve been living here for about a year now, bought a shiny new mansion across the river. Feels like we still don’t know the lay of the land, though, if you’re interested in showing us around.” He laughed self-deprecatingly, yet, still held on tightly to his air of superiority over you.

You blinked, staring at his outstretched hand, thick and veiny, with polished, clipped nails. It shook with the years that were gaining on him, while your own was steady, held tightly in your lap.

“I have a hard time believing you came over here out of the goodness of your heart,” you said simply, smiling so widely it almost ached. “You know, I’ve always hated the niceties of the bourgeoisie. I doubt you’ll gain anything by towing me around town.”

Gustav licked his lips and retracted his hand, his eyes hardening slightly. “We only thought you’d like to find a familiar face around the crowds. Didn’t know you were already well-acquainted—”

A snort bubbled out of you, and Gustav stopped, sniffing as you broke off his thoughtless rambling.

“Oh, no need to try and appease me. I knew the minute you two walked over here that your intentions were anything but altruistic. You saw a beautiful stranger, and your wife, who I know to be the gossip of the fucking town, just had to sink her claws in.” You leaned towards him, eyes roaming to the pulsing vein on his neck wildly. “You moved here after you made your fortune as a banker, thought you’d establish yourself as the wealthy newcomers. You’re nearing fifty, but you still eye the prettiest women in the room, stare at all the things you can’t have, while your wife slips into bed with men twenty years younger than her. To get what you can’t give her, of course.” Each of your teeth dripped blood red from your poisonous words. “Am I right about that, Gustav? Or are you really looking for a friend?”

He stared, wide-eyed at you, his short, stubby eyelashes falling over droopy eyes. “I—”

“I’m tiring of the chatter. I’ve found myself in a rather unique position lately. Normally, I enjoy making a game out of this, but all this travel has worn me down, and I’ve no desire to butter you up.” Leaning close, so close you could feel his hot breath on your skin, you ran a sharp nail against his soft jawline, feeling the stubble of his chin, the thick flesh around his neck. “Come with me. Bring your wife with you. Don’t make a sound or I’ll kill you both.”

You’d kill them anyway, but they didn’t need to know that.

Gustav, foolishly obedient, nodded, and followed as you stood from the table. A drastic sound came from the chair as it fell onto the ground, clattering into the floor. No one turned, unbothered by the ruckus, and you went around the back, where the streetlights faded into the woods, the trees welcoming you back to your rightful home.

Cassandra had sobered quickly when Gustav held a hand over her mouth, hushing her profusely when she nearly tripped over a rock. Her dress, a beautiful rose and cream evening gown, had muddied and torn at the bottom, the edges fraying.

“Gus,” she slurred through the cracks of his fingers, clawing at him, her grasp weak from intoxication. The rest of her words came out incomprehensible, but you could sense her fear, the confusion imbedded in every fleeting thought that popped into her mind.

You lured them further into the forest, until the shouts of the city sounded like whispers, drowned out by the creatures roaming beneath the heavy trees, familiar with your kind as they fled into the shadows. It reminded you, briefly, of when you’d had nothing to eat but the blood of rabbits, mice, birds that flew in through your windows and found themselves caught in a spider’s web. How far away that now seemed, how drastically your life had altered with the presence of another vampire.

Gustav tried to form words, but you turned, pressing a finger to his mouth, hushing him without a sound. Then, you smiled calmly, licking your lips, a manic sort of energy blocking off your sensibilities.

Hunger. That was the word, the feeling — you’d known it well, longed to release yourself to more primal inhibitions. It didn’t feel so hard, now, without the guilt clawing at your throat, forcing you back into a box you’d felt so trapped in.

You pinched Gustav’s cheeks, ignoring the sharpness of culpability that scratched at the back of your mind, the past fifty years of progress tumbling down like a house of cards. “Don’t move.”

Before he could finish blinking, you’d yanked Cassandra from his arms, sinking your fangs into her neck. The blood rushed into your mouth, burning delightfully on the way down, so hot and acrid from her drinks. It had been so long, you’d almost forgotten the sensation of alcohol, how it was painful before it was pleasant, leading you astray.

Gustav stayed true to his previous commands, glued to the spot, but his eyes were so wide you were certain they’d bulge out of his skull. There was more than fear spelled out in bold letters on his expression — it was terror, one that came with the end, of knowing that the last breaths of life were coming. You hoped that he cherished it, like you never had.

Cassandra’s body grew cold, and you dropped it, tossing it away like a doll, her skull making a sharp sound against the heavy stump of the trees. Then, you rounded on her husband, near sick with horror, stiff and ugly from morality.

His blood tasted just as stale, but you drained him anyway, lapping at the thick liquid, letting it stick to the skin around his neck. Gustav didn’t move, didn’t grasp at you with the same desperation that Cassandra had, and you felt no sense of satisfaction when he dropped dead to the ground, the alcohol in both their veins already making your thoughts fuzzy around the edges.

You stared at the pair, their eyes glassy and lifeless, mouths parted without sound, and wiped your own scarlet lips, letting the blood stain the sleeve of your dress.

For no reason at all, a laugh bubbled up in you, and you let it ring out through the forest, matching the nightly call of the cicadas and the owls lingering above. You weren’t sure how long it lasted, your fit of, perhaps, insanity, as you stared at the corpses and tears of blood ran from the corners of your eyes. The sweet relief that came from quelling your hunger was paired with the dizzying effects of alcohol, rendering you anything but sensible.

Still, you felt the presence of another, so attuned to that being, the aura of carelessness and authority. You’d known he’d been coming from miles away, yet, you drank, continued to drink even when his dark eyes were watching you, hardly bothering to hide within the shadows.

Your laughter ceased, and the sticky tears lingered on your cheeks, as you turned, slowly, stumbling with every movement. “How’d you know I’d come here?” you said, dipping your head before raising it to meet his gaze.

Dazai smiled, sideways and achingly lovely, every hollow of his cheek, every curve of his lip, made even darker in the moonlight. It seemed to illuminate him and him alone, this world of grotesqueness and haunting starlight and misery made for him.

“Where else would you go?” Dazai said, each syllable a prayer, a lullaby from the grave, hauntingly beautiful. “Where would either of us go but home?”

Your chest heaved, filled with a sick and desperate love, as your body hummed to the same melody of his words. And though you'd wanted to deny it, to rebel against the twining of your heartstrings, you'd known in every fiber of your soul that Dazai would be here too.

PART VIII

[stepliana]

we're running from our graves

PURITY RING graves and i begin to grow, begin to grow / like moths in the shadows / flutter me / i'm made of seeds / but they just bleed THE MIDNIGHT explorers to the midnight riders / to the spark igniters / i am on my way DEATH CAB FOR CUTIE i miss strangers you were by my side on the frontlines / do you remember? FICKLE FRIENDS swoon swoon when you say / 'i could do this all day' / you're the mistake / i know i wanna make THE BETHS change in the weather tunnel vision / staring down this long road / you might as well when the night fell be underground / softly spoken assurances in longform / but maybe we can't work ourselves a way out GIRLHOUSE concussion you do surgery on my mind / i think about you all the time / and my history calls you a viper / but i think i lost something inside ya LOS CAMPESINOS! feast of tongues she says the body is keeping score / lost in sudden death / she can't take it no more / and if laughter's the medicine we need  / then this misery is therapy LUNA SHADOWS heroine on the edge of your bed / in the palm of your hand / a little bit older / and better at lying / i better try it THE STRIKE the getaway i've been told that something's got to give / but i've never been one to break / i can still hear you say / 'i know the road we're gonna take'

spotify

[separatist-apologist]

The Prophecy

Summary: No one has seen or heard from Elain Archeron in two months…until she turns up one day in the Spring Court with no memory of where she's been or what she's been doing.

Tamlin and Lucien will have to work together to untangle the mystery of Elain's missing memories.

Surprise, @olenvasynyt- I was your secret santa! I hope you enjoyed spending time together as much as I did- and I hope you enjoy this gift as well!

@acotargiftexchange

Read on AO3

-

She woke up on the damp, forest floor beneath a blanket of twinkling stars. Her breath curled around her face like shadows, dancing through the cold, midnight air like lovers. Elain Archeron lay flat in the grass, her skin so cold it burned. 

Elain Archeron had merely closed her eyes for a moment on the Summer Solstice, exhausted from the constant partying that kept her up into the wee hours of the morning. How she’d gotten here was a mystery. 

Where was she? Elain forced herself to sit up, her once beautiful, purple gown stained with mud and what appeared to be blood. The sleeves were ripped, the dress itself tattered and torn so it appeared to be more rags than anything. No shoes, which meant she had to walk. Elain took a step, causing shooting pain to scream up her left shin, settling in her knee.

She gasped, leaning against a nearby tree trunk as she tried to gather her bearings. It should have been warm—it was still summer. This felt more like the final frost before spring than a warm, summer evening. 

“Hello?” Elain called out, surprised to find her voice cracked, the words burning in her throat. It was as if she’d screamed at the top of her lungs for hours, shredding her vocal cords. She was terrified to see herself in the mirror.

“Hello?” she tried again, noting that the forest had become eerily still. No bugs chirping, no wind rustling leaves, no animals scurrying about. Just the sound of her breath, waiting for whatever had silenced the world around her. She’d noticed when a High Lord approached, the world seemed to react with the same reverence so many others did. As if it could sense all that power, too.

“Rhys?”

It wasn’t Rhys that appeared. She knew that creature, with the glowing green eyes and the massive, elk like horns, that suddenly appeared before her. He’d once broken into her home and stolen away her sister. Elain wrapped her arms around her body to try and hide the trembling that overtook her. It hurt to stand, to hold herself upright.

She wanted to lay back in the grass. “I…” she tried to say something, swaying ever so slightly on her feet. In a moment, the creature was gone, replaced by a man she’d seen, too. Tamlin, of the Spring Court, caught her before she collapsed.

“Elain Archeron?” he asked, the disbelief in his voice plain. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Dead?” 

Why would she be dead? Elain pushed weakly at Tamlin’s chest for all the good it did. He was warm and strong and uninjured and she was none of those things. He’d begun walking, holding her close enough to leech some of the heat from his skin. “What did you do to me?”

Tamlin only shook his head, his jaw clenched. “Archerons,” he grumbled softly, offering her no other information. Each step jostled her body, causing her bones to rattle beneath her skin. It was agony, pure misery of the highest order.

“Take me home,” Elain tried to demand, but the words came out small and soft as though a child spoke them. Tamlin didn’t acknowledge her, either. He merely stared straight ahead, his expression unreadable. 

He didn’t take her home—not that Elain was sure she had one. Instead, he took her to a sprawling manor adorned with creeping ivy and slumbering roses. The drive was dotted by tulips, peeking from just beneath that first frost as though to warn the others it was safe to erupt. The world was still in his arms, though behind her, she could hear life reemerge, chattering loudly like the gossips they were. 

“Is it just us?” she asked when he took her into the warmth. Had Feyre truly lived here, she wondered? It was so quiet, so empty and clean. Tamlin’s boots echoed off the checked marble floors while each inhale of air seemed to echo, making it seem as if a million frustrated men lurked just out of view.

The manor had seen better days. Walls that had once been papered were torn apart, the strips still hanging where the glue held fast. Wooden railings were splintered and doors missing entirely, only noticeable as they passed. Tamlin took her up the stairs, past a room that was entirely covered in ivy. 

That wasn’t the room she was put in. Several doors down, in a room that reeked heavily of dust, Elain was set back on her feet.

“Don’t move,” Tamlin ordered. She wanted to ask where she’d go given there seemed to be no one around. She could have screamed, she supposed, though what good would that do? Elain did as she was told, assuming Tamlin was going to get someone helpful. Someone she wanted to see—like Feyre, or Nesta, or even—

“Lucien?”

Lucien Vanserra appeared in the doorway with his shirt half on, hair a mess. He was barefoot and his pants were unlaced which made her nervous. 

“You’re…” he yanked his shirt wholly over his toned chest, swallowing audibly. “Do you have any idea how worried everyone has been? Where were you?”

“What are you talking about?” she replied, drawing her legs up to her chin as he stalked into the room. With a snap of his fingers both the fireplace and the faelights overhead ignited, illuminating the dark room. 

“You’ve been missing for two months,” he told her, his voice lethally soft. Lucien was angry. 

She shook her head back and forth. “No, that’s not…that’s not true—”

“Where were you, Elain?”

“Nowhere!” she exclaimed, holding up a hand to keep him from coming any closer. “I haven’t—you’re lying.”

“You sound just like your sister,” he hissed, half turning for the hall where Tamlin stood, watching the pair warily. 

“Take me back.”

“No.”

That came from Tamlin, who’d entered the room quietly. “She stays here for now. No word to anyone until we know where she was and what she was doing. After everything Rhys did…I want to know exactly where she was.”

“I wasn’t anywhere!” Elain repeated, but Lucien and Tamlin weren’t listening. They were facing off with one another, some strange tension hanging in the air.

“I don’t work here anymore,” Lucien said in a whisper soft voice.

“Then leave,” Tamlin replied, stalking toward Lucien. They were matched for height, for strength, though Elain suspected Tamlin still had the upper hand given the power he commanded.

She’d never quite figured out how magic worked in Prythian, though to be fair, she’d never really tried, either. 

“Run off, and tell Rhysand what we have…and let him know I’m not sending her back. She’s a threat, and for all I know, she’s his spy.”

“I’m not a spy,” Elain chimed in, though it didn’t matter. Neither one of them acknowledged anything she’d said, too busy with whatever argument was clearly about to erupt. 

“You’re a fucking asshole, you know that? Just ask me to stay,” Lucien snarled.

Tamlin wasn’t going to. Even Elain, who barely knew him at all, could see that pride, or stubbornness, or some other emotion entirely, would prevent him from asking what Lucien wanted to hear. Lucien’s gaze flicked back toward Elain, though all she could see were the brutal scars and the mechanical eye, visible from his profile. 

“You know where my allegiance lies,” Lucien murmured, unclenching his fists. Elain didn’t know, though she assumed it was not to Rhysand. 

“Then she remains here until we learn what she was doing out in the forest and where she’s been. I doubt it's a coincidence she just so happens to show up here after I closed my borders.”

They both glanced back at her with matching expressions of distrust. 

“They’ll realize she’s here after a time,” Lucien said slowly. “Rhys’s network of spies are endless.”

“Then we close the estate to everyone but the three of us. Ward it so no one comes in or out—”

“Ward it with blood?” Lucien breathed, his brown skin paling ever so slightly. 

“Mine and yours,” Tamlin said, his jaw set. “She doesn’t leave this manor until I know what Rhys was doing with her. This reeks of one of his games. You scent it, too.”

Lucien and Tamlin both looked at her again. “She smells like magic.”

“I have magic,” Elain snapped, frustrated with the pair of them. “And you can’t hold me here.”

“Watch me.”

“Not forever,” she breathed, noting how they both took a healthy step backward. “No wards can hold me.”

Tamlin blew out a sigh. “They will for now. Go,” he added, sending Lucien into the hall. Elain considered who she felt safer around—neither, truthfully, but she thought she’d prefer if Lucien remained in the room with her. Lucien, too, hesitated for a moment before doing as he was told. 

“Traitor,” she whispered at his retreating back. He stiffened, but swept out of the room just as he was told to do. 

“The only traitor is you,” Tamlin voiced, the words empty of ire or malice. He didn’t give her an opportunity to respond, leaving just behind Lucien so she was alone in that room. Alone in the Spring Court, which Feyre sometimes likened to the Court of Nightmares. This is where it had all begun, truly. Had Feyre not killed that wolf, had there never been a curse swirling around her youngest sister, Elain would still be human. A familiar anger rose through her, heating her blood until she felt the urge to scream.

She didn’t, though. 

Elain merely stood, looking about the dusty room. The cell was different, though the manner of prison remained the same. Feyre and Rhys offered the illusion of independence though she’d often caught Azriel trailing her in the markets—reporting back, if she knew him. 

And she didn’t. 

At least Tamlin was up front. He wasn’t allowing her to leave until he understood where she’d been and what she was doing. What, then, she wondered? When she herself didn’t know what she’d been doing. She knew one thing, though—she wasn’t spying on behalf of Rhys or Feyre. She’d offered to help scry only once, and after a little pushing, had been told she’d been voted against.

Lucien appeared in the doorway again, pulling his long, thick hair up off his face. “It’s the kind of thing he’d do, you know.”

“Lock up a woman?” Elain snapped.

Lucien’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment. “Erase your memories, Elain. Though…I think he’d do that, too.”

Ah. She’d assumed he was speaking of Tamlin. “You don’t know Rhys very well.”

Lucien’s temper seemed to flare, causing his cheeks to darken. “I know him better than you ever could. Sending you on some absurd mission only to erase your memories is the exact kind of thing he’d pull. He wouldn’t even be sorry, he’d just say it was for some greater purpose.”

“Let me go,” she ordered, well aware he wasn’t going to. 

Lucien shook his head. “Tamlin is right on this account.”

“Even if I knew where I’d been, I’d never tell you,” she whispered, hatred crawling up her throat. Elain felt like luggage, dragged around without any say in where she went, and forced to be wherever she was placed. She didn’t want to be in the Spring Court, but…she didn’t want to be in Night Court, either.

The realization was a revelation. Getting out of Night Court was next to impossible because Elain was always being watched by someone. If not Azriel, the twins who moved from room to room with her, or her sisters, or Rhys or his friends, or—

But here she was alone. Only Tamlin and Lucien for company, and they were already fighting. They’d barred the manor from anyone leaving or entering that wasn’t them, had used their blood to key the lock. Elain, though, knew there was always a way out of magic. She could see it in her dreams, with her eyes closed, could visualize all the threads of Tamlin’s wards. 

And perhaps, if she was patient and unassuming, she could simply pluck one of those threads, slip in between the warding chains, and make her way into another court. Another continent, even. Somewhere she could live a life of her own making and not one ruled by more powerful men. 

Lucien was watching her, the silence between them stretched thin. Both eyes of russet and metal were narrowed and she wondered if he, too, couldn’t hear her thoughts. 

“Get some rest, Elain,” he told her, before adding he was just two doors down the hall. Elain waited for him to sweep out before she jumped off the bed, her own temper besting her as she slammed the door. That wouldn’t do. She needed to let them see what they wanted to see—soft, sweet, unassuming. No one to concern themselves with. Practically a child, too stupid and helpless to do anything for herself.

Gripping the handle, Elain forced herself to breathe. She’d felt like this before, had felt the rage building too often as of late. Darkness blurred the edge of her vision, and if she wasn’t careful, she’d lose herself in the world in between the one she currently stood in and what lay beyond. 

Deep breaths.

She was in control.

—

Lucien had always been a practiced liar. 

That didn’t make walking into Feyre and Rhysand’s home, armed with multiple lies, feel any better. He had to remind himself to breathe normally, to keep the stench of fear off him. Tamlin had shifted into the beast beside him which should cover anything related to Elain, though he’d also refused to see her that morning and scrubbed his skin raw.

It wasn’t like he’d been fucking her, anyway. Whatever traces of her could be easily explained by the items of hers he did have. Lucien was supposed to be tracking her, an impossible task when Rhys had so much of his territory marked off limits to anyone but his innermost circle.

That didn’t include Lucien. 

Rhys was at his desk, Feyre in a chair facing the fireplace. Thankfully the spy master was nowhere to be seen, meaning fewer eyes to witness the lies about to come out of his mouth.

It would be the last time Lucien came into this home and he knew it. Rhys and Feyre didn’t seem to, given the warmth in which they looked at him. They’d know, soon enough. Lucien could by himself time, but inevitably someone would spread word that would reach Rhys’ network of spies.

Tamlin wasn’t prepared to handle the wrath of Rhys. Lucien would have to make him ready. Or they’d hand over Elain—either way, Lucien knew he was never going to get the life he wanted. There was peace in the realization. Life would go back to how it had been before Feyre dropped into his life.

“How is Spring?” Rhys began, just as he always did.

Lucien launched into his report, handing the paper to Feyre who merely scanned it over. This was all perfunctory. 

“He’s closed the borders to Spring,” Lucien added casually, hoping Rhys, who was back to scanning his own paperwork, wouldn’t care. That was too much to hope for. Violet eyes snapped to Lucien’s face, searching his expression. Lucien knew better, now—his walls were well fortified. If they wanted to break into his mind, they’d have to use force to do it.

“Why?”

“He’s tired of Azriel circling over his home,” Lucien replied dryly. “Isn’t he supposed to be stealthy?”

Rhys didn’t respond to that, though Feyre’s brow furrowed. “Is he allowing you back?”

“Tentatively,” Lucien lied. Better to keep up the ruse as best he could. “I’ve been searching the grounds, but no one has seen your sister. Tamlin doesn’t have her.”

Feyre sighed, running her fingers through her hair. “I don’t understand where she went.”

“Are you sure she even left Night?” Lucien questioned like the liar he was. “Maybe she ran off with someone.”

Rhys’s eyes narrowed. “Like who?”

A knot formed in his stomach, a memory slamming into him with such ferocity it stole his breath. Solstice, a near kiss, and an argument had loud enough Lucien had heard it echoing upward through the vents. “You know.”

“He wouldn’t.” Rhys said it so flatly, inviting no follow-up conversation. Ferye’s eyes were wide, her curiosity palpable. So Rhys hadn’t told her? Lucien guessed he wasn’t the only liar in the Night Court. 

“Did you question him like you questioned me?”

They both knew Rhys hadn’t. Cassian and Azriel were excluded from the prying Lucien had willingly subjected himself to. While Nesta was out combing the streets of Velaris and begging Helion and Thesan to help her, Rhys was still spying on Tamlin. 

Rhys didn’t respond to Lucien’s challenge, though his fingers curled tightly around the arm of his chair in a mockery of what he’d like to do to Lucien’s throat. The feeling was mutual. Lucien stood, delighted he could storm out with the air of a wounded male. Turning Rhys’s attention inward would only last so long—but there was doubt there. Just enough to make Rhys question his own friends.

Oh, what a gift. If he and Tamlin were getting along better, Lucien would have brought Tamlin the news alongside a bottle of wine. 

“Let me know if she was with him. I’ll send them a gift.”

“Lucien,” Feyre called, but he’d made his dramatic exit and wasn’t going to stop so Feyre could try and convince him to see reason. Feyre should have been his friend—she’d been his, at the expense of every other relationship in his life. How had she repaid him? Lucien knew if Azriel had hidden Elain, Feyre wouldn’t tell him the truth. She’d lie, she’d cover, she’d let him continue searching beneath every stone, every fresh mound of dirt, trying to find her. And she wouldn’t be sorry for any of it.

That was what stung the most. She’d always pick Rhysand over everyone, even the people who’d loved her when no one else had. It wasn’t personal, he decided as he stepped into the crisp autumn air. He simply had to look out for himself for once. 

Feyre caught him just at the edge of the ward, finger’s curling around his wrist. Lucien didn’t jerk back, though he didn’t immediately stop what he was doing, either. He took another step so she was still within it, he without. Just in case he needed to make a quick exit. 

“Azriel wouldn’t—he wouldn’t—”

“He would,” Lucien replied flatly. “Whatever they had going on, your mate knew and concealed it from everyone. If he doesn’t want to look at his friends, fine. I’m done being interrogated, though.”

Rhys must have told her everything, was likely listening to the conversation in Feyre’s mind. He’d never have a moments peace when it came to Rhys, the nosy fuck. 

“He would have told us.”

“And you would have told me?” Lucien questioned. 

Feyre shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

“Right. No one in Prythian has seen Elain in two months, and every court has been thoroughly searched—”

“Except Autumn,” Feyre told him. “Beron won’t…he wouldn’t tell us anything.”

Of course he wouldn’t. Beron jealously guarded the borders of his home and hated Rhysand. He wasn’t about to let a foreign court's troops into his territory. Even Helion had bristled, vocalizing that it felt more like a mapping of territory than a search for a missing woman. After all, they’d all agreed to use their own manpower to search for her, which hadn’t been good enough. It had to be Cassian’s warriors or Azriel’s spies—no one else could be trusted. 

“Ask Eris.”

“We did—he’s a liar, though.”

“So is your mate,” Lucien snapped, frustrated with the same circular conversation. “What do you even know about any of this, Feyre?”

Her eyes sharpened. “Excuse me?”

Lucien shrugged, jamming his hands into his pockets. He was so, so angry. “From where I’m standing, it looks to me as if he doesn’t tell you much. Lies of omission are still lies, you know.”

“I don’t think you get to tell me about my relationships,” she bit out. Cruel, but fair. 

“Maybe not. But I’ve done my part in this, and I’m tired of being viewed with hostility and suspicion. I’m not returning for the time being—Tamlin needs help strengthening Spring, and frankly, it would be nice to be around people who enjoy my company.” Elain notwithstanding.

“Lucien—”

There was a warning to her voice, likely echoing whatever threats Rhys was making in her mind. Feyre, ever the good little mouthpiece. She’d say it all softer, sweeter, but she’d say it all the same. 

“I know. If I leave, I’ll never see Elain again. So your mate has all but said—but she’s gone, and I don’t think she wants to be found. That’s her choice, and this is mine.”

And then he winnowed off, needing both to have the last word and to get away from them before he dug his own grave. Lucien’s feet slammed against springy, fresh grass and the unchanging season before him. It was sunny, the bird chirping merrily as a lilac scented breeze wafted his hair. Gods above, he shouldn’t have said any of that. Regret slammed against him hard as he plodded back to the manor, replaying the conversation with Feyre and Rhys over and over. Why had he said any of that? He should have kept it cool, should have shut his mouth.

Who cared about his feelings? He’d made a mild enemy of Feyre when he’d meant to slip out unnoticed entirely. 

Though, it did amuse him to think of Rhys going through Azriel’s life. Had Lucien planted enough doubt? Just enough to cause a small rift among the inner circle? Probably not—Azriel would allow it, Rhys would endure, and their gazes would turn toward the south once more.

Still, a little time was better than nothing. As Lucien stepped through the shimmering ward, his blood reacting the key that allowed him in, he figured he had just enough time to figure out what Elain had been doing before he dropped her back off at Rhys’s doorstep.

Whether her disappearance was yet another lie from the High Lord of Night. 

Lucien plodded up the stairs, pulled by the knowledge she was there, hostage and still close enough he could see her, if he wanted. And he did—he’d been dreaming about her the night before. He’d be thinking about her until the day he died, which, if he was lucky, would be mercifully short. 

She wasn’t in her room. Lucien followed the thread between them, winding down the empty, ruined corridors of the once splendid manor. It was as if he could see the damage through her eyes and all of it spoke to Tamlin’s temper, his rage, his refusal to let Feyre go. Lucien sighed as he stepped into the music room. Elain was seated on the bench, her fingers hovering over the keys.

“Do you play?” he asked, reclining against the door frame. Her back was to him, long, thick curls half pinned by a pretty, white bow he distinctly remembered being given to her sister among all the finery Feyre had once had, here. Not that she’d ever worn any of it. It was pretty in Elain’s hair. 

She didn’t respond. She didn’t move, either—Lucien expected her to tense up, to betray she’d heard his voice. Strange, he thought, pushing off the frame to walk to her. “Elain?” He reached the piano, overlooking the ruined gardens just outside. Dust covered the keys and the chaise nearby, though it did little to stop her from coming in. He was hit with a visceral memory of he and Feyre, embarrassingly drunk while he played at the keys and taught Feyre all the filthy lyrics to songs he’d once found impossibly amusing. 

“Elain?”

Lucien dropped to one knee at her side, head cocked. Elain was staring at a sheaf of paper without moving save for her eyes, which seemed to be reading the notes on the page at impossible speed.

Lucien touched her knee, hoping it would bring her back. She turned so suddenly he would have fallen backward had he not been stabilized on his knee. It wasn’t her, he realized, but her magic staring out at him through a blue gray film akin to the fog that had once poured from the cauldron. 

Elain opened her mouth, but it wasn’t her voice that emerged. 

Blooming rot and ruined sun

Brought forth with magic to a golden land

Wind and flame see the night undone

Brings new life into a barren land. 

She slumped forward, saved from crashing to the floor by Lucien’s quick reflexes.

“Elain?” he asked, genuinely afraid of her for the first time since he’d met her. What did it mean?

“Why are you touching me?” she asked, pulling away. She sat on the floor while Lucien crouched over her, unsure what  to do.

“What you said…the prophecy…Elain, what does it mean?”

She blinked those wide, doe-like eyes up at him.

“What prophecy, Lucien?”

[lyriawhitethornnomore]

„Aelin hissed, “Need I remind you, Captain, that you went to Endovier and did not blink at the slaves, at the mass graves? Need I remind you that I was starved and chained, and you let Duke Perrington force me to the ground at Dorian’s feet while you did nothing? And now you have the nerve to accuse me of not caring, when many of the people in this city have profited off the blood and misery of the very people you ignored?”

I've noticed some Aelin fans using this quote from Queen of Shadows to bash Chaol and try to show that he's hypocritical while making Aelin look like the hero.

Unfortunately, it doesn't really work because it just highlights Aelin's hypocrisy.

Anyone who’s read the first two books knows that Celaena Sardothien/Aelin Ashryver Galathynius—the best fmc ever written—really didn’t take any action against slavery.

Some people argue that if you read The Assassin's Blade first, your experience would change because she actually attempted to rescue them and faced consequences from Arobynn for it. But the first two books make it pretty clear that she didn't really care about them.

In Throne of Glass, there are times when Celaena Sardothien/Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, after being rescued from the salt mines, looks down on the enslaved people from Eyllwe. A lot of folks on Tumblr criticize how the struggles of the Archeron sisters in ACOTAR are portrayed, saying it doesn't do justice to the experience of being poor. But in Throne of Glass, it’s pretty clear that the people from Eyllwe are stuck in the mines because they’re poor.

In Crown of Midnight, while Nehemia was trying to discuss the issue of slavery, our so-called hero/beacon of light was more interested in splurging the King's money on shopping.

[tamiart]

I wrote a little romance scene between Halsin and Tav, mostly imagining Halsin’s POV.

Summary: Tav is breaking down under the pressure of the enormous task ahead of her, and Halsin happens upon her.

Since I don’t consider myself a writer, I have never tried to write anything like this before. But I love this game so much, and especially when it comes to these two characters, my imagination is continuously running away with me. I need more material with them, so I tried to create some of my own. I hope you like it.

Midnight Solace

Everyone was finishing up their duties in setting up camp. Halsin looked over to see Tav talking to Wyll and Gale, who were arguing about something as they tried to come up with a strategy for some fight or other, which was now an almost daily occurrence. Tav looked worn out, barely listening to the two of them bicker as she studied a map they had drawn in the dirt. The others were always going to her for help with their problems, and by Silvanus did everyone in this group have catastrophic problems. In all his many years, Halsin had never met such a varied, volatile bunch of individuals. They reminded him of his younger years when every mishap, every mistake, felt like the end of the world.

Tav was the most intriguing to him. She couldn’t be half his age, and yet this young, unassuming slip of a girl had gone out of her way, putting aside her own troubles and fears, which must be plentiful though she never voiced them, for weeks throughout their perilous journey to help many along the way, including himself. She was helping him find a way to lift the shadow curse, which had haunted him for a century as his greatest shame and failure. She had risked her life to infiltrate a horde of nasty, treacherous little goblins to free him - a huge, threatening wild bear that could have tried to kill her too for all she knew. But even in his most savage form, she wasn’t afraid of him. 

Halsin had never met anyone like her. He often found himself watching her from across camp as she went about the daily routine that everyone had settled into - helping to prepare their meals, eating, talking and laughing with everyone around the fire, getting ready to go to sleep, preparing to head out in the mornings. He wondered about her as he performed his own duties. He felt himself drawn to her, and realized he was reluctant to leave her side. He was sorely tempted to forsake his druidic duties and stay with her, to be there for her and protect her for as long as she would let him during her quest to save them all. She stirred long-dormant feelings in him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this way about anyone.

Later that night, after everyone had sought their bedrolls, rest seemed to elude Halsin, so he gave up and headed towards the woods to lose himself in a hunt. As he walked past Tav’s bedroll, he noticed she wasn’t there. He looked around briefly, but did not see her. Slightly alarmed, he enhanced his senses and picked up her scent trail heading into the forest. Wanting to make sure she was alright, he followed it.

As he approached the stream nearby, he heard the sound of someone crying. He stopped and peered through the trees in that direction and saw that it was Tav, sitting by the water, her head resting on her bent knees. He felt a sympathetic pang to see and hear her so distraught. Not wanting to frighten her, he made his footsteps audible as he rounded a bush and approached her, and she started up and noticed him, and immediately turned away to surreptitiously wipe away the traces of her misery. He felt his heart stir.

“Oh, Halsin,” she said, “what are you doing out here so late?”

“I could not sleep,” he responded, “so I was going for a walk. I could ask you the same thing. Are you alright, my friend?”

At that, she failed at reigning in her emotions and burst into sobs once more.

“I’m sorry,” she sputtered through her tears. “I don’t know what’s come over me tonight.”

He hurried over and sat beside her. “It’s alright,” he tried to reassure her. But she could not stop, and he hesitantly reached out to touch her shoulder.

His touch seemed to relax something in her and she leaned towards him. He put his arm around her and held her closer. The feel of her sobs shaking her slight frame melted away his final resistance, and he knew then that he would do anything to help this girl. He was lost to her. He held her until her sobs quieted into sniffles. 

“What is it, my friend? Can I do anything to help?” He asked her gently.

“No, I’ll be okay.” She sighed.”Ugh look at me, I’m such a mess.”

“You are still beautiful. But stay here, I’ll get something for you.” Halsin quietly returned to his tent and found a clean cloth, poured a cup of water and grabbed a blanket as well, then returned to Tav’s side. She had calmed down and sat quietly staring into the stream with a troubled expression on her face. He draped the blanket around her shoulders and handed her the water and cloth.

 “Thank you. I didn’t want anyone to see me like this,” said Tav, wiping her tear-stained face. “They’re all depending on me to be strong. I need to be strong for all of us if we’re going to get through this.” She took a sip of water and put the cup down on a rock.

He placed his arm around her again and pulled her close. “No one expects you to be invincible. You don’t need to carry all of it alone. We’re all here to help you. I’m here to help you.”

She looked up at him, tears glistening in her eyelashes. The distance between them was too close. The urge to kiss her was overpowering, and it took all of his will to resist. She needed him to be strong just now, and he would give her his support.

“Thanks, Halsin,” She closed her eyes and sighed, leaning her head on his shoulder. “That’s nice to hear. I just… I’m so afraid. I don’t know what I’m doing half of the time. Why does every decision have to fall to me? Every time one of us gets injured, I wonder if I should give it all up. Maybe I’m just leading us all to our deaths.” Her voice choked on those last words, and she covered her face with her hands and pulled away from him. “I can’t… that thought… it’s too much to bear.”

“Your fears are completely understandable under the circumstances. We have far too much leveled against us, with no end to our journey in sight. What an incredible amount of pressure to undertake. But Tav, you’ve been amazing thus far. Why do you think everyone trusts you so implicitly? No one else could have gotten this eccentric group of misfits this far, to survive as much as we have. Honestly, I don’t know how you’ve managed it. You don’t realize how extraordinary you truly are. My dear friend, we would all follow you anywhere. I would follow you anywhere. If anyone is going to get us all through this, it’s you.” 

Tav looked up at him again, a new light and curiosity in her glance. “You truly believe that?”

“With all my heart.”

Suddenly she threw her arms around him and buried her face in his chest. Oak father preserve him, Tav had him wrapped around her finger. “Thanks, Halsin,” she whispered into him. She looked up at him again, and her face finally softened into a smile. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Tav, I - “ he tried to find the right words. “Please know that I’m always here for you, if you ever need to talk about anything. I will do my best to help you, in any way that you need.”

She was still looking up at him, her gaze searching. She was so beautiful, he could hold back no longer. Cautiously, he lowered his face down towards her, watching her expression as he did so. She did not pull away, and her lips parted as her glance fell to his mouth. He closed the distance and pressed his lips to hers. He tasted the salt of her tears as he kissed her, and she kissed him back, tentatively at first, but quickly growing more eager. Her lips were full, soft and warm. Finally they both had to pull away, gasping for air. He had to stop now before he took things too far. He couldn’t ask that much of her just now in her current vulnerable state.

Tav stared at him, stunned. Then as if suddenly realizing where she was, she blushed and gave him a shy, tentative smile. “Wow,” She gasped as she found her voice. “What was that?”

“I’ve dreamed about kissing you for a long time,” he confessed to her.

“Really? But I didn’t… I thought… you’ve never…” Tav stammered.

“I know. I didn’t want to do anything to upset you or harm our friendship. And I didn’t want to distract you during such a crucial and difficult time. I’ve been trying to keep my distance, to let you focus.”

Tave let out a breathy laugh. “Well, it’s a very welcome distraction.” She hesitated, then looked up at him shyly once more. “I’ve been thinking about that as well, with you.”

He wrapped her in his arms once more and held her in silence. They sat together, listening to the night sounds of the forest and the babble of the nearby stream. Gradually, he felt her relax in his arms. Her head began to droop against his shoulder. He could have stayed this way all night. But reluctantly, he gently shook her awake.

“You should try to get some sleep,” he told her. “Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”

She sighed. “You’re right.” She stood up and handed the blanket back to him. She tried to return the cloth as well, but he told her to keep it. She seemed reluctant to go. “Thank you, Halsin. This was… it means a lot.” She smiled at him once more.

And she was gone before he could respond, leaving him alone once more in the woods, the blanket in his arms, all of his senses full of her, and his mind a whirl of thoughts, emotions and desires.

[zielaraaa]

jrwi the suckening spoilers

the fact that arthur gets to do the thing hes been working towards ever since he got turned and actually has a lead that he can track makes him maybe not happier but definitely more whimsical because you can literally see it in some of his actions. like in the london chase scenes where he runs away from cops on a stolen kids bike, or when he used his shadow play to tie the london grimslayers shoes together to prevent them from following, you can see him let go of the misery he subjected himself to. i think the fact that he was back where he started but revigorated and had faced his regrets really let the “human” arthur out of him. but its sooooo heartbreaking when he meets the midnight circle.

like grizz said in the rolled, all of the progress that arthur goes through gets reversed when he sacrifices his humanity. he was literally face to face with his past and had finally accepted himself as who he was and that was taken away from him. arthur has always been “for the greater good” but i dont think he ever realized that throwing away the last bit of his humanity would be so detrimental for his well being.

literally in the end of the season, he is unrecognizable, and back to his rage induced hunt, if not worse. and all that work and development is gone.

[lianahayze]

Shadow and the Midnight Misery: Chapter 12

Hi all! You know the drill; chapter is below the cut, previous chapter is here, and you can find the masterlist here. Enjoy!

Chapter 12. Arguments

"Shadow, you're here!"

Coffee in hand and sunglasses covering my face, I lightly smile. Wyatt, Dave, and Ethan. They’re all standing outside waiting for me. Out of all of them, Ethan is the only one who looks excited. The other two already seem annoyed at me, even though I’ve only been here for less than ten seconds.

I’m exhausted. The rest of my night had been terrible. After trying for a couple of hours, I had finally drifted off to sleep. It hadn’t been a good rest, though; I’d tossed and turned all night, dancing with my demons. Though I’m pretending that everything is fine, I’m barely awake and only half aware of what’s going on, so I hope none of them give me any bullshit today.

As we go inside, I tell Ethan, "Of course I'm here." Over my shoulder, I add, "Somebody had to open the door."

If Wyatt hears me, he doesn't say anything.

Once I've unlocked the door, I make a beeline for the studio. Not really in the mood to deal with any of them, I immediately start to set up. Initially, I keep my sunglasses on--I didn't have time to do my makeup this morning and don't want them to see how tired I am--but it’s making it difficult for me to see. I stare down at my notebook and pull them off, dropping them into my bag.

Dave enters the room first. Without even turning, I can feel him staring at me. "What?" I ask.

"Nothing." He sits down on the couch. "It's just long time no see."

I roll my eyes but refuse to bite. Swiveling the chair so that I'm facing away from him, I curl up and continue reading.

"What's our plan for today?"

When Wyatt enters the room, I don't respond to him. After all, he's the one who called this rehearsal; he should know what we're doing today.

For a few minutes, the three of them talk amongst themselves. I don’t want to get involved, so I don’t. Not having the energy to fight with them, I keep to myself. All I want is my bed and several interrupted hours of sleep, and the sooner we can get through this, the sooner that's going to happen.

"You ready to go?"

"Hmm?" I look up at Dave.

"Are you ready?" He asks. I nod but barely. Dave gives me a look over before saying, "Late night?"

There's skepticism and sarcasm in his voice but I ignore it. "You could say that," I tell him.

"What were you doing?"

I sigh. I know where he's heading, and now's not the time for it. "Nothing. I was home all night." I look back at my notebook. I flip a few pages, hoping nothing else is going to be said.

Of course, nothing ever goes according to plan, and Wyatt asks, "How's therapy?"

Jeez, I really just want to curl up on the floor and go to sleep. "It's fine."

"Yeah? Helping you stay centered throughout the day?"

"Sure."

A small silence sweeps through the room, and, out of the corner of my eye, I see them exchanging looks. Honestly, I don't know what they want from me. Do they expect me to blow up at them? Is that what they’re trying to make me do? Because if it is, it’s just not going to happen. Right now, all I want to have as little contact with people as possible, arguments included.

"You okay, Shadow?" I nod at Ethan.

"Probably just going through withdrawals," said Wyatt.

I huff. Withdrawal would only happen if I had an addiction, which I don't.

"We've been working on some stuff to show you. Not that we've been working a lot without you or anything. It's just that..." Ethan clears his throat before continuing. "Well, we just all had some downtime when you were at Garver, so..."

I understand what he's trying to say. "Sure." I wave my hand. "Let me hear it."

They get set up. As they start to play, I close my eyes. I'm somewhat drifting off, yes, but I'm also listening. I wonder if they'll be expecting me to put lyrics to this or if they were just screwing around when they came up with it. It's not half bad, but it's definitely missing something.

"Stop, stop, stop." My eyes open at Wyatt's voice. I look at him; he's staring at me. "Are you seriously trying to sleep right now?"

"No."

"Are you high right now?"

Resenting the accusation, I frown. "No."

"Then what the hell is wrong with you?"

"Wyatt, I'm here." My voice is calm as I speak. "I don't know what you want from me."

"I want you to be a functioning member of this band!" he yells. "I want you to stop being so erratic!"

His shouting makes my ears ring. I groan but don't argue. I should be defending myself, but maybe he's right. I get where he's coming from. And though I could easily tell him that, without me, there wouldn't even be a band for me to function in, I don't. Instead, I close my eyes again, saying, "Fine."

"'Fine'?" I hear him scoff. "'Fine'? What the fuck is your problem?"

"Everything is my problem, but every time I try to tell you that I get shit on." Realizing that we aren't going to get much done, I close my notebook. "So that's that."

"You're not supposed to be on drugs right now," he says.

"I'm not." Discounting the joint that I'd smoked last night.

"You act like you are."

"And you're acting like a crazy person. If you're not careful I'll have Dave and Ethan scheme behind your back to get you committed."

Ethan says, "That's not funny."

"I guess I just have a weird sense of humor." I look back over at Wyatt. "Look, I don't know what you want. I'm here, I'm on time, I'm listening to you play." I wonder if they can hear how tired I am. "Can't you tell I'm trying my best?"

He doesn't say anything--none of them do, actually. Instead, they just stand there, not moving. I don’t know if they’re holding back, or if they’re finally ready to get off my back, but, a few moments later, I find out:

Clearing his throat, Dave says, "Well... I guess we'll get started then?"

With that, they drop it, and we finally get going.

-

So excited to be back on track with my updates. Thanks for reading; come say hi here. See you in chapter 13!

-L.H.

[todorokies]

DEATH AND THE MAIDEN - choso kamo

✩࿐ choso finds meaning in this hellish world within the confines of your bedroom . . .

contents: nsfw, softdom!fem reader, cunnilingus, hair pulling, implications that reader is someone with high status of royalty, choso is reader’s courtier, sub!choso, slapping (just once), power dynamics, choso calls reader ‘m’lady’, nineteenth century gothic victorian era, installment of my spookfest event

a/n: this is a bit more lengthy than my usual work however i hope u all enjoy !! pls support by reblogging

the haunting hours of midnight has struck causing the grandfather clock from above to make its presence known with three loud echoing chimes rumbling the surface below. the silent night was perfect for the noticed to go unnoticed within the dark palace.

choso finds himself hurrying his pace, swiftly avoiding the huge stained glass windows that reflected the moonlight throughout the long corridor. leaning towards the shadows despite the residents having long blown out their candles that rest on their nightstands the fear of getting caught cannot be shaken out of his psyche.

with each thudding step he took it felt as if the corridor was elongating on it’s own preventing him from reaching his one and only, his small taste of spring after an everlasting winter, the only one to pull him out of the ongoing cycle of misery.

soon enough, he finds himself stationed infront or your detailed baroque door. his body thinks faster than his mind raising his chuckles to knock a specific tune to notify you it’s him.

the door opens with faint creaks revealing you clad in a white frilly nightgown that hit just above the knees. the sheer and delicate fabric cascaded your body and heavily outlined the curve of your tits. choso silently cursed himself for already feeling his cock pathetically throb at the mere sight of you,

“would you care to come in?” you break him out of the enchanting spell you unknowingly cast upon him.

he sheepishly clears his throat, “yes of course, m’lady.” he steps in, taking note of the spike in temperature compared to the cold hallway.

“you can drop the formalities when it’s just us, you know?”

“i rather not m’lady, i still want to show you respect despite how improper we act towards each other.” you simply hum in acknowledgment, moving to face him, to soak in his beauty that must only be examined under the divine moonlight.

the hefty dark circles that clings onto his skin leaves you in awe. as you lift a finger to graze his thick birth mark that gracefully paints over his nose, he stills his breath, leaning his forehead against yours with his eyes closed.

“something on your mind, cho?” he falters a bit due to the nickname —the concept of improper name calling is foreign to him— having to catch his own footing before tripping; your voice is dipped in honey. it stirs warmth in the pit of his stomach.

“same old stuff that usually sits on my mind.” he grimaces and you sport a frown knowing he is hinting at the stubborn thoughts that trouble him at night.

he notices a few creases on your forehead and plants a chaste kiss to calm your nerves, “don’t worry, that’s my job remember? i’m here to service and cater to your needs.”

“is that why you’ve ask me to accompany you tonight? you need my services?” he refers to the note you slipped in the palm of his hand earlier in the day regarding a fitting of a dress. when in truth, it was a hoax to lure him in your quarters alone.

if anything in that note was truthful, you wanted him to take off the current sleepwear that covers your body.

dismissing his inquiry, you wrap your arms around his neck with your fingers finding solace at the nape, leaning in to enclose the small distance of air between the two of you.

soft mostizured lips captures his icy cold ones, it’s uncomfortable at first, jagged with errors and teeth clashing until choso’s hands sneak around your waist to pull you closer, finding himself relaxing to your scent that engulfed him.

feeling him melt against your figure, you take the initiative to dip your tongue into his mouth swirling around, exploring new territory. his knees buck wildly, feeling his bulge graze over the feathering fabric of your nightgown; feeling everything he beholds.

you’ve got him right where you want him.

you abruptly break the kiss, a thin string of saliva shimmers in your retreat from his lips as you lead him towards the foot of your bed.

with gentle force you send him onto his knees and a light thud echos from the wooden floors. you then take a seat on the bed positioning yourself directly infront of him.

“i do demand a unique kind of service only you can preform for me.” with furrowed brows, he looks up at you with curiosity. not understanding your vague statement until you hike up your thin nightgown and widen your legs to give him a closer glance at your glistening cunt dripping with arousal.

choso’s breath gets caught in his throat. his mouth suddenly runs dry as his eyes flicker from your face and back to your slicked folds, needy and ready for him.

just for him.

a sharp stinging pain across his check snaps him out of his daze, “it’s rude to stare choso, especially at a lady waiting for her demanded services.” your stern voice combined with the quick slap has him scrabbling to attach his mouth immediately onto your throbbing clit.

he uses his tongue to expertly swirl around it, lewdly lapping at the sensitive nub. slick smears his chin as faint suckling and squelching bounces off the walls. his cold callused hands etch soothing patterns on your outer thighs. your hands grips at the root of his black locks of hair tugging occasionally to serve as encouragement.

soft whines and angelic moans carelessly leaves your lips. his tongue moves in vertical strides from your hole to your puffy clit then finally dipping his wet muscle in your drooling hole. he moans as he can taste you better like this.

so sweet and savoury.

he darts his tongue in and out at a slow antagonizing pace. wanting nothing more than to collect every last drop you’d offer for him —a privilege he refuses to take for granted— however his speed did not please you in the slightest. you forcefully tug at his hair to bring him eye to eye, his already fucked out expression proves he wasn’t thinking clearly.

“you are in no position of power to prolong my pleasure, remember that choso.” you warn him cautiously.

he nods profusely seeking your forgiveness, “my apologies m’lady. you just taste so sweet, can i please continue?” you don’t give him an answer instead you tug his face back at your pussy.

he moves his tongue vigorously with confidence this time, even adding his thumb to rub tight circles on your clit. the room gets even hotter as if the fireplace was roaring it’s scorching flames, breathy groans seep out of choso’s mouth bringing you closer to your release.

for as long as he can remember, choso has always questioned his existence. what sole meaning does he serve on this earth?

but once he sees your face scrunch up in pleasure and thrashing your pretty little head around whilst gently pinching at your perky nipples, everything clicks.

his sole purpose is to serve you. to please you in very aspect of life and in return he gets filled with a warm sense of belonging and love that softly kneads at his usually cold heart.

you cum hard on his tongue with a loud moan that would surely awaken the entire palace.

but at that very moment, choso would only gently lick you clean while being mindful to not overstimulate you, kiss you with devotion to calm you down and help you hydrate yourself.

you are his hopeful source of life that accompanies his woeful death; hand and hand you both complete each other’s soul.

tags: @chososwhoresblog

reblogs and feedback is extremely appreciated !! <3

[kaimeioneclipse]

A Dark Wedding of Misery

Pairing: Wednesday x Male Reader

Summary: They said you two would never make it this far but you did. Y/N and Wednesday Addams are getting married. From Nevermore Academy to the Alter

WordCount: 1.3k words

WARNINGS: Kissing

The moon hung low in the midnight sky, casting an ethereal glow over the sprawling grounds of the Addams mansion. It was a night of foreboding, yet one tinged with an unusual excitement. Wednesday Addams, the somber and enigmatic daughter of the Addams family, was on the precipice of a life-altering event—an unholy matrimony that would defy the boundaries of the living and the dead.

The mansion, with its ivy-clad walls and twisted spires, exuded an otherworldly charm as Morticia, the epitome of Gothic elegance, supervised the final touches of her daughter's wedding gown. The dress, a masterpiece of darkness and grace, clung to Wednesday like a second skin, its midnight-black fabric cascading around her like a shroud.

"I will need some more black ash for the rest of your dress, Possibly your grandmothers would suffice. I shall return" Morticia says as he scurries out the room.

Wednesday scoots herself over to the dusty mirror in the Library that the family turned into a fitting room for the occasion. She looked at the black dress and felt it unsettling that her time was coming.

Wednesday looked at THING who was working on some dead flower arrangements and for the bridesmaids to hand out to them later.

"Thing" she called to him

Thing stopped his task and moved his hand body in her direction

"Find Enid, I wish to speak to her" Wednesday requested

Thing saluted and scurried off.

Wednesday waited for a few moments and then went towards the door and checked if the coast was clear. She picked up her black dress and began to run down the eerie hallways of the Addams Mansion towards the other wing.

_____________________________________

In a distant wing of the Addams mansion, where shadows played upon the walls like phantoms in the night, Y/N prepared for the unholy union. The air hung heavy with a sense of anticipation, and the dimly lit room seemed to echo with the echoes of centuries past.

Y/N, adorned in a suit as black as the void itself, stood before the ornate mirror. His hands trembled ever so slightly as he adjusted his tie, and his eyes, a mix of excitement and nervousness, reflected in the polished glass.

Ajax Petropolus, a towering figure with a beanie on his head stood behind Y/N checking themselves to make sure they looked good. He observed Y/N with a subtle nod, understanding the gravity of the moment. Eugene Ottinger, with his mop of unruly hair and penchant for the bizarre, fidgeted with the boutonnière, offering a lopsided grin. Beside them, Xavier Thorpe, with his piercing gaze and enigmatic aura, stood as the voice of reason.

Ajax: (In his deep, resonant voice) You'll do just fine, Y/N. It's not every day you get to marry into the Addams clan.

Eugene: (With a mischievous smirk) Remember, weddings are just like funerals, only with better food!

Xavier: (In his calm, soothing tone) Relax, Y/N. Tonight is a celebration of the unusual, and you, my friend, are stepping into a realm where the extraordinary is the norm.

As the trio provided reassurance and prepared Y/N for his impending union with Wednesday, the mansion's eerie silence served as a stark contrast to the bustling emotions within.

Once the boys left, Y/N stood alone in the room, the weight of the moment settling upon him like a heavy shroud. He looked at his reflection, contemplating the path that had led him to this peculiar crossroads.

As he ran his fingers through his hair, a knock echoed through the room. Y/N turned, expecting one of the boys to return with some last-minute advice. However, when he opened the door, there stood Wednesday—a vision of darkness and mystery and soon Y/N Wife.

Wednesday: (Expressionless) Y/N, the time is nigh.

Y/N: (Nervously) Yea it is, Wednesday. The boys were just helping me gather my composure.

Wednesday: (Observing him) Composure is overrated.

Without another word, Wednesday took Y/N's hand, leading him through the labyrinthine corridors of the mansion. The moonlit hallway cast an eerie glow as they approached the entrance to the backyard—a gateway to the dark forest that concealed secrets untold.

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

The forest, with its twisted branches and shadowy depths, beckoned them into its enigmatic embrace. The rustling leaves and the distant hooting of an owl added to the mystical ambiance as Wednesday and Y/N ventured into the heart of the darkness.

Wednesday: (Stopping at the forest's edge) We stand on the precipice of eternity, Y/N. Tonight, we embark on a journey that transcends the mortal coil.

Y/N: (Nervously) Yes, Wednesday. I…

Wednesday: (Interrupting) Nervousness becomes you, Y/N. It is an emotion as genuine as the shadows that cloak our existence.

Y/N's gaze met Wednesday's, and in that moment, the moonlight revealed a vulnerability beneath her stoic exterior—a vulnerability mirrored in Y/N's own eyes.

Y/N: (Softly) I never thought I'd find someone as extraordinary as you.

Wednesday: (Expressionless) Extraordinary is subjective. Tonight, we become a tapestry of darkness and peculiarity, woven together in the moonlit dance of fate.....But I'm content that I've met you

Y/N, captivated by the haunting beauty of the dress, stood in awe of the enigmatic figure before him. The moonlight played upon the black fabric, casting an ethereal glow that accentuated the mysterious allure of Wednesday's presence.

Y/N: (Breathless) Wednesday, you're… breathtaking.

Wednesday: (Expressionless) Brevity suits the moment.

As those words hung in the air, Wednesday reached for Y/N's face with a gentle grace that belied her typically stoic demeanor. Her cool fingers traced a delicate path along his jawline, an intimate touch that transcended the shadows around them. In the dim moonlight, her left hand emerged, adorned with a striking black obsidian ring—a gem as dark as the night sky.

The ring, an exquisite piece of craftsmanship, held an otherworldly allure. A seamless integration of black obsidian and silver, it seemed to absorb the moonlight, casting a subtle, mesmerizing glow. Etched into the obsidian was an intricate pattern reminiscent of ancient symbols—a visual ode to the peculiar legacy they were about to deepen.

As Wednesday caressed Y/N's face, their eyes locked, and in that shared gaze, they found solace and understanding. Their intertwined fingers, now adorned with the weight of the black obsidian ring, rose together, and they turned their attention to the moon, hanging high in the velvet expanse of the night sky.

The moon, a silent witness to their journey, bathed them in its silvery glow. In that moment of quiet reflection, they let their minds drift back to their time at Nevermore Academy—the place where their paths first crossed.

Y/N: (Softly) Remember the nights we spent beneath the moon at Nevermore? The laughter, the secrets shared?

Wednesday: (Nodding) Nevermore was a chapter, and tonight, under the same moon, we begin a new one.

Y/N: (Smiling) I never thought this would be my ending.

Wednesday: (With a hint of mystery) Endings are illusions, Y/N. This is but the beginning.

Their hands tightened in a silent agreement, and in the tranquil moonlit glade, they kissed—a union of darkness and passion that spoke of a love destined to defy the ordinary. As they embraced, the moon bore witness to the promise of their unholy matrimony.

With the moon as their guide, they turned away from the clearing, fingers still entwined, and made their way back to the Addams family mansion. The shadows welcomed them like old friends, and as they crossed the threshold, the doors creaked shut behind them, sealing the pact of an eternal love that echoed through the haunted halls of the Addams legacy.

And so, beneath the watchful gaze of the moon and within the enigmatic embrace of the Addams mansion, Wednesday and Y/N embarked on a journey that defied the boundaries of time and tradition—an odyssey into the unknown, where each step marked a new beginning in the tapestry of their peculiar love. They walked hand in hand, ready to be officially married and embrace the darkness that awaited them—a love story destined to be inscribed in the annals of the Addams family's peculiar history.

(Author Notes)

Hey Everyone it's been a while. I know I've been away and I haven't finished ALOT of stories. I kinda fell off with writing, especially with content creation and work. Life be LIFEING! But we are back and I got inspired to write again due to the picture above. It was nice to write more Wednesday fanfics hopefully the fandom isn't dead but if you enjoyed it let me know and we can work on more stories.

Check out my MASTER LIST!

[verse-under-the-cowl]

“Yeah, I’ve tried crack, but have you ever heard of the doomed siblings trope?”: A poem in which Dick stumbles upon Jason after the events of Under the Red Hood and is horrified by what he sees.

OOC: Not a Jaydick poem! Please never twist it to seem as such.

“ Gone like before . ”

In midnight deep , withdrawn from light , Where Gotham’s secrets brew and fight , I found him there , my heart aghast — A ghost , a boy , a haunting past . No warmth flickering in those glowing eyes , No trace of love , no soft goodbyes .

The mask he wore , so stern , so red , A symbol wrought from years of dread . Once, he was mine — my brother dear , A child of light , devoid of fear . But now he stood , with vengeance sworn , A soul reborn from pain and scorn .

“ Jason ? ” I whispered , voice a plea , But he turned away , no face to see . The boy who laughed beneath the moon , The knave with magic , gone too soon — Now lost to shadows , draped in wrath , A warrior stranded on a bloody path .

The laughter gone , replaced by cries , And in his voice — no smugness or sly . The boy who wore my Robin mantle , Now dawned another , much harder to handle — A symbol forged in blood and strife , The mask of death , the end of life .

My chest aches , my heart dies , To see him wear that foreign guise — I do a double-check , To a slice on his neck A scar from fate , a wound so deep , A promise lost — forever to keep .

“ What have you become ? ” I cry undone , The brother I knew , the child once spun In threads of hope — now tangled tight , In anger’s grasp, in misery and plight His voice , so cold , it chills my soul — The one I knew has lost control .

A care I gave , a trust once pure , Now fractured , shattered — gone , obscure . He’s not the boy I lectured that day , The one who teased , the one who’d play . Now a shadow — dark and grim — His light extinguished , stolen dim .

" I thought you left , " he says , so stern , But I can forgive , he can return . He can come back to annoy me again — To tag along and pester my friends — I won’t complain , not anymore . I opened my mouth , but he was gone like before .

[letters-from-dekarios]

midnight tears

summary: stricken with grief, anxiety, and the shadow of his former, prouder, self, gale takes to seeking comfort in the swift end he dreamt up many moons ago. tav finds him before it’s too late.

or: gale considers exploding and tav stops him

word count: 2.1k

tags: PLEASE READ BEFORE CONTINUING: this story contains themes of self-harm/suicide. it is not my intention to trigger or harm anyone who comes across this story, but, rather, to share a side of a fictional character I’ve taken a liking to. please do NOT read if these themes, discussed in a reasonable concept of detail, could potentially harm your mental state.

other tags include; gn!tav, act 1 storyline, major gale angst, im still a part of the mystra hate club

He had it all planned out. Written down. He had a failsafe in case things went wrong. Timed it down to the letter, against all the knowledge he had on the orb within him. If worse came to worst, Gods he hoped it wouldn’t, he knew precisely how he wanted to go.

When he first gathered the understanding of the Netherese orb within him, its desperate need to consume the Weave, he was confused. Which was a rare occurrence for him. He was always so knowledgeable that confusion rarely ever happened. He’d question things and soon find an answer, but with this.. no, this was different.

In his quest to prove his love, he only proved his egotism. Something he had tried to stay away from and here he was, indulging in it. How proud was he that he could be able to love the Goddess and Mother of all magic and still be unhappy? Still try to attain more power, more love? How dare he, a mortal man, try and capture the Weave for himself?

Was it really out of love, or was the idea of power and the concept of Godhood too tempting to be toyed with? How did he get this far? How did he manage to do it in the first place, if not by his handling of the Weave itself? He had all the power he could hold and still wanted more.

He was the epitome of a power-hungry, egotistical, jackass.

He deserved the consequences he now had to suffer. He could blame no one other than himself for Mystra’s decision to make him live with it. She could have, very well, killed him right there. But she, by her merciful graces (or what the larger part of Gale perceived as merciful), allowed him to live. He would sacrifice himself to right the wrongs he had created.

As he lay in his tent, one uneventful night, staring at the stars, he pondered the plan he had in his back pocket. He had it figured out for years now, so it wasn’t a question, but he questioned the actual statistics of it. He pulled out a little vial from his bag and turned it over in his hands, reading the neat handwriting over and over again. Midnight tears. A poison whose consequences would only take effect at midnight exactly. If he consumed it in the early morning, traveled far into the Underdark and waited, he would avoid injuring any innocents in the process.

It was a desirable end to his misery, he concluded. If he woke before Tav and the rest of the group, he could be gone before they arose. He doubted they would notice he was missing.

He knew Tav had accepted him for his faults, his lies, and everything else with him. They had encouraged him to stay traveling with them, but he didn’t feel as though he deserved to.

He wondered what the poison would feel like, how it would taste. The seller who gave it to him was vague on the details, and Gale didn’t know if he preferred that or the horrid truth of receiving every component.

He set the poison to the side and conjured a dagger in his hands. He twisted it between his palms, considering the other option to poison. It wasn’t the preferred way to go, but it was his failsafe in case the poison went bad. All he had to do was plunge the magic knife into his chest, and off he would go.

It wouldn’t be the prettiest, he knew that, but it would be better than nothing. His blood pooling out onto the ground, pained cries filling the air- he’d apologize again and again to Mystra, his goddess, his first love, telling her how sorry he was for the stupid mistakes he’d made.

His mouth would taste like copper, eventually, and by then he’d begin slipping away. His body would go numb, he figured, and then his hands would drop. He would fall onto his back, staring up into the vast sky of Faerún, before everything disappeared.

He had a letter written already for his soul to pass on to Tav and the others. He’d apologize to them, too, for letting them down. For not becoming the man they hoped and wished he was. For everything. There wasn’t enough time in all the realms where he could be forgiven for his mistakes.

The longer he sat there, with his thoughts, the more he twisted the knife between his hands. The more he sunk into himself, the harder he pushed it in his palms.

He didn’t even realize he was bleeding until he felt his hands become oddly slippery. He sat up and looked down, his eyes going wide as he saw the blood trickling down his fingers. His heart began to race, his chest becoming tight. He couldn’t live with himself if he died now and took out all his companions with him. Though, maybe he was just being dramatic.

The knife in his hands disappeared and he looked clearer at the cuts on his hands, cursing himself under his breath. He grabbed a nearby carafe of water and poured it over his hands, hissing in pain while they stung.

“Goddess forgive me..” he sighed under his breath, looking around for some cloth he could use to cover his wounds. Then, during one of their battles, he could play it off as an injury received. Why did he do this?

Why was he like this?

He could never know the answer to those questions. The questions that pulled at his heart and broke down in his mind- they had no real answers, they never were able to be answered to begin with. In all his years living as some high, extraordinary Chosen of Mystra, he never found the courage to become insightful of himself. He never understood why he was never enough, or why he couldn’t do things right. Why did he feel the need to lie to cover his imperfections? Why was he so scared that if he messed up, he would never be exonerated?

Mystra had planted the seed in his head that he was not worthy of forgiveness, that death would be the only thing to balance his scale. It got to him. Terribly so, Gale began to believe that she was right. After all, how could one commit such a sin against a God and not be considered unworthy of their forgiveness? He had tried to usurp her authority, whether for love or pride, and had to deal with her wrath. She had every right to not pardon him. She had every right to make him feel how he did.

Though he was rather calm in these situations, no matter what was happening around him, right now he was panicking. His breath picked up, his chest rising and falling faster by the second. Why couldn’t he find a damn cloth?

“Gale?” Tav’s sweet voice broke him from his thoughts. Was he crying, too? He couldn’t tell anymore. He was a whole mess and a half.

“Tav-“

“What happened?” The way they spoke, so much concern in their voice, he couldn’t help but be ashamed of what he had become. How could he sit here, hurting, and hurt others around him? The look Tav gave him was enough to break a thousand realms over again, and he felt awful for making them deal with him.

“I- I don’t know…” he replied, the panic in his eyes as evident as ever.

Tav disappeared for a moment but quickly returned with more water and some towels. They sat down beside him, sighing softly as they took his hands in their own.

He winced, pulling back for a moment before Tav eased him, gently cleaning the wounds.

“Gale..” they started again, and he looked away, ignoring the wounds on his hands. Gods, he was so stupid.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened,” he replied, taking a breath as Tav made sure his hands were okay.

“Gale,” they repeated, glancing down suspiciously at the poison beside him.

He looked to his side, sighed, and then opened his mouth to speak. How could he even begin?

“You promised me,” Tav sighed, waving their hands and muttering a small healing spell. Soon enough, the wounds closed, and his hands were clean again.

“I wasn’t going to-“

“Gale-“ they sighed again, running a hand over their face. “Why do you even have it? We discussed this. It won’t come down to that.”

“We don’t know that.”

Tav looked at him with those sad, puppy-dog eyes. Hurt laced their words, how could Gale be so cruel to himself?

“It’s for safety.”

“Safety of who, Gale? What happens if you accidentally drink it instead of a healing potion? What happens if it ends up in your food?” They asked, eyebrows furrowed together.

“I wouldn’t do that-“

“Oh, come on. We’ve all done it. These damn bottles look so alike! I hardly know the difference between a feather fall and an angelic sleep spell, Gale. It could happen to any of us.” Tav replied, their words rather sharp. Gale flinched, looking down at his fully restored hands.

“I cannot live on if I do not have a clear source of escape should things turn the wrong way,” Gale replied, honest-hearted words clashing with the things he was actually thinking. Yes, he felt that way, but did he think that way? Hardly.

Truth be told, Gale was angry with Mystra. At least, a small part of him was. He had done everything to love her, to prove his love, going so far as bestowing this upon himself, and instead of helping, she cast him aside. If she truly loved him as she claimed to, would he even be here? Why had she left him like this- surely death would have been much kinder. This was just plain cruel.

“I don’t want you to think like that, Gale. I want you with me, with our party, for as long as you can be. You’re supposed to stay by our side, not have a plan to leave us,” Tav took his hands in their own again, looking him in the eye. “Please, Gale. I want you to live. I need you to live. Planning your demise does no one any good, especially not yourself.”

“Mystra-“

“Enough about Mystra!” Tav dropped his hands, frustrated now. “We know. I know. Why are you so devoted to her when all she’s done is bring you pain? It makes no sense to me that you would continue to suffer in her name. You need to be free, Gale. Netherese orb or not, and whether you like it or not, you’re in this tadpole journey with us. I don’t give two damns what Mystra thinks or feels. This is about you, not her.”

Those words struck him. Yes, that tiny part of him agreed, Mystra was harsh for leaving him like this. She was rather harsh to toss him aside after doting on him and his abilities for so many years. But the larger part of him outweighed that piece, and he could only help but feel guilty for thinking such things about her.

“But-“

“No buts, Gale. You’re going to stop this stupid ‘I’m going to blow myself up for Mystra’ nonsense. I know it’s a part of who you are, we all have things we have to deal with, but please. For me, for all of us, you can’t go on with this weight on your back.” Tav sighed, taking his face gently in their hands and wiping away his tears.

“I’ll try to do better, I promise,” Gale replied, letting his face rest in their soothing hands. Why did he always hurt those that he loved? He couldn’t answer that. He never could.

“The next time you start contemplating your death, please, Gale, talk to me. Talk to any of us! We all want to be here for you, and I know I would be so incredibly miserable if we lost you,” They looked into his eyes and pulled his head against their own. Their foreheads touched, Gale’s eyes shut, and for a brief moment, he felt at peace. No matter what happened he knew he had friends to rely on. And for that, he was thankful.

Tav made sure he was alright before returning to the campfire to rest. He tucked the poison into the furthest part of his bag, laid himself to rest, and let his mind slip away into the night.

He would keep the poison and the letter handy, just in case, and it would take quite some time for him to be fully able to talk to the others when he was feeling like exploding, but it would happen. Eventually, he would be okay. Eventually, he would find peace.