#she could have just taken him prisoner but she swayed him to return to her side willingly

[inamindfarfaraway]

Do you ever think about Azula after Zuko's banishment and before she was sent on her mission? About the time it was just her and Ozai? Because I do.

Her worst fear is being what Zuko is to their father. It's easy to look at her smirking while she watches Ozai light Zuko’s face on fire and think that she enjoys her brother’s suffering, but from the day she was born, Zuko has been the bad example. The scapegoat. The failure she exists to surpass. Where he is disrespectful, she will be obedient. Where he is weak, she will be strong. She will make Ozai proud. She will be perfect. She has to be. Because if she isn’t -

well, in that moment she sees that for herself. Iroh looks away, but she doesn’t. This eleven-year-old child watches the whole gory scene that her experienced general uncle can’t stomach, because this is a lesson for her as well, that’s why Father had her be here, and so she must not let herself tremble or cry or flinch or scream. Zuko is. That means she can’t. Instead she will do the exact opposite, smile with a princess’s proper posture.

Then Zuko is banished. He will most likely never return - most likely die young. He isn’t around to be the foil under her jewel anymore, making her shine brighter simply by contrast. (Or to play with her or comb her hair. But it isn’t useful or becoming to miss those moments. She isn’t a child anymore; her childhood was burned through like Zuko’s skin.) All Ozai’s attention is on her. All her people’s hope in the next generation of royalty rests in her. If she doesn’t hold her shoulders back and keep her head high, she will collapse under the weight of her nation’s future. Zuko got what he deserved. Just as whatever happens to her, she deserves it too.

How many nightmares does she have? How many times does she flinch or shake when her father touch her? Or force herself not to? How many times does she smell burning hair and flesh and hear her brother’s agony when she spoke her own opinion in a war meeting? How much does she secretly grieve him, and scold herself for it?

[moibakadesu]

EDIT: After I was done and posted this a few more things came to mind, also thanks to my Twitter mood making me think even more about it so as of 30th April there is more in here, waha.

Hiii, it’s me again, and behold, the other day shortly before I went to sleep a new Haruka theory came to me that strikes me as quite galaxy brained, so get ready for:

Haruka and Mirai (the little girl) were meant to be twins

cw for suicide, animal death and things like infant death

So what exactly do I mean by this? Well, that Mirai either died in the womb or during birth. It is not all that uncommon that in a pregnancy with twins not both of them survive, for various reasons. One of these reasons can also be: strangulation by the umbilical cord. 

Isn’t that a “nice” coincidence with the whole strangulation theme around Haruka going on. A twitter mutual of mine even pointed out that this might even be a link to the necklace, sort of like a constant reminder to himself about this.

We would also have another link between the 01&02 prisoner pair, if both cases would in a way revolve around an unborn child.

It would also get rid of some of the contradictions we have with the whole narrative. We see Mirai both at the same age as Haruka, but in AKAA we see her clearly younger than Haruka. So what if that is basically just her “ghost” haunting him? A sort of prenatal survivor's guilt going on?

With how badly his mothers tends to treat him overall she might as well have said things to him like “It is your fault she suffocated” (imprinting that whole picture of strangulation in him deeply) or “I wish it would have been you who died and not her”.

This puts some scenes in AKAA into a very interesting light. My twitter moot that I mentioned earlier once compared the imagery of Haruka stuck in the room surrounded by the dead animals with a ritual that is called "kodoku". It's a sorcery from japanese folklore in which insects (and in some versions also other animals like snakes etc) are put into a jar or confined space with the goal of killing each other until only one survivor is left. The goal of this sorcery is to create a curse that causes misfortune and bad luck. Now what does Haruka always say he causes people, hmmm. And what if this confined space was the womb? I already linked the last scene in AKAA where he is swaying in the fluid with what seems like a wish to return to the mother's womb, the goal to be reborn. So maybe all of this is connected in a way.

Maybe it even is a hint that every time we see Mirai in the MVs Haruka is in some way connected to her, be it holding her hand or with his hands around her throat. Does it point to how they were basically connected in the mother’s womb? Or how she is still haunting Haruka as a constant presence. Probably even more so as the expectations of his mother what he should have been and couldn’t be. I know a lot of people link this to Haruka being transfem, I kinda see it as the opposite actually, him getting this wish of his mother forced on himself, this thought that he might be better and more worthy of love from her if he would be a girl, this is completely for his mother’s sake, not for himself. 

And of course the death of Mirai would not at all have been his fault.

But he would still absolutely blame himself for that, having taken that away from his mother that she wished for so much more than having him.

So I still think that is of course what got him into Milgram. As a big defender of the suicide theory I fully believe that this lead up to Haruka taking his own life, his Milgram “murder” proper.

Another contradiction is the interrogation answer where he answers that his family consists of him and his parents. Well, this could mean he just didn’t include the deceased person. Or that she never properly existed in the first place, never was an actual part of the family. It always struck me as weird that we don’t have more … presence of Mirai in any way, seeing her with his mother, any sort of mention. If she really played such a big role in the Sakurai family life that Haruka had a reason to be jealous of her, why do we not see anything about this?

It feels like I am really on to something here, but as much as this would clear up some contradictions it also adds some … Haruka’s infamous “I can kill anything smaller and weaker than me, you know?” is such a hard statement, but Haruka’s perception of the world is rather special, so it might as well be that we can’t even take this all literally? Maybe it was “real murder” in his mind, even though it didn’t involve a physical present person.

What also got pointed out to me was, that his 3rd anniversary artwork is a very fetal posture, fitting this whole theme as well.

[anerdquemoraaolado]

Better Than Expected

Chapter 7

Miles had confused memories in his mind, while he felt his whole body burn, as if he had been plunged into fire.

That day, the recombinant had gone up to the volcanoes to hunt, where the native birds there served as food. Bringing one of them with his own hands was what a young man should do if he wanted to be considered an adult.

Even fearing the temperatures that his body would certainly not be able to withstand, Varang understood why he chose to prove himself that way and would not hurt his warrior pride. She believed he wouldn't die, but would be ready to tend to his wounds once more.

It was staggering and burning that Miles returned from the volcanoes and, while he could feel his wife's touch on his body, barely consciously, his delusional mind led him to his first meeting with Varang.

When Spider abandoned him, he had no choice but to roam the skies in search of shelter. Bridgehead was miles away and both he and his ikran were too tired after the battle. The smoke from the volcanoes made Quaritch's eyes sting, distracting him from control and causing his ikran to land.

The warriors promptly surrounded him, their orange eyes glowing in the midst of the darkness intimidating the soldier into unfamiliar territory. When they grabbed his hand and inspected his five fingers, he jerked his arm away and snarled at them, which caused him to be pinned down and taken prisoner.

Arriving at the village, Miles' field of vision was filled with the regular, swaying walk of a woman. Her hips swayed as she moved, which had him looking her over from head to toe, noting the laces across her chest and the prominent orange headpiece on her head. Her braids were unusually short and her curious gaze met his.

-What do we have here? - Varang touched his chin, making him look up, inspecting him - who are you? What's your clan? Were you expelled?

-I... I lost my people - Quaritch was not foolish to avoid the questions and said what she wanted, acknowledging his defeat - I am of the sky people, born among them.

"So you made the Omatikaya your enemies," she countered, knowing well the history of a great battle between the two peoples.

-They are, their leader is - he completed the information.

Interested in the warrior and the advantages he could bring, Varang decided to act.

"Tend to his wounds, do not touch his mount, and after he is fed, bring him to me," she ordered categorically.

After having his instructions followed, Miles came to her, trying to maintain the proud warrior pose, but clearly afraid of his surroundings and the person in front of him.

-What is your name? she questioned again, looking straight into her face.

"Miles Quaritch," he said soberly.

-Miles will be easier - she realized - I am Varang, leader of the ash clan. By your size and injuries, and what little you told, you were a warrior of the sky people.

-Yes, my mission was to kill Toruk Makto - he said in a few words.

-A crazy mission, in order to get revenge for what he did to your people? - Varang questioned - well, you are the invaders here, they were defending themselves.

-We want to... ensure the sustenance of my people, we need Pandora and that's why we're fighting for it-he confessed what he believed in, which motivates him to fight still.

-I need Pandora too, my people need it - Varang used part of the argument - and I've been fighting for better lands just like you, but the other clans isolated us here and we had to adapt. From what I understand, you know more effective ways of fighting than ours, so in view of that, I want to make you a proposal.

"Say it," he demanded, thinking it best just to listen, recognizing that he was in no position to demand anything.

-I want you to be my ally, teach what you know to my people and you will have my warriors and me at your service - Varang explained.

-That seems very good to me, but you want me to do something more than that, you want something from me - he declared what he deduced.

-Precisely - she confirmed his suspicions - it is my people's tradition to honor important agreements with important ceremonies. Such an agreement must be sealed with a marriage.

-Marriage? Will you marry me? A complete stranger? - Quaritch suppressed a laugh, finding the idea completely absurd - wouldn't you find it more advantageous to marry someone from your people or from another clan?

-I already said that we don't get along well with other clans - Varang reinforced the information - your showing up here is the best opportunity I'll ever have and believe me, in your case, you won't get out of here alive on your own, I'm the best you have to survive here.

Noting how persistent she could be along with his instinct for survival, not to mention that there was nothing left for Quaritch but to win the conflict between humans and na'vis once and for all, he made his choice.

-I accept your proposal, I'll marry you - he nodded, knowing what he was doing was crazy.

Until then, the moments they spent together brought relief and an inexplicable peace to both of them. And now, waiting for his recovery, all Varang wanted was for him to open his eyes and talk to her.

-Don't die, please... - she murmured, leaning on his chest, shedding a few tears.

The low sound of Varang's voice was enough to snap Quaritch back to reality.

-Varang... - he called her in a hoarse voice, touching her back, which made her lift her face and look directly at him.

Relieved, she smiled and kissed him softly to make sure he was there.

-Go slowly, everything is hurting... - he asked, still speaking low.

-I thought you would die - she confessed, holding his face. -I couldn't live if you didn't survive.

"I'm here, I'm not going anywhere," he assured her, touched by her thoughtfulness.

A small, hopeful part of him recognized it as a bit of love, though Quaritch was aware of what a despicable creature he was. 

All he had done in his life was fight and kill, a lot of blood weighed on his hands, it was all he had for motivation and purpose of existence. Until he met Varang and she showed him a new life, maybe even a new purpose. What little conscience he still had blamed him for not being worthy of her tears.

[givemadnessrp]

The Ineni

The Ineni took their name from their maker, Ineni, the first lycan. Ankh founded the order when the vampire pharaohs double crossed him and did not give him control of her prison after she was captured. He took great pleasure when he learned of the pharaoh’s removal from the thrones at the hands of their own children when he learned about it, but that has only caused him to redouble his efforts in locating the ancient prison that holds his maker. For over twenty-four centuries he has scoured the desert, looking for signs of where Hor-Aha and Benerib imprisoned her and to no avail.

The only thing he knows for sure, is that the two keys they struck to her prison are worn around the necks of the current pharaohs. A part of him thinks that they might know where the ancient prison is too. The order hasn’t taken steps to try and get close to the pharaoh’s yet waiting for the right time. He is patient, the order is patient. Yet, with the younger generation of the Ineni. Their patience is wearing thin. There is dissent in his ranks, but as lycans, they are loyal to him, seeing him as their alpha rather than the alpha in Thebes. The order is not foolish. They know that if the pharaohs get word of their goal, of gaining control of the original lycan that almost drowned Egypt in her endless hordes of lycans who could not shift, they will throw the might of Egypt against them.

Despite the leaders being old and powerful lycans, they could not withstand the might of Egypt’s wealth and armies. So, for now, they keep a low profile. Searching the deserts, looking for anything or anyone that might lead them to Ineni’s prison. These are the playable canons of Ineni leaders. They don't have defined roles like the other canons, but they all hold sway because of the special skills or talents that they have and their common goal to find Ineni Their genders (unless otherwise stated), names, histories, personalities, occupations, and play-bys are entirely open, and their ages should be within the given range of expectations. Because many of these canons are ancient and lived long before people adopted surnames, they are only required to have one name unless you would like to give them a surname. If you have any questions at all, please reach out to an admin. We will be more than happy to answer any questions!

ANKH, 2400+, This is Ankh, the original “new” lycan that the world knows today. The name is just a placeholder and when you choose a name, all mentions of Ankh in our site lore will be changed to the name you’d like. He was the first lycan to be able to resume human form thanks to a gift that the god Thoth provided. He is old, very old and set in his ways. He’s rough around the edges, temperamental, but also wise and fair. His life work has been to find Ineni’s prison, to control the maker of their race and help her regain her human form. He has not visited Thebes in several centuries, so he is liable to be uncomfortable returning from the wilds and seeing improvements made on civilization. His name, face, age, and history short of a few points mentioned in the lycan subplot are open. 

LYCAN, 2000+, This is Ankh’s mate, his strong right hand and counselor who offers their advice without bias or fear of Ankh’s temper. He or she is their second in command and helps with the training and protection of their large pack. He or she is more comfortable being among civilized individuals in the many cities in Egypt and often works as his scout and informant, learning of the changes to the land through the years through their time spent visiting different cities. They are grateful to their mate for the power and trust bestowed upon them and would do anything that Ankh requested of them. Their name, face, gender, age, and history are open.

LYCAN, 2400+, This leader has intimate knowledge of the building techniques and architectural designs from the vampire pharaoh’s reign. Originally born a slave, bitten by Ankh personally, worked on building many of the temples and prisons that the vampires design, their knowledge has helped them rule out many locations of the prison. His or her knowledge of how buildings were designed in that time. That is knowledge that very few outside the elder vampires now possess. In their long life, they have taken time to study and understand how building and architectural design has transformed and changed making them even more valuable to infiltrating cities’, palaces, and homes to glean information. He often is viewed as a scholar and a wise leader. Their name, face, gender, age, and history are open.

LYCAN, 1000+, Living in the wilds has meant that their pack has had to learn how to survive without the advances that have occurred in the towns and cities of Egypt. This leader has been solely in charge of teaching their newer lycans how to survive, how to fight, hunt, and evade notice by anyone they might consider an enemy. He or she has taken great pride in their ability to produce lycans who can survive anything, fight anything, and still thrive. They oversee feeding the pack and often lead long hunting parties in the deepest parts of the desert to bring back food for the pack. They take particular care to hunt what will not be missed by anyone, meaning the pack often eats whatever they can find. Their name, face, gender, age, and history are open.

LYCAN, 800+, This leader has the most sacred duty in the pack, serving as the pack’s den mother. This female is the second highest ranked individual in the pack and keeping with the old traditions, she rears and educates all the young lycans until the age that they can begin to learn to hunt and fight. Unlike the lycan pack in Thebes, parents do not raise their progeny. Rather, the den mother does with the aid of trusted lycans she loves and cares for all the young and would do anything to protect them from the evils of the world or those who would mean them hard. No one save the Ankh or his mate may interact with the pack’s young with no restrictions or being watched without the permission of this leader. Their name, face, gender, age, and history are open.

LYCAN, 1000+, This leader is considered the soothsayer of Ankh’s pack. While they possess no magical abilities, they have an intimate knowledge of rituals, herbs, and plant life that could help replicate Thoth’s gift, assumingly. Their goal is to find a way to help Ineni accomplish what they have, to return to their humanity and be able to live their lives without fear of being hunted as animals. They have spent countless centuries, finding the remaining living members of Ineni’s original horde that escaped death to test their theories on but so far have had no success. They are hopeful that with the packs return to Thebes, that maybe with the modern marvels of the new civilization that they will find the missing piece of the puzzle and succeed at their goal. Their name, face, gender, age, and history are open.

[xmarchwarden-of-lothlorienx]

A World Away

Thranduil x fem!human!reader

Requested: Anonymous

Summary: “I want a modern reader thrown into mirkwood forest. Found and thrown into a cell by thranduil. During an escape attempt reader sees an animal and decides to rescue an animal and get caught by thranduil. He takes an interest and reader is treated as a guest. Thranduil starts falling for her and sends her to live with humans. “What did i do? Why are you sending me away?” And then during the battle of five armies she meets with thranduil again and fluff”

Warnings: a little swearing (like twice)

Authors Note: Splitting this into two parts so everyone can suffer (joking lol)

Edit: Not me trying to schedule this and realizing it didn’t post 🤦🏻‍♂️

__________________________________________

With every step, you could hear your heart pounding in your ears. Your adrenaline rush prevented you from noticing the sharp briars that tore at your skin and clothes. You could worry about that later. Your only concern now was making it out of this forest.

You had planned your escape from the Elvenkings dungeon for weeks. Today, the opportunity to put your plan into action had finally arisen. As you dodged fallen logs and low hanging branches, you thought of how you came to be here in the first place.

Your head was throbbing as you came to. You attempted opening your eyes, but the bright sunlight forced you to close them again. You could hear strange voices speaking in a foreign tongue. You attempted to move your hands, but they were bound. Forcing your eyes open a second time, you took in your unfamiliar surroundings.

You were in a forest, surrounded by men and women dressed in strange clothes. All of them had long hair that was intricately braided, revealing their...pointy ears? Okay, what on earth was happening here.

“Excuse me, but who are you people? Why am I here?” You voiced. One with blonde hair, you assumed he was their leader, snapped his head towards you.

“You were trespassing on our lands. You are now in the custody of King Thranduil. He shall decide your fate” You gulped. Oh lord, what had you done now?

You were ripped away from your thoughts when you tripped over something in your way.

“Shit!” You hissed at the pain now shooting up your leg. You turned and looked at what had caused you to fall. A small fawn lay trembling at your feet. It didn’t appear injured, but your conscience wouldn’t let you leave until you checked. You extended a hand to the fawn, but it flinched away. “C’mon, I won’t hurt you. I promise,” you reassured. As you were checking the animal over, the sound of a sword being drawn reached your ears. You turned to see the tall figure now standing behind you. You recognized him as one of the guards that had taken you prisoner when you arrived at this miserable place.

“I see we didn’t get very far,” the elf said sarcastically. You dropped your head in defeat.

“Damn my good conscience,” you thought.

___

The first time you were before the Elvenking, he had been perched atop his throne. This time, you met him in his private study. He was seated in a large chair, sipping a glass of rich red wine. He appeared unbothered. You weren’t sure if anything could sway him.

“Leave us,” he commanded the guards placed at the doors. He took another long drink of his wine, then placed it on the table beside him. Neither of you spoke, and the silence was deafening. Thranduil took a deep breath and gestured to the seat adjacent from him, ”Sit.”

You obeyed, the large plush seat nearly swallowing you. You fiddled with your hands-noting that they had been left unbound this time.

“Do you have any idea what the punishment is for those that try to escape my prison?” He questioned. You shook your head in response, not trusting your voice to remain steady. “A more barbaric king would likely have you put to death.” Thranduil noticed you becoming more anxious. “But do not worry, I don’t plan on doing such a thing.”

“O-Oh?” You stuttered.

“You must be quite clever to have out maneuvered my guards,” Thranduil continued as he poured another glass of wine. “It was surprising to learn that your escape failed because you stopped to help a fawn.”

“It wasn’t my greatest decision,” you admitted.

“Perhaps, but I think it’s ultimately been in your favor,” Thranduil hummed.

“What do you mean?” You questioned.

“What I mean is that I’ve reconsidered my original sentence. I believe I may have been quick to judge when you were first brought before me,” Thranduil paused. “I hear of all the happenings in this forest. Humans are typically uncaring of those around them. Despite your situation, you stopped to help another in need of aid. Quite a noble trait to possess, yes?”

“Yes, I suppose,” you replied. You had never considered yourself noble before. Helping others had always felt like the right thing to do.

“If it would be no trouble, I should like you to remain in Mirkwood-as my guest.” There it was. The point that this conversation had been leading to.

“I-Really?” You exclaimed. Just when you thought you were starting to understand how this world worked, you were blind sided once again.

“If you have family you would rather return to, I understand. We would be more than willing to supply you for your journey-“

“Oh, no,” you cut him off (which surprised him). “It’s not that. I just wasn’t expecting it is all. I appreciate the offer, and I totally except.” You were glad to finally move on from being a prisoner. The treatment in Thranduils dungeon was alright, but a prison is still a prison after all.

“Well, then,” said Thranduil, pouring a second glass of wine. “Let’s drink to the hope of newfound friendship,” he offered the glass to you. You accepted and raised your glass to him. A possible friendship with the king? Oh, this was going to be a story to tell.

___

Life in Mirkwood was very pleasant; spending your days exploring the endless gardens and library. You would share dinner with Thranduil once a week. Then twice a week. Then soon you would dine together most nights. You noticed how interested he was in your life-both before you came to Middle Earth and now.

What you didn’t notice were the whispers between the elves. Since the death of his queen, the king had been closed off. Now, he was showing such favoritism to a human woman. Sharing dinner with her. Strolling through the gardens together. Gifting her with clothes and her own dwelling. It wasn’t until Legolas brought it up did Thranduil notice how fond he had become of you.

“Ada?” Legolas asked one day.

“Yes?” Thranduil replied as he leafed through paperwork.

“I’ve seen you’ve become quite partial to (Y/N),” said Legolas.

“Hm, I suppose I have,” Thranduil paused from his work.

“Do you think you may have...romantic feelings for her?” Legolas hesitated before asking.

Thranduils eyes widened at what his son had said. “O-Of course not! Honestly, Legolas, I don’t see why you would say such things!” Legolas gave his father a look and turned to leave.

“If you say so,” Legolas teased before closing the door behind him.

Thranduil pondered over what Legolas had said. Yes-he could see it now. He had slowly become wrapped around your little fingers. Falling for you so slowly he didn’t even notice. He wanted to feel joy-could he have found a second companion at last? But he couldn’t help the guilt that clawed at his stomach. Many elves only married once. Though his wife was deceased, her soul still lingered in the Halls of Mandos. What then? Should he do you both a disservice and pursue his newfound love? Thranduil stood and paced the room, thinking of what he should do. Finally, he called to the guards outside the room. He had made his decision.

“How may we serve you, My King.”

“Tell Lady (Y/N) to pack her things. She must be gone by daybreak tomorrow. She is not to step foot in the Woodland Realm again, understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Thranduil felt sick. This was for your own good, he kept telling himself. To be with you would only hurt you both. It had to be this way.

___

You wiped away your tears as you packed. You didn’t understand. Mirkwood was your home. Thranduil had become your closest friend, but now he was banishing you? You thought the Elvenking liked you, even entertained the thought that he more than liked you, but not now. Now you felt foolish. Of course it would never work. He was a stupidly handsome immortal king. You were a human girl from a different world.

You threw the last of your belongings into your bag. The guards escorted you out of the castle. Before the cart you were placed upon moved, you took one last look at the kingdom, trying to absorb every detail. The coachman urged the horses forward, and that was it. You would never see Thranduil again. As night fell, so did your tears.

Little did you know, you weren’t the only one who cried that night.

Tags: @themerriweathermage

[heliads]

Daughter of the Storm (Part One)

Based on this request: “The reader is Wanda daughter but separated from Wanda because of hydra. reader gets called by sword to rescue Monica because she has similar power to Wanda. in the hex she is Agnes daughter and Wanda realizes that is her daughter and tries to get her back but Agatha does want to leave reader because the reader reminds Agatha of her dead daughter who her mother killed.”

masterlist / part two

It is quiet before they break down the door. In fact, were it not for the slight clamor of footsteps against the rickety wooden stairs, you would have no idea anyone was there at all. You are too young to recognize the sudden look of fear crossing your mother’s face, too small to know to run and hide. It is not your fault when they come, yet they come anyway for you. Such is the will of the world- if there is a weapon, it is best to remove all possible failsafes so she will self destruct when you wish her to.

The weapon, in this case, is your mother. Wanda Maximoff. Technically, she had been the one to sign up for HYDRA’s testing, but it wasn’t her choice to have you ripped from her like a limb, heart still smarting from the wound. HYDRA knew that if they wanted to have any sway over Wanda, any reason for her to commit herself utterly to the cause, they would have to take you away. They already had her brother, her only remaining blood, but if they had you they would have everything. There would be no other reason for her to go on, no reason except HYDRA’s whims. It was perfect for them, yet so utterly wrong for you.

The door caves in with a shower of splinters. Wanda stands up, voice beginning to raise in a shout. You are small, barely up to her knee. There is no place for you to go, no place to run and hide. It is too late for that, and Wanda knows it. She raises her hands, about to use her powers, but then a certain Baron von Strucker steps through the shell of the door. He speaks casually, as if sharing a chat with a friend. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. The second you hurt us, we hurt her. An eye for an eye, if you will.”

Wanda backs down, but her eyes still smolder with a scarlet rage she’s unable to control. She moves instead to you, holding you close in her arms even as the soldiers press forward. You’re too young to know exactly what is going on, but you can sense the terror emanating from your mother in waves. You tug at her sleeve, squirming at her tight hold on you. She just shakes her head as the captain of the soldiers extends his arms to take you. “You can’t have her.” Strucker makes a clicking sound with his tongue, and Wanda’s eyes dart to him. Her threats are as empty as eggshells, she knows that, but to give you up without a word would be a betrayal of the highest degree.

Strucker taps his watch. “Any day now. You don’t want to keep us waiting.” When Wanda still hesitates, the baron nods to his guards. “Take her.” The soldiers lunge forward, snatching you from Wanda’s arms. You cry out at the sudden violence, reaching out your arms to Wanda once more. Time seems to hang silent in this moment, as if everybody is fixed on strings. There you are, being dragged away by the silent soldiers. Your hands are still outstretched, inches away from Wanda’s. 

In the later years, this one image will be burned into your head, reminiscent of that one painting of Michelangelo’s that everyone seems to adore. The Creation of Adam, maybe. Yet the wistful calm of that painting is nothing like the wild chaos of this moment. And then the instant fractures, and you are dragged away from Wanda and pulled through the door. This is the last memory you have of her, with her eyes wild with fear and your own terror beating through you like a second heart.

Your view of her is broken by the twists of the hall, and you realize that you are being taken outside to a truck. You’re shoved in the backseat, the soldiers taking their places in the driver’s side and passenger seats. The vehicle begins to move, tires spinning for a second in the mud before they gain traction once more and lurch forward. The night is old, darkness inked over the landscape. You can’t tell where you’re going, only that it is away from anything and everything that you have ever known.

You sit in the back in a state of shock. You can count your age on one hand, you have no idea what is going on. After a while, you begin to catch snippets of the driver’s conversation with the other soldiers. “We’ll take her back to the base...yes, they’ll be separate….No, she’ll never see Wanda again. What’s the point? At this point, she’s just a bargaining chip.” Your fear returns in full force, but now it is joined by a foreign anger. Who are they to take you away from your mother?

Your fury reaches a boiling point, and suddenly, a wave of crimson energy bounds away from you. It rushes towards the driver, who is smashed against the windshield from the impact. The truck is forced off of the road, and you slam against the walls of the truck for a few seconds before the vehicle finally comes to a shuddering stop. Dizzy and utterly confused, you manage to pull yourself together long enough to unlatch the truck door and step out. No one ever tied you down, assuming that no kid would be able to stop the vehicle, so you’re able to run out into the surrounding countryside. 

You end up getting lost deep within the trees, and spend hours alone in the dark until another organization comes for you. This time, it is not HYDRA, but their rival, S.H.I.E.L.D. Apparently they’d been keeping tabs on HYDRA activity for a while and jumped at the chance to rescue whatever prisoner had managed to escape from their armored truck. They weren’t anticipating a terrified child, but they still welcomed you into their jet. You fell asleep almost immediately, leaving the agents with the pressing task of how to deal with a child who had enough power to level a building.

It’s too dangerous for you to return to Wanda, and HYDRA would hunt you down if you stayed in Sokovia, so you end up being brought to the United States. The loss of your mother and uncle presses in on you like a blade, but there’s nothing you can do. S.H.I.E.L.D. provides you with a home and an education, and there’s a gun in your hands as soon as you’re old enough to learn. This isn’t entirely S.H.I.E.L.D. 's fault- you’re tired of being parceled about and intend to feel useful for at least once in your life.

Now, you are a decorated S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. There’s almost nobody with as much experience as you, except for maybe Romanoff, Barton, Hill, and Fury, although to be fair nobody else was able to join as a teenager. Your skills as an agent aren’t the only things that set you aside from the others- you’ve been able to develop your own abilities, abilities that make you just as dangerous as your mother. You’re made from the same stormcloud, cut from the same cloth that lets you manipulate a scarlet magic whenever you desire. Some days, you resent this reminder that she will always be away from you, but on others, you’re grateful for it- your powers are the last thing tying you to her.

You know that Wanda Maximoff is now with the Avengers, that she is in the U.S. just like you. However, whenever she’s in town you’re always coincidentally off on some mission across the seas, or just out of reach. Wanda doesn’t even know you’re with S.H.I.E.L.D. at all, something you’ve decided is for the best. It wasn’t just your decision, you’re fairly sure Fury had a hand in it as well. It seems that no matter which side you’re fighting on, agencies always want their magical weapons to have as few weaknesses as possible. Besides, you’ve spent so long without her that you’re not sure she’d want to have you back at all. It’s best for everyone if you just keep your distance, and so you continue booking your flights whenever you receive word that she’ll be around.

Your heels click on the tiled floor as you pass through the halls of the New York headquarters. You don’t know why you’ve been called to Director Fury’s office, but you have a feeling that it’ll end up being dangerous, deadly, and utterly out of anyone else’s pay range. Good- things are getting a little slow around here. You could use some near-death experiences to get your blood pumping again. 

When you knock on the director’s door, he calls for you to enter almost immediately. So he’s been waiting for you- yet another twist in the mystery. Surely this is going to be another assignment- your books have been clear for the last week, which is a new record. If it’s important enough for the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. to make room in his busy schedule for you, you can tell this is going to be good. You can feel a satisfied smirk making its way onto your face, one you try to discourage. You can feel your fingers already itching to call up your power and burn your way through another rank of enemy agents.

Fury, however, isn’t asking you here to call up the cavalry once more. You won’t be taking down scores of HYDRA thugs, or dismantling enemy spy technology. Instead, you’ll be going to Westview, New Jersey, a nowhere in the middle of nowhere. Normally, you’d be bristling at the low intensity of this mission, but the reason you’ll be sent there is so shocking that you can hardly control yourself.

Your mother, Wanda Maximoff, has taken the entire town hostage. She’s flung up an energy barrier around the streets, trapping the residents inside and forcing them to play along to her sitcom dreams. It’s like she’s playing with suburban paper dolls, except each one of her toys is a living, breathing person who is terrified and desperate to go back to their old lives. The phrase bubbles up on your tongue, but you keep it to yourself. She’s mad, it seems. And if she’s mad, what does that say about you?

The most pressing issue is that one of S.W.O.R.D.’s finest, Monica Rambeau, has been pulled into Wanda’s false reality. There’s no way to get her back, and, according to intel gathered by agents already on the scene, Wanda’s brainwashing her into thinking she’s a typical Westview resident. There’s no way Monica could make it back alive, and so they have asked S.H.I.E.L.D. for help. S.H.I.E.L.D. is now turning to the one person who has experience in this field, who knows everything there is about Wanda’s powers because she has them herself. This is why you’ll be sent to Westview, to rescue Monica and be forced to confront your mother after all of these years of separation.

Somehow, this mission doesn’t come as a surprise. From the second you heard of Wanda’s appointment to the Avengers, you knew your paths would cross at some point. You cannot keep two like objects from themselves forever, just like you can’t hold back the tide or keep the clouds at bay. She is your blood, your magic, your mother. You were bound to meet her at some point, you just find yourself wishing it would have happened under better circumstances. A walk through the park, maybe. A brunch at a restaurant. Something other than your delivery into her mind control mayhem, where you know you’ll set something off to take the whole thing down. 

Director Fury’s eyes are still fixed on you. Maybe you’re supposed to be the mind reader, but in this moment you can tell he’s gleaning every possible fact from you, delving into every crease in your brow and tense of your knuckles. You force your face to smooth over, letting your expression shift back to the impassive. “I understand the assignment. Am I only there to rescue Monica, or is this more than a retrieval mission?” Fury folds his hands together. 

“I want you to evaluate Maximoff, both for her powers and her stability. Will this be an issue?” You shake your head. “I’ll remain unbiased.” Fury’s glower becomes less severe, the closest you’ll get to a smile. “I know you will.” He stands up and shakes your hand, escorting you to the door. You maintain your unemotional agent facade, but your legs feel leaden as you walk back through the halls. Even if you find the strength to face your mother, even if she doesn’t recognize you at all, will you be able to do this? 

Like most missions at S.H.I.E.L.D., you know you don’t have a choice. It’s like running with a pack of wolves- any sign of weakness, no matter how brief, will be extinguished. So, you pack your bags and move out like it’s just another assignment, instead of a possible reunion with the mother you haven’t seen in years. The truck comes, you step in. The truck arrives at Westview, you step out. Even though the trip itself takes hours, it seems to pass before you in a blur of seconds. Your head is a churning mess, repeating the same phrases over and over again. You’re going to see her. Will she know you? You’re going to see her. Will she hate you?

You march briskly to the head of operations in the Westview encampment, where you’re greeted by S.W.O.R.D. Director Hayward along with agent Jimmy Woo and doctor Darcy Lewis. They’re both friends of Monica, or at least admirers of her work, and urge you to find her as quickly as possible. Monica is a key part of the Westview proceedings, it seems, and you would do well to save her from your mother’s grasp without too much difficulty.

Hayward runs you through a list of protocols and warnings, most of which blur together. Before long, you’re standing outside the barrier to Westview, taking in the marbled scarlet sparks of Wanda’s magic. It feels familiar, like an embrace you’ve cherished before. It seems so similar to your own magic that you half expect to be able to pull it down without a second thought, yet it still stands there, resolutely not your own. You take a deep breath and step forward.

Hayward calls out one last thing to you. “Agent L/N? Be careful.” You smile faintly at his words of caution, trying to hide your wince at the name he used. You started going by a false last name when you first joined S.H.I.E.L.D., as there were few Maximoffs in the system and you didn’t want to be recognized. How fitting that at the moment you’re about to see your mother, Hayward yanks you back in place, reminding you of who you’re supposed to be. Not a Maximoff, not the daughter of Wanda, but an agent. That’s it.

You take a deep breath and reach out a hand, feeling the threads of Wanda’s magic leap out to you like a magnet. There’s a prickling sensation as the energy calls to you, and then you walk forward through the barrier. A rushing sound echoes around your ears, but you feel strangely at peace. So this is where it all begins, you think. You have finally entered your mother’s domain.

wanda maximoff tag list: @mycosmicparadise​, @mionemymind​, @xxxtwilightaxelxxx​

[soulmate-game]

This is an alternate ending for my Bio!dad Joker / Bio!mom Harley AU. Or really, the timeline itself will be entirely different starting from the moment that Marinette’s plane lands in Gotham. If you haven’t read the original, you can do so here.

—*—*—*—*—*

“He’s going to find out, Mom.”

“No he won’t, don’t be silly! I’ve been very careful about hiding you from him, Nettie-pie.”

“Mom… I just have a bad feeling. I don’t think we can hide who I am from him. If he sees me, I think he’ll know.”

The phone went silent.

“If he hurts you, I’ll kill him. If I was crazy about him, Sugar, then I’m head over heels for you. Not even he can stop me from caving his skull in if he tries his usual tricks with you.”

“... My plane leaves soon, I’ll talk to you when I land. And mom?”

“Yeah, honeycake?”

“I love you.”

—*—*—*—*—*

Marinette often hated how accurate her intuition tended to be. She had barely even stepped out of the airport before she had felt the prick of a needle in her neck and the sensation of being shoved into a small, dark space before her vision cut out.

Looks like her mom wasn’t able to hide her existence away as well as they thought.

And unfortunately for Marinette, her darling asshole of a father had apparently had ample time to plan his first meeting with her. If he had just used the much easier to acquire Chloroform on her, then Marinette likely would have woken up early enough to come up with a plan. Chloroform was unreliable and wore off fairly easily. But no, he had actually had the time to steal hospital grade anesthetic.

Which meant that Marinette woke up with her wrists zip-tied to heavy links of chain above her head, and her ankles connected to the chain below her with what felt like ten layers of duct tape.

Lovely.

“Ah, there she is! Good morning, sleepyhead!” Those were the high-pitched, dramatic words she heard when she came back to consciousness. She didn’t even need to open her eyes to know who the speaker was— she had watched enough videos online and not-so-legally obtained Asylum and Prison footage to immediately recognize the speech patterns and tone that was echoing around her.

Apparently keeping her eyes closed was not allowed, because it was only a few seconds later that Marinette felt a harsh slap sting her cheek and whip her face to the side. Oh, that would become a bruise without a doubt. Her teeth betrayed her, cutting into the inside of her mouth with the force of the hit. So, when Marinette opened her eyes to glare at the sperm donor responsible for half of her DNA, she aimed her bloody spit right at him. It landed on his shoe, which only a few seconds later slammed into her gut.

Marinette gasped for air even as the chain she was on swung violently, making her dizzy and upsetting her stomach. Too bad she didn’t have anything in there to throw up on him, she thought angrily. The chain links rattled loudly, ringing in her head alongside the electric pain of both of her newly forming bruises.

“Honestly, is that any way to treat your dear ol’ Daddy?” Joker cooed with false offense, one hand over his heart. Marinette glared at him as best as she could as she continued to sway in the open air, the chain she was tied to being the only thing keeping her from plunging straight down into a vat of sickly green, bubbling liquid.

Marinette didn’t need to be told what that liquid was. And joker knew that, the moment he saw her look down at that vat and saw the realization almost immediately cross her face. So instead of explaining, he laughed. Loud, high, and deranged.

“Good, good! That idiot Harley kept you educated, at least,” he said between psychotic chuckles. “Ah yes, and she somehow managed to choose the perfect name,” he glided over to her, as if he was some ethereal demon of chaos instead of a human. His paper-white hand reached out, grabbing her chin in a crushing grip and turning her face this way and that. Inspecting her as if she was a piece of china and not a living being. “So easy to adjust. Right now, you’re Marinette. Just like how, all those years ago, your mother stood here as Harleen. But just as she was dunked into acid and became my harlequin,” he stepped back and grabbed Marinette’s shoulders. He spun her like a top, making the metal chain creak and clink as it wound into a few weak coils and then released back out, trying to go straight again. It sent Marinette twirling through the air in a horrid half-spin, one-eighty degrees one way before sharply spinning to the other side. Joker laughed.

“Just like that, you’re gonna go from boring old Marinette,” he stuck out his tongue like a child, as if the mere taste of her name was bitter. “And you’ll be reborn as my new little Marionette. Aren’t you excited?!”

“Fuck you,” Marinette spat, even as she tried to blink and return her vision to normal. She was far too disoriented to even come up with a plan— but she was still coherent enough to register that the sky was dark outside the high windows of the factory she was apparently in. She had been missing for a few hours then, which meant that her mom and Momma Ivy would have called for help a long time ago. Maybe if she just stalled long enough, it would get there in time. “I’m not a puppet. Not for you, not for anybody!” She snarled.

Joker rolled his eyes, but his smile still widened. “Oh, that’s what they all say. In fact, your mother put up a good resistance there for a while, but her inner chaos couldn’t resist me. You’ll bend even easier, I have no doubt,” her ran his hand along her cheek in a motion that was so gentle that it felt foreign, wrong, to her coming from him. She knew what he was doing. He was trying to whiplash her, take all her hope away before dangling the option he wanted her to choose in front of her like a carrot on a stick.

Too bad he didn’t know her at all. She cringed away from his gentle touch, revolted by the mere feel of his skin on her’s.

“And your accent is a nice touch,” he cooed as if her reaction didn’t bother him at all. It probably didn’t. “Exotic. Just the thing I need to freshen up my usual act a bit, the Boston twang my old Harlequins had is just… stale by now, don’t you agree?”

Marinette clenched her jaw at the reminder that he had tried to pass off a cheap look-alike as her mom when she disappeared, back when she was pregnant with Marinette, to hide her baby from Joker. How he had discarded that woman like trash when Harley went back to him, only to replace her again when her mom left him for good.

No matter how badly Joker spoke of her mom, Marinette knew that Harley had been the only Harlequin of his to actually last. The only one he kept around, and there was a reason for that. Now, he was looking for another replacement. One that was more than a cheap knockoff, and he was hoping that a teenager with not only Harley’s genetics, but also his own, would be the exact kind of right-hand prop he wanted. An obedient little puppet of chaos, just for him.

But Marinette was nobody's toy. She had been used and taken advantage of enough back in Paris, she had spent her whole life struggling to escape the side effects of her parentage. To deal with the things she inherited.

The obsessiveness, the way she was so quick to get attached. She knew she inherited that from her mom. But there was also the rage, the anger that Marinette constantly had to stuff down. Hide below the surface before it hurt someone. Keep under a tight reign and hide away in the back of her mind, her own dirty little secret.

The constant reminder of just who her biological father was. Because that anger, that viciousness, could only have come from him.

She had spent her whole life trying to carve herself her own identity, to create beauty with the chaotic elements she got from her blood. And she couldn’t blame her mother, not really. Her mother at least did her best to help, and always leant an empathetic ear when Marinette needed it. But Joker?

Oh, she could, and would, blame him even long after he was dead and gone. Because he was the one who hurt her mother, he was the one who twisted her and drove her to feel unfit to be a parent. And sometimes, Marinette thought it would be better if Joker never existed. Sure, that meant she never would have been born. But wouldn’t that have been easier, too? To not ever have to experience the struggle that came with being his daughter, a title she never consented to?

But she couldn’t change the past. She was alive, and she would use her life to spite everything that the Joker stood for. That would be her revenge. He wanted a toy?

Joker had been monologuing, but Marinette drowned it all out as she kept her periphery vision on the windows above her. Shadows moved out there, with familiar bright yellows and shadowy blacks. The bats were there. She just needed to stall.

She opened her mouth. Joker pulled a lever.

Marinette dropped.

Wire whizzed through the air, knocking the breath out of Marinette as it wound around her torso. She was barely able to piece together what was happening; one of the bats shot a human-safe grapple to try and pull her away from the acid.

But the chain and her restraints were stronger, heavier, and just dragged the grapple down with her body.

The impact sent a large wave of sickly green liquid surging over the side of the vat, and Marinette was dragged from view underneath the surface.

It burned.

She distantly felt the tape around her ankles peel itself away from her skin, the combination of acid and wetness rendering it useless. She felt the chemicals burning at her, sending painful tingles across every last inch of her skin. It got in her mouth, she didn’t have any breath in her to hold and ended up swallowing some. It seared her throat and created a river of lava inside her. It hurt.

It hurt so bad, she just wanted out. Out. Out. Out!

Someone pull her out now!

The zip tie around her wrist loosened enough for her to pull herself free, right as something heavy slammed into the heavy metal bowl. The entire container sloshed, slamming to fall onto its side. Marinette’s body was pulled alongside the rush of liquid as it flowed out, and she was able to breathe air again. Sweet, cooling air.

And then she hacked up acid, spitting and spewing it in an attempt to purge every last drop she had accidentally ingested. Like a cat choking on a hairball, she coughed and hacked and her chest convulsed and contracted to try and help her. Her ribs ached, she figured that the grapple that had tried to save her had ended up fracturing or breaking a rib or two. But all she cared about was breathing and getting rid of the chemicals she had inhaled. She needed it out. All of it. Out. Out. Out of her!

“Try to take a deep breath,” a gruff voice commanded, soft but solid. Something stable for her to cling to. So she did as it asked, forcing herself to stop hacking and instead focus on inhaling. As slowly as she could. It was difficult, the first few breaths cut themselves off with more involuntary coughing, but the owner of the gruff voice stayed nearby. Repeated it’s request. “Deep breath. Steady, now. In. Out. Good.”

Marinette was just starting to calm down, just starting to claw herself out of the haze of panic and adrenaline, when that wretched laugh cut through the air again.

“There you are! Heheheheh! My cute little Marionette!”

Marinette froze. She could barely think, barely understand her own emotions. But she knew she was different now. She knew there was no way back, he had taken it from her. He had taken her normality, he had taken all of her years of hard work and burned them right in front of her.

He had won. The bats hadn’t been fast enough. But, if her foggy mind was correct, Batman was the one trying to bring her back to lucidity. Batman was the one trying to help her get air back in her lungs.

Not her so-called father.

If he wanted a toy, she’d be a haunted doll. She’d harass him, haunt him, until he wanted nothing to do with her. She’d come back, like a possessed porcelain doll refusing to be thrown away. She would make him regret ever awakening the monster that she had spent so long forcing down. Because she was her father’s daughter, yes. But she was also her mother’s daughter.

And most importantly, she was Marinette Quinzel-Isley. Her own damned person. The Chosen wielder of the Creation miraculous. And she would never bow down and be used by anyone, ever again.

Tikki’s words from so long ago echoed in her mind. Resounded even louder than Joker’s laughter;

“That’s all order really is, Marinette. The decision to take all the chaos and madness around us, and make it make sense. Make it do something good.”

And wasn’t that everything Marinette had ever done? It was a part of her now. Like a tattoo she had inked into her very soul.

She took the chaos she was given, and turned it into something beautiful. And right now? Right now, the most beautiful thing she could think of was Joker’s face when she slammed her fist into it.

“Easy,” Batman repeated, but for a different reason now. Marinette’s lungs still stuttered a little, but her breathing was mostly under control. Now, he was saying it because Marinette was forcing herself to her feet. Her legs trembled under her, threatening to lay her out on the floor again. But she was every bit as stubborn as Joker, which made for a terrifying combination with her all-consuming fury. The acid had broken the mental chains Marinette had been using to hold it back, and now it burned fierce and bright in her eyes.

So Marinette kept herself up right, cognizant of Batman’s hand on her shoulder but ignoring it. She grit her teeth against the burning light of the room, everything suddenly too bright and colorful. Too vibrant. But it did little to distract her. She realized that one of her hands still gripped the heavy chain that had sent her drowning in the acid, and sent a snarl at her darling, jackass of a father as she whipped it out right towards him.

“Marinette!” Batman yelled, his grip tightening on her shoulder. But he didn’t pull her back, which spoke louder than any words he could have said to her right then. He wouldn’t save Joker from his daughter, he knew the man deserved at least this much pain. And sure enough, the metal links slammed right into Joker’s side, winding around him like a crushing whip.

But that was all Marinette had the strength to do. As soon as she saw Joker’s body hit the floor, writhing in agony and painfully loud cackles, her hand let go of the chain and her body tumbled down. Batman caught her.

“Red Hood, Nightwing, get Joker back to Arkham,” Batman’s order faded in and out of focus. Now that her most pressing desire was taken care of, the effects of the acid reared their ugly heads with renewed ferocity. Everything was too bright, too loud, and her thoughts echoed in her head like voices wrestling for supremacy. “Robin, Black Bat, stay on alert. Harley said that she’s incredibly trained,” he warned his partners. Marinette didn’t begrudge him, the only other two people who had survived being dunked into those chemicals hadn’t exactly treated him with kindness and pacifism. But she could barely focus on them anyway, too distracted by trying to reign in the chaos in her mind.

But Joker would never stay silent, even as he was dragged away in chains.

“Hehehahahahaha! Paper white, paper white!” He jeered cheerfully. “That’s my girl! Violent just like Papa!” Red hood knocked him out with a harsh punch to the side of his neck before he could say another word. But it was enough— enough for Marinette to gasp in realization.

Her skin. It was paper white, just like his. Not even Harley’s skin had been bleached like the Joker’s after her dip in the acid. That had always been makeup. Her mom had a healthy, peachy complexion like anyone else. A complexion Marinette had shared— until now. Now, she was unhealthily pale. Just like him.

A painful screech tore itself from her already raw throat, and Marinette’s fingernails immediately began to tear at her own skin. Red. Red was better than white— she didn’t want to look like him. She couldn’t. White was bad. Bad. Bad. Bad.

“Marinette! Stop!” Strong hands clamped around her wrists, pulling her hands away from herself even as she wriggled and tried to keep clawing at herself.

“No! No no no!” Marinette howled. “I don’t wanna look like him! I don’t wanna be like him!” She managed to get one hand free and immediately tried to tear away at her face. Batman was able to wrestle her arm away before she could do any damage besides a few angry red lines. “I refuse! I refuse! I refuse!” She shook her head, not feeling as tears flung themselves off her cheeks.

“Okay,” Batman’s voice was solid again, soft and grumbly and stable. She grabbed at it again, drawn to anything that might help bring her stability. She needed his unflappable attitude right then, and he probably didn’t even realize how badly. “That’s good. But you don’t need to rip your skin off to do that, you know that right?”

Marinette hiccuped, finally sinking down to sob as the weight of everything she had lost pressed down over the chaos of deafening light and blinding sound that continued to jumble around inside her head. “He changed me,” she choked out. Batman nodded even though she wasn’t looking at him.

“He did.”

“Th-that f-fucking bastard,” Marinette managed a sad chuckle before devolving right back into sobs. “I wo-worked so h-hard. N-never hurt any-anybody. Never… never yelled. Ne-never hit… Not people who didn’t attack f-first.”

“I know. Your mom told me,” he confirmed calmly. Solid, tethering. Marinette swallowed another gulp of air, trying to calm down. But everything was too much.

“Mom!” She suddenly realized out loud, turning and grabbing at Batman’s chest, clinging to his uniform. She didn’t even care that she almost sliced herself on a batarang, she clung to him desperately with wide, crazed eyes. “G-get Mom and… and Ivy! They… they can help. They know—“ Marinette paused to breathe, then resumed. “Momma Ivy— she gave me—gave me a diluted… th-thingy, years ago, I can’t remember—“ Marinette’s eyebrows furrowed as she tried to get her mind to calm down. To work.

“The serum she gave Harley?” He asked. “The one that made her immune to poisons, and gave her increased physical abilities?”

“That!” Marinette agreed frantically, nodding. “I was too— too little, to give the real thing, so she diluted it,” she swallowed her spit and winced when it burned her throat. “It… I think it’s helping with the—the—the—“

“The chemical’s effects?” Batman suddenly sounded like he was paying much more attention than before, his shoulders a little straighter at her explanation. “You think it’s slowing down or numbing what it did to your mom and Joker?” Marinette couldn’t talk anymore, it hurt too much. Everything hurt too much, so she just nodded. “Good. That’s good, Marinette. Robin! Get Harley and Ivy down here, now!”

That was when the voices started. Sometime during the ten minutes it took to get her Mom and Ivy to her, they had apparently been waiting nearby anxiously incase the Bats had needed backup, the voices had built from ominous whispers to devious shouts, ordering her to do things like slam her elbow into Batman’s throat or see what happened if she splashed Robin with some of the acid that was still on the ground.

Her body didn’t move. She kept herself carefully still, focusing on ignoring her impulse to listen to one of the voices. She was still lucid enough to know that she would regret it if she did any of that. That the Bats were more on her side than any of the voices or the Joker were. But it was growing painful, and Harley and Ivy walked in to Batman trying to keep Marinette from hitting her own head. She had devolved to trying to knock herself out to get the voices to be quiet.

“Shut up,” she hissed, her voice hoarse and gravelly. “Shut up, shut up, shut. Up!” She was clearly talking to herself, her eyes screwed shut as she continued to try and hit her head. Harley gasped, hands flying to her mouth and eyes watering at the sight. This was something she had hoped she would never see.

“Harls,” Ivy spoke softly, putting a gentle arm around her wife’s back in support. It hurt Ivy to see Marinette in so much agony, but she knew it pained Harley even more. And much more personally. “Come on. We can help.”

“Y-you’re right,” Harley agreed shakily, taking a deep breath to try and compose herself before they both approached their daughter. Batman didn’t let go of Marinette, but did lean out of the way to give them access to her.

“Honeycake?” Harley called out softly, a little unsure how the chemicals were affecting her baby’s personality right then. The first few days were going to be the worst, and she knew that. The Dunk never took it easy on it’s victims. Marinette gasped, stopping her muttering and raising her head to look at Harley with wide eyes.

“Momma?”

Harley had to swallow heavily to shove back the sob that wanted to bubble up out of her. She had to be strong for her baby. She couldn’t break yet. But Marinette hadn’t called her Momma since she was little, now she called Pamela ‘Momma Ivy’ and her just ‘Mom’.

“It’s me, sugarplum,” she assured her daughter, kneeling down and cupping one of Marinette’s cheeks in her palm. And that was when she noticed it, and couldn’t help but widen her eyes in shock. But Marinette’s senses were so sensitive that she noticed it right away, and stiffened.

“Wh-what is it?” She grew frantic when Harley didn’t immediately respond, only winced in sympathy. Marinette knew that wasn’t good. “Mom? What is it? What did he do? What else did he do to me?”

“Darling,” Harley started, licking her lips nervously. “My sweet baby girl, your right eye… it’s green now, sugar.”

Marinette’s world froze. She tried to smile, but it came out lopsided and disbelieving. “No,” she somehow managed to breathe. “No, mom, I have your eyes. Your blue eyes. I love your eyes,” Her voice steadily got more and more panicked as she went on, not wanting to accept what her mother was clearly seeing. She watched as Harley’s face broke a little, a few tears escaping before the older woman could stop them. Marinette shook her head again, slipping her tiny wrist out of Batman’s hold and raising it to her eye. “No. It’s one of his tricks. He—he must have slipped a contact in my eye when I was passed out, that’s— that’s— that’s all—“ but her fingertip met her normal eye. No contact to be felt. Marinette’s hand fell into her lap limply. The room was absolutely silent as everyone gave her a few seconds to process just how much she had been changed, entirely against her will. She opened and closed her mouth, not sure whether she wanted to yell or curse or cry. Instead, her voice just came out in a very tiny, broken:

“...fuck.”

—*—*—*—*—*

Marinette had gone mostly mute. She would say a word here or there, but for the most part she was doing a good impression of a vegetable. She stayed silent, as still as possible, and just stared at the ceiling of her hospital room.

She had been like that for the past two weeks they had been monitoring her in the Acid’s aftermath. Her ribs, which had turned out to only be bruised thankfully enough, had healed. Her cheek and torso were healed up too, only the barest hint of sickly yellow to show as a reminder of Joker’s hits on her. Sometimes the cameras would catch her talking to seemingly empty air, only for a nurse to rush in and see that Marinette had gone silent yet again.

Tikki was doing her best to help. She had been separated from Marinette, but Pamela had found Marinette’s purse and returned it— and subsequently Tikki— when they had gotten her to the hospital. She was the only person Marinette regularly spoke to, because Marinette knew Tikki understood. Tikki had been around since the Big Bang, she had seen worse things than a little insanity. Tikki had always been there to help her feel at ease with her mind and body. She shared a piece of Tikki’s soul, even, according to the tiny god.

But talking to anyone else was too hard. Too scary. She still had those damned voices at war in her mind, trying to convince her to do things that made her lock her joints and keep her body absolutely still before she acted on any of the coaxes. Possibilities she had never considered before came startlingly easy to her mind now— like how it would only take two seconds to tear her IV out and stab it into her nurse’s eye. How she could use her blanket to strangle Momma Ivy, or how she could fake jumping out the window and Harley wouldn’t waste a second trying to save her.

They were horrible thoughts. Intrusive, ugly, and far too loud. She didn’t want to act on any of them, but sometimes she found her fingers twitching only a second before she could follow through on one.

She spent a lot of time meditating, because of it. Which is why most people thought she was ignoring them. She didn’t mean to, she just needed to meditate. It was like her brain was a giant room filled with filing cabinets that held her thoughts and emotions. Her whole life, Marinette had carefully kept this room alphabetized, organized, and neat. Every file in its correct drawer. Until Joker had come along, and ripped the entire place apart. Tore certain files in half, broke her cabinets, ruined her filing system. And now she had to put the room back together, one drawer and piece of paper at a time.

That’s what the meditation was doing. She was getting reacquainted with herself. Learning what had changed in her mind and trying to adjust. She couldn’t be the old Marinette anymore, but she’d be damned if she let the Joker turn her into someone ugly like him.

So she needed time.

One day, towards the end of those two weeks, she got a visitor slipping through her window. Considering her room was on the tenth floor, she had it pretty narrowed down as to who it could be. Batman had visited her every night, a silent shadow in the corner, but he had already left for the day so it couldn’t be him. None of the other bats had dropped by after the second day.

She turned her head to see that that was now changed; Red Hood sat on her windowsill with one leg inside the room and the other bent on the sill itself. He looked the very picture of comfort despite being a stiff wind (or quick shove— no, bad brain) away from falling to his death. And then Hood took off his helmet, which was ugly enough to inspire some of the more violent suggestions in her brain and make them seem appealing.

“Ya know. Red Hood used to be what Joker called himself,” were the first words out of the vigilante’s mouth. Marinette’s eyebrows pulled down, and it was clear she was confused (and a little angry) at what he told her. He grinned, his eyes still hidden by the domino mask on his face. “Eh. The bastard killed me, ya know. I was the second Robin, a lifetime ago.”

Marinette’s eyes widened at that, and the violent voices dimmed and seemed to grow muffled. Marinette couldn’t quite understand what they were trying to tell her anymore, which made her figure that she had better pay attention to what Hood had to say. She licked her dry lips, and spoke softly. Her throat was still damaged from the acid, so she couldn’t speak very loudly yet.

“Then how are you… you know, here?”

The man chuckled. “Another group of assholes happens to have a magic pit in their basement. It’s a glowing green lake, ten different types of bad news. But it brings people back to life, and they dunked me in it without even caring for a second if I even wanted to come back.”

Marinette’s shoulders relaxed all on their own. It seemed to sink into her brain all at once, a simple:

Oh. He gets it.

“I guess the water doesn’t take it easy on your brain, either?” She hazarded an educated guess. He laughed, shaking his head.

“Not at all. I went off the deep end for a while, and killed a lotta people. They deserved it at least, but I don’t like how violent I was back then. Before I learned how to cope. Attacked people who were innocent. Red Robin almost died when I attacked him, back then, when he was just Robin.”

“Then why’d you keep calling yourself Red Hood?” She asked, tilting her head. He finally turned his head to look straight at her instead of just staring out the window. His grin widened, but it was lopsided. The grin of someone who was healed from some serious shit, but knew that it would always ache. A bittersweet expression.

“Cuz he doesn’t own that name. I made it into something that stands for at least a little good. Something that scares the assholes who don’t care about killing or abusing innocent people. Hell, some people take comfort in the name Red Hood now. And you know what that means?”

Marinette shook her head, and his grin widened into a shark-like smile.

“It means I stole it from him. The name Red Hood. He’ll never use it again, and now it stands for the opposite of anything he’d agree with. You can do that too, you know. Find something to steal from him, or use something he gave you, and make it your own.”

“Turn the chaos into something good,” Marinette said dreamily, clearly quoting someone. Red Hood nodded.

“Exactly. It’s not gonna be easy, but you got the choice here. You ain’t going back to who you used to be, but you can take the victory away from him.”

“... make him regret ever dunking me in that stupid vat,” she agreed, narrowing her eyes as they filled with determination for the first time since her body hit the acid. “He wants a puppet, an obedient little doll, I’ll give him Annabel.”

“There ya go,” The vigilante slid off the windowsill and approached her bed, holding out his hand for a shake. “I can help you get to that. What do ya say?”

Marinette was silent for a long minute, staring straight into his masked eyes. And then, a slow smile spread over her lips. “I got one question, Red Hood.”

“Shoot.”

“How do you feel about black cats?”

—*—*—*—*—*

This took four hours, holy hell. I’m actually happy with how this turned out. What do you guys think? I even got to max length on Tumblr 😂

[specialagentsergio]

all we can do is keep breathing || chapter one

summary: He’s out of prison now, but your boyfriend is very much not okay. When he isn’t reinstated, he spirals down quickly, and you don’t know how to help him out of it. (or, spencer relapses post-prison and goes to rehab)

pairing: spencer reid x gn!reader

category: angst (eventual happy ending)

content warnings: swearing, drug abuse & addiction, an overdose, substance use disorder, ptsd, mentions of suicide, mentions of/implied sex, references to sexual assault, description of a panic attack/ptsd episode. please read with caution; this content can be triggering.

a/n: honestly, i just wrote this for myself. but it was partially inspired by @zhuzhubii ‘s brilliant and heart wrenching fic i know what’s best for me (but i want you instead). mine takes a different turn, but theirs is amazing as well.  

a/n 2: disclaimer that while i have both been a patient at a residential treatment center and currently work at one, i don’t have substance use disorder and we don’t treat it specifically at my current workplace. my experience is also all in adolescent centers rather than adult ones, so this won’t be entirely accurate.

word count: 8k

song: paralyzed by nf

fic masterlist || masterlist

Nothing’s been the same since Mexico.

You weren’t naïve. You hadn’t been expecting things to go right back to normal when he got home from prison. You were prepared for Spencer to struggle. And you were ready to do whatever it took to help him recover from this trauma.

But you had never expected that that dedication would lead you to here—sitting on the couch at 11 o’clock at night, tired but wide awake, waiting for him to return from god knows where. A few cardboard boxes filed with the last of his things are stacked neatly beside you.

Spencer’s six-year sobriety coin sits in your hand. You’d found it in the trash a few days after he got home. You had tried to talk him into keeping it—"you were drugged; it’s not your fault”—but he had refused, leading you to believe there was something he wasn’t telling you. But you hadn’t pushed him on it, as that would just be a surefire way to make him double down on keeping it to himself.

He didn’t want the coin, but you kept it, hidden from his sight, hoping he’d want it back someday.

Now, three months later, you weren’t sure that day was going to come.

He had managed to get by for six weeks. He’d been plagued by nightmares and suffered multiple panic attacks, but he’d pushed through the cravings, gone to all his mandated therapy appointments, and attended refresher courses on procedures and firearms. He did everything the bureau required to consider reinstating him.

The day of the meeting, Spencer had seemed a little nervous, but stable. He’d gotten a good night’s sleep, free of bad dreams, and he had given you a kiss goodbye that felt just like the ones he’d always given you before. Then he walked out the door, and you didn’t hear from him for the rest of the day.

You got the news from Emily. The bureau had decided not to reinstate him “at this time”. They recommended that he reapply in six months, but for now, he wouldn’t be getting his badge and gun back.

Your initial reaction had been relief. Although you had shown Spencer nothing but encouragement, you weren’t sure he would ever be ready to go back, let alone so soon. You didn’t even know why he was reapplying. He’d worked for them for over a decade and become a well-respected agent, but when he needed help, the bureau had abandoned him and refused to help him prove his innocence. You had been so furious you could barely speak when JJ told you their decision.

Spencer didn’t share your sentiment—or if he did, he didn’t want to face it. On some level, you understood. The BAU was his home before you were, and you could imagine that after the chaos of the last three months, he desperately wanted his life to just go back to normal. So even though you weren’t sure that this was the best decision for him to make—especially since he seemed to have barely thought about it at all—you’d supported him. Whatever he needed, right?

You tried calling him after talking to Emily, but he didn’t answer. It didn’t worry you too much at first—Spencer often needed space to process things on his own before talking about it. You wouldn’t be able to have a proper conversation until you were off work anyways.

It was around six when the anxiety kicked in. You’d tried calling him a few more times throughout the day to no avail. You hadn’t even gotten a text back. Then you started getting messages from his team, asking how he was doing and if he was okay. They hadn’t heard from him either.

When you’d gotten home, you had immediately looked to the chair Spencer always left his bag on. It was empty. You’d looked through all the rooms anyways, trying to ignore what your gut was telling you he was off doing.

It was a few more hours before he stumbled through the front door, his eyes glassy and footing unstable. You stood in front of him, putting your hands on his upper arms to keep him steady. When he had caught your eyes, he had started to cry.

He’d been more or less inconsolable for the rest of the night, blubbering out apologies as you guided him through the motions of getting into bed. He’d clung to you and you’d murmured reassurances against his skin and into his hair that you still loved him, that you didn’t think any less of him, that he would be okay. You had truly thought he would be at the time.

But he wasn’t okay, not at all. He quickly became stuck in a cycle of using, promising it was the last time, staying clean for a little while, then relapsing. You had pleaded with him to get help, but he’d become... aggressive when you suggested inpatient treatment.

“Don’t ever say that,” he’d snarled. “I’m not my mother.”

Then later that same night, he had crawled into bed next to you at 2 AM, curled up against your side, and begged in a trembling voice, “please don’t send me away.”

You haven’t had the courage to bring it up again until now.

Four days ago, you hit your breaking point. You’d come home from work and found him limp on the couch, barely breathing, a syringe and little glass vial next to him. You’d dialed 911 as you ran into the bedroom, yanked open your bedside table, and pulled out the auto injectable dose of Narcan you’d acquired a few weeks ago just in case. Thanks to that, Spencer was conscious again by the time the EMTs arrived. He resisted being taken to the ER, alternating between scowling at them and looking at you with pleading eyes.

But you didn’t give in. When he had checked himself out of the hospital an hour later (you had refused to do it for him), you had driven him home, but the entire time you were formulating a plan. You’d realized that you were padding his rock bottom, and you couldn’t do it anymore.

So now here you are, waiting on the couch. You hope it will work this time. About a month ago you had tried staging an intervention with his team, but as soon as he saw them, he’d walked right back out of the room and you hadn’t seen him again for nearly two days.  

It’s another hour before he arrives home, and it takes his drug-fogged mind a full minute to process what he’s seeing. His voice is hoarse when he asks, “You’re leaving?”

“No,” you reply. “You are.”

Spencer sways slightly on his feet as he thinks. “You’re kicking me out,” he realizes.

You try to ignore the prick of tears in your eyes and focus on keeping your voice steady. “Yes. I am.”

His bottom lip starts to tremble. “You... you can’t do this,” he whispers.

“No, I can,” you say. You take a deep breath before you continue. “But more than that, I have to.”

For the first time in months, Spencer doesn’t try and hide his tears from you. He cries openly. His back hits the wall and he slides down it, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. It’s unbelievably hard to watch.

You stand and approach him cautiously, almost as if he’s an animal that you don’t want to spook, reaching into your back pocket and holding out a keycard. “I booked you a room for the night at that motel a few streets over, so you can... sleep it off. But after that, you’re on your own.”

He looks up at you with those big brown eyes that you love so much, but they don’t look like they used to. Now they’re bloodshot and his pupils are pinpricks. “(Y/N), please, please don’t do this,” he whimpers. “Please, this is the last time. I won’t do it again, I promise.”

You just shake your head. His words are nothing new. “Your car is already in the parking lot there with the rest of your things.”

It’s like a switch flips, his broken expression contorting into a glare. “Fine,” he practically growls. He pushes your hand away and staggers to his feet. “I don’t want that shitty motel room. I’ll just go stay with JJ. She actually cares about me.”

You expected him to lash out like this, but the words still sting. “You really think JJ’s going to let you be around her boys like this?” you ask quietly.

The anger on his face is offset some by the tears and snot still running down it.. And you know he knows that you’re right. “So this is it, huh?” he says coldly, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “Six years together, all we’ve been through. It’s just over now.”

You retreat back to the couch, placing the keycard on top of the boxes. “That’s actually up to you.”

His laugh is derisive. “You could have fooled me!”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. “I don’t want this to be permanent. You can stay now, or come back, on one condition.”

Spencer folds his arms over his chest defensively. “Which is?”

“You have to agree to check into a treatment center.”

The look of betrayal on his face breaks your heart. Tears spill out of your eyes before you can stop them; you swipe them away and take a deep breath to try and hold the rest of them off.

It’s a while before he speaks again, and his voice is quiet when he does. “How can you say that.” It’s not a question.

“It’s what you need, Spencer,” you answer. “You’re not coping with what happened to you. Not just prison, everything that’s happening to your mom, too—”

“Don’t talk about my mother!”

You flinch. He’s never raised his voice at you before. It’s the drugs, you try to remind yourself. It’s just the drugs, he doesn’t really mean it.

He storms forward and you scurry out of the way on instinct. He scoffs. “What, you think I’m going to hurt you?”

“You’re scaring me right now,” you admit quietly.

Spencer tries to cover up the hurt with a scowl, but you can still see it in his eyes. “You really think that little of me?”

You open your mouth to speak, then close it again. You don’t know what to say. Spencer would never hurt you, you know that without a doubt. But the Spencer you know, the man you fell in love with... he’s not the same person when he’s using. And with how high and emotional he is right now, you don’t know what to expect. “I... I don’t know anymore, Spencer,” you answer honestly.

He shrugs. “Maybe you’re right to think that. I did some awful things in there, you know.” He says it matter-of-factly, but you recognize it as a glimpse of one of the things he’s using the drugs to escape from, one of the things he won’t talk about.

He gathers up the boxes in his arms; you pretend not to notice him pocketing the keycard. You’re worried about him carrying them safely in his current state and almost reach out to steady him before recognizing from the tension in his shoulders that touching him right now will only make things worse.

He stops at the door and you hurry to open it for him. “I really believed you loved me, you know,” he whispers, the anger falling off of his face.

The words are like a blow to the stomach; it knocks the breath out of your lungs. “I do,” you choke out. “I do love you.”

Spencer doesn’t answer. He just shakes his head and walks out the door.

He doesn’t look back.

---

It’s been the longest two weeks of your life.

You haven’t heard from Spencer since the night he left. You weren’t expecting him to come around to the idea of rehab quickly, but you thought he might try and call you within a few days and try to talk his way out of the hole he’d found himself in.

He didn’t.

All you could do was wait, and hope that that night wasn’t going to end up being the last time you saw him alive. In a way, it was worse than it had been when he was in prison, because this time, you were the reason he was gone.

His team has mixed feelings on what you’ve done.

JJ is mad. She asks, “how could you?”, and, “you really think this will work?” You try to be patient with her—you know she’s so upset because she loves him. She already lost her older sister and now she’s scared of losing the man who’s practically her brother. But when she (perhaps unintentionally) insinuates that you did this because you’d just had enough of him, you snap, telling her she has no right to say that when you know she wouldn’t let him stay at her house while he’s using. She keeps her thoughts to herself after that.

Emily is sympathetic. She was there the first time he started using and had subsequently gotten her head bitten off when she tried to reach out and help him. “I know how hard it is to get through to him when he’s... like this. You just let me know if I can help at all.”

Luke is much the same. He’s had his own struggles with PTSD and understands the toll it takes on everyone, not just the one with it. He’s always happy to offer you some time with Roxy, because he’s right—things really do feel better when you’re petting her.

Rossi isn’t... indifferent, exactly. He just doesn’t seem to have much of an opinion one way or the other. You think it’s because he doesn’t know what an alternative would be. For all his experience in psychology, he’s unsure of how to help Spencer.

You don’t know Matt very well yet, but he’s kind to you, even going so far as to bring you a dish of his wife’s lasagna.

Penelope is an absolute angel with her warm hugs and baked goods. She keeps an eye on Spencer’s cell phone location for you, in the event that he ends up at a police precinct or hospital.

Out of everyone, you like talking to Tara the most. She’s so supportive and understanding. You feel like she’s the only one who truly knows what the past few months have been like for you. She just gets it, having lived with a partner with substance use disorder before. “You’re doing the best you can and that��s all that matters,” she tells you. She even goes to a Narcotics Anonymous family meeting with you.

It’s day fourteen without Spencer, and it doesn’t feel much different. It feels bleak. You go to work and run errands, but you only manage it because it’s habit.

You’re rinsing off your plate from dinner when there’s a knock on the door. Your heart leaps into your throat. You aren’t expecting anyone. You try—in vain—not to hope too hard as you go to answer it. It could just be someone dropping by on a whim, or, god forbid, a police officer with bad news.

Please, Spencer. Please let it be you.

When you look through the peephole, you’re unable to hold back a sob of relief. His eyes are fixed on the doormat so you can’t quite see his face, but you’d recognize that head of hair anywhere, even in its current unwashed and disheveled state. You take a few deep breaths before opening the door, for his sake. You crying all over him is likely the last thing he wants or needs.

He doesn’t look up when you open the door, and you realize he’s waiting for you to make the first move.

“Spencer,” you say softly.

It’s a few more moments before he responds. “I’ll do it,” he finally mutters; you can just barely hear him.

Your breath catches in your chest. “You’ll do what?” you ask.

He glances up then, a look of annoyance flashing across his face.

“I’m not trying to be difficult,” you say, voice shaky from the effort of holding back tears. “I just... I need to hear you say it.”

He sighs and looks back down, tugging on the ends of his sleeves. “I’ll... I’ll go to... to re—rehab.”

Tension you didn’t even know you were holding in your body melts away. You step to the side. “Come in,” you whisper.

He shuffles inside. When you turn back from closing the door, he’s just standing still in the middle of the room. You get a better look at him now. His clothes are rumpled and his hair is an absolute mess, tangled and dirty. It doesn’t look like he’s had a shower or shave for at least a week—you figure he’s probably been sleeping in his car. His face is pale and his hands are trembling; as you move closer, you can see a light sheen of sweat on his face, leading you to believe that he’s currently sober and starting to experience withdrawal symptoms.

You touch his arm gently and he makes a distressed whining sound. You guide him to sit on the couch. When you sit next to him, he looks at you with teary eyes. You open your arms in an invitation and he collapses into you, bursting into tears. “’m sorry,” he stutters out between sobs. “I—I didn’ mean it. I... ‘m so s—sorry, (Y/N).”

You cry too, holding him tight against you. “I know, baby,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I know.”

---

Spencer’s mostly nonverbal for his intake process. Whether it’s by choice or not is something you’re unsure of. In a private room a few hallways away from the main ward, you’re introduced to the admissions supervisor, Susan, whose voice you recognize from the phone calls you’d made to get him into one of the beds here. You also meet Spencer’s new therapist, Lara. She has a kind face and seems to have a good sense of humor. You just hope Spencer will like her.

You’re both given paperwork to read through and sign, as he’s on your health insurance now. Naturally, he’s done with them before you’ve finished the first page. Susan is taken aback. “Oh. Um, sir, we do need you to actually read this paperwork,” she says.

Spencer folds his arms and stares down at the carpet. “I did.”

“He, uh, he can speed read,” you explain. She still looks skeptical, so you add, “I’m serious. He reread War and Peace on the drive here.”

He doesn’t talk again until everything’s in order and you’re given five minutes alone to say goodbye. “I don’t want to do this,” he whispers.

“Is it okay if I touch you?” you ask. When he nods, you pull at his arms gently until they relax and fall open, then take one of his hands and squeeze it. “I don’t want to, either. I’m so tired of being away from you. But...” You take a deep breath. “But I also don’t want to bury you. You know this is what you need, right?”

He shrugs, refusing to meet your eyes. You can’t quite tell what that means—whether he agrees but wishes that wasn’t the case, or if he’s only doing this to appease you. You hope it’s the former. While it’s a possibility that this might not work either way, you feel like that’s more likely to happen if he isn’t doing this for himself as well, if he doesn’t want to get better.

But it’s out of your hands now. All you can do is trust in the people here to take care of him and that they want what’s best for him.

You put your hand on his cheek and turn his head towards you, trying to get him to look at you. His words from that night run through your head—I really believed you loved me. When he glances up, you seize the moment.

“I love you, Spencer. So much. If there’s just one thing you can trust in right now, please let it be that,” you plead.

He sniffles and you think you see a nod from him, but you can’t be sure. And it hurts a bit—you’re not used to him not saying “I love you” back. You can’t dwell on that now, though. You’ve only got a few minutes left before you have to leave him.

You stand, pulling him up with you. “Can I hu—” you start, but you’re cut off by him lunging forward and clinging to you. You comfort him as best as you can, running one hand up and down his back and using the other to cradle the back of his head as he cries into your neck, muttering incomprehensible words against your skin.

When the door opens, his entire body tenses against you. “Spencer,” you say gently, trying to stop your voice from wavering too much. “You have to let go now.”

He doesn’t budge. If anything, he holds onto you tighter. “Baby—“ you start.

“No,” he says suddenly, his voice louder than you’ve heard it in days. “No, I can’t—I won’t—”

Before you know it, he’s twisted around to stand behind you. You open and close your mouth a few times, startled and unsure what to say. “Spencer, what—what’s wrong?”

“No,” he repeats, shaking his head. “I can’t do it again. I—I won’t.” Then he starts to rub at one of his eyes in the way you’ve seen so many times since he came home from prison and it hits you—he feels like he’s getting locked up again.

A glance at the door shows expressions of sympathy on Susan and Lara’s faces. What with the “war on drugs” sending addicts to prison, this probably isn’t the first time they’ve seen a reaction like this.

You doubt any of their previous patients were framed for murder and had their mother kidnapped by a vengeful psychopath, though.

Spencer’s entire body is trembling when you look back at him, and it’s not from the lingering withdrawal symptoms. It’s heartbreaking, but it only affirms your belief that he needs to be here. It’s clear that he can’t tolerate what he feels and what he knows without turning to self-destructive coping mechanisms.

“Take me home,” he whimpers. “Take me home, please. I want to go home.”

You swallow hard. “I can’t.”

“But they’re gonna hurt me,” he cries. “They’re gonna hurt me because I hurt them; don’t you care if I get hurt?”

You think you know what he’s talking about. You don’t know the details—Spencer wouldn’t let Emily or JJ tell you—but you do know he was hurt in prison by the other inmates. You had seen the bruises yourself. And then you’d heard that some of the inmates were poisoned. He’s a graduate chemist—you’d put it together. You don’t know why he did it, but you assume that he hadn’t had much of a choice.  

“They’re not here, Spencer.” You try to stop him from scratching so hard at his eyes, but he flinches at your touch. “They’re not here; they can’t hurt you anymore,” you repeat instead.

Lara comes up to your side. “Let us take care of him, okay?”

Oh, but you don’t want to. Spencer’s so upset and you can’t bear the thought of leaving him like this, not when all you want to do is hold him and never let go. It’s what you’ve wanted since the moment he stepped out of Millburn. But isn’t this the whole point of bringing him here? You can’t help him on your own. You have to let him go.

When Lara coaxes you to take a step back, Spencer makes the most awful, wounded noise. “Don’t leave me, please,” he begs. “Don’t leave me again.”

You press the back of your hand to your mouth to hold back a sob. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” you manage to say. “And I’ll visit you as soon as I can.”

“No, it’s not o—okay,” he protests, his voice breaking. “It’s not—I—” He presses his hands into his eyes and backs up until he’s in the corner. He drops to the floor and curls up, hugging his knees to his chest and burying his face in them.

Susan is able to get you to take a few more steps back; Lara takes a step forward, in Spencer’s direction.

“Um, don’t—don’t touch him,” you stutter out, desperate to help somehow. “It’ll—it’ll just make it worse.”

“I won’t,” she assures you. And she doesn’t—instead she sits on the floor several feet away from him; not close enough to be threatening but not far enough that he’d be completely unaware of her presence. It makes you feel a little better, because that’s what you do for him at home.

You let Susan guide you out of the room and to the entrance. “He’ll be okay,” she tells you as you walk. “This isn’t the first time something like this has happened, and Lara’s fantastic. It’s actually a good opportunity to start building therapeutic rapport.”

You just nod as she talks, not quite listening to what she’s saying. You just keep thinking of his face when you took a step away from him, and how small his voice sounded. It’s a storm of emotions inside of you, but among them is... relief. You don’t have to worry about keeping him safe anymore.

Leaving him in that room, terrified, surrounded by people he doesn’t know, is one of the hardest things you’ve ever done. You just hope it will be worth it.

---

It’s Spencer’s thirty-sixth birthday. You have the day off, but the alarm still sounds early in the morning. You rub your eyes and stretch, trying to shake off the sleepiness. You were up late last night, looking through the entire apartment just one more time for anything you could have missed.

It’s something you’ve done half a dozen times since he was admitted. You haven’t found any needles or Dilaudid since the first time, but you keep doing it anyways. For some reason, when you were feeling anxious about... well, everything, it would calm you down.

You can’t stop yourself from checking once more before you leave to pick him up—though not as thoroughly since you don’t have the time. You just check his hiding places—the desk drawer with the false bottom, the pair of socks he hates that stay in the back of his sock drawer, the gun safe (he’d told you the code years ago just in case and hasn’t changed it since, more worried about you being in danger and needing it than you finding things he doesn’t want you to), and the two hollowed out books at the back of two different bookshelves.

You want to believe that even if there were anything there, he wouldn’t go looking for it anymore, but you aren’t there yet. He’s been in treatment just shy of six weeks, and it’s been up and down. Two steps forward has always seemed to be accompanied by one step back.

While he usually thrived on routine, the enforced structure of the treatment facility would remind him of Millburn multiple times a day. It took the better part of two weeks for him to adjust to it. The first time you visited him, he had curled up in your arms and cried about it, saying that he was barely sleeping because he didn’t feel safe and that he just wanted to go home.

It didn’t help that he didn’t get along with his roommate. Spencer found him to be too loud, complaining to you multiple times that he always wanted to talk during quiet time. Apparently he was also working on his GED, and would constantly ask him for answers to his homework. “I wouldn’t mind helping him, but he just wants me to give him the answers instead,” he’d told you. So Spencer had just tried to ignore him.

But his patience had finally snapped a few weeks ago when his roommate drank both his own and Spencer’s shampoo in a suicide attempt, because he’d “read somewhere that shampoo was toxic.” Spencer had yelled at him, calling him a “fucking idiot”, among other things (they were promptly separated). His roommate was fine in the end—he just threw up a lot. But he was permanently moved to a different room, to both you and Spencer’s relief.

Spencer had a meltdown the next night, though, when it was time to shower. He had been given replacement shampoo from the treatment center’s supplies, but he didn’t like the smell and couldn’t stand the texture, so he’d refused to take a shower. That then resulted in him losing points for not following the structure. (Points were given for good behavior and meeting goals, and were mainly how privileges were earned.)

Naturally, Spencer had protested that this wasn’t fair, that it wasn’t his fault that he didn’t have shampoo that he could use. He’d been told that these were the rules, and he wouldn’t be given an exception. In response, Spencer had thrown the shampoo across the room, thrown himself onto his bed, buried his head under his pillow, and refused to talk to anyone.

But that night ended up marking a turn for the better in his treatment. He hadn’t responded when shift change happened and one of the night staff, Matt, checked in on him—in fact, he hadn’t moved at all. When he’d said, “tell me if there’s anything I can do to help you feel better”, Spencer had had no intention of taking him up on it.

A couple of hours later, though, when everything was quiet and he couldn’t sleep because he felt sticky and dirty from not showering, he wandered out into the commons area, holding his favorite blanket from home around himself. When asked what he needed, he’d shrugged, because he didn’t know what he needed, besides his old shampoo, and there wasn’t much to be done about that at midnight.

“I heard you had a rough time this evening,” Matt had said.

Spencer nodded absently, looking at everything but the two of them sitting on the couches.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head.

“Okay,” Matt had replied. “Well, you can sit out here with us for a little while if you want. How’s ten minutes sound?”

Spencer had shrugged again, but sat down on the corner of the couch, pulling his legs up against his chest. He pressed his nose into the fabric of the blanket and breathed in deeply. He’d held off on washing it since got here because it smelled like you. It was comforting, and he felt himself relax some. Then, without thinking about it consciously, he opened his mouth... and talked.

He started with the shampoo incident. His voice had raised an octave and hot tears stung his eyes as he talked about how much he hated the replacement shampoo and how he felt that he was being treated unfairly by people who didn’t understand why it bothered him so much. And then he had just... kept going. He didn’t talk about specifics—he said he was framed and wrongly incarcerated, then went straight to everything that had happened since he got home. He talked about losing his job and his first relapse because of that. He talked about how he couldn’t seem to stop going back. He talked about your ultimatum and his two weeks living out of his car.

When he finally stopped, he was breathing heavily and exhausted, but he felt... lighter. It was like the dam burst. The next morning, he started talking, really talking, to his therapist. When you came by that evening to bring him new shampoo, he’d told you all about what had happened, sparing no detail. To say it shocked you was an understatement—he hadn’t been so open with you since Mexico.

The two weeks since had gone well. There were a few bumps, but otherwise he was improving, and he’d been able to earn a day visit for his birthday.

Spencer looks... good when you see him. He’s fully dressed, wearing the cardigan he knows you like the best, and it no longer looks baggy on him. He’d come back from prison a little underweight, and it had only gotten worse since. But he’s been steadily gaining it back here thanks to sobriety and regular meals. He’s got his satchel across his shoulder but he isn’t clinging to it protectively and the way he rocks up on the balls of his feet appears to be excited rather than nervous. It looks like he may have even run a brush through his hair for once.

Then he sees you, and the smile that spreads across his face... he looks like himself again. Your smile back is so big that it probably looks goofy, but you don’t care.

He hugs you as soon as you’re close enough. It’s tight, but he’s not clinging to you like you’ve grown accustomed to over the past six weeks, which you think can only be a good thing—he’s not feeling insecure or unsafe anymore.

“Happy birthday,” you say. “You look really nice.”

“Really?” he asks. “Because I got up a little early to get ready, but I didn’t shave since I’d have to check out my razor and that’s a hassle, and if you don’t like it, that’s fine. I’m not really sure myself—”

“Spencer, I don’t mind the facial hair at all,” you interrupt. “You look great. I mean it.”

He glances away shyly, his cheeks turning a little pink. “Thanks,” he murmurs.

You both sign the checkout paperwork and head out. Spencer insists on holding your hand the entire time. When you get to the car and start to let go, he tightens his grip instead and pulls you closer to him. “(Y/N).”

“Yes?”

He hesitates just slightly before placing his other hand on your cheek. “Can I kiss you?” he asks softly.

You blink, realizing that it’s been a long while since you’ve kissed. And just like that, you’re aching for his lips on yours. “Please do.”

Spencer lets your hand go then. Cradling your head in both of his hands now, he leans in and kisses you so gently. You soak it in, feeling warm inside as something you didn’t realize you were missing returns to you. When he pulls back, he looks more at peace than you’ve seen him in months.

You just look at each other for a bit. Eventually, you place a kiss on his cheek and say, “We should go before we get in trouble for loitering.”

He wants to hold your hand whenever he can on the drive home, and you let him. He tells you how his week has been going—someone in his group therapy is graduating the program in a few days, and they’ve started a new project in art therapy. You knew about the art project already, since he’d spent half of his phone time on Monday telling you how much he didn’t want to make a pottery project because he can’t stand how the clay feels on his hands when it dries. But you’ve always loved to listen to him talk, so you don’t remind him of this.

As you’re getting off the freeway fifteen minutes later, you tap the back of his hand twice to signal that you have something to say. He pauses in his infodump about the history of pottery so you can speak. “I’ve got a few presents for you at home, but I was thinking we could go to the bookstore and you can pick out some more things?”

He makes a happy humming noise. “That sounds great! There’s something I want to read up on.”

He veers off to the nonfiction section when you enter his favorite bookstore; you idly browse your favorite section as you wait. When he returns to your side, he’s holding a stack of five books, all on the same subject.

“Horses,” you say.

He nods enthusiastically, his hair bouncing. “I’m starting an equine therapy program next week.”

“Oh, that’s cool. I hope it goes well.” You don’t know much about horse therapy—seems like that’s going to be what you read about on your phone in bed tonight while you wait for sleep to come.

Spencer’s quiet on the car ride home, content to flip through his new books. He doesn’t notice when you park the car; you have to touch his arm to get his attention.

“What?” he asks without taking his eyes off of the full color spread of a mustang in his lap.

“We’re home,” you point out. With how many times he’s told you he wants to go home in the past weeks, you expect him to be excited, but he’s not. He tenses when he looks up and sees the building in front of you. “What’s wrong, Spencer?”

“Um...” He fiddles with the book’s dust jacket. “There’s... there’s not a surprise party waiting for me inside, is there?”

“Oh. No, there’s not. Just a few balloons and little banner. You, uh...” you wince a little as something occurs to you. “You weren’t wanting one, were you?”

“Absolutely not,” he immediately replies.

You chuckle a little at his certainty. “Well, good. Because I had a hell of a time convincing Penelope not to throw you a birthday party, and I don’t know if she’d ever forgive me if it turned out I was wrong and you did, in fact, want a party.”

That gets a small laugh out of him; your heart leaps at the sound. It’s been far too long since you’ve heard that.

He seems a little apprehensive as you unlock the front door, and when he walks in, he stays standing on the living room rug for a while, his eyes traveling from one side of the room to another, looking over everything. “It looks the same,” he says eventually.

“Were you expecting it not to be?” you ask.

“I don’t know,” he answers, running his fingers across one of the seams of his satchel. “It’s not that I thought you would change anything, it’s more like... I feel so much different than I did the last time I was here that it’s kind of strange to see that everything’s just like I remember it.”

You’re reminded of the last time he was standing still in the living room like this, stick-thin, dirty, and trembling from withdrawals. “Different in a good way, I hope,” you say, nervously fussing with the pile of presents on the coffee table.

He gives you a small smile. “Yes, in a good way,” he affirms softly. He notices the presents and scrunches his eyebrows. “I thought you said you only had a few presents here.”

“Most of these are from the team,” you explain. “Emily brought them by last night. They had to fly out this morning, but she wanted you to have them on your birthday.”

“Oh.” He raises his hand and it looks like he might rub at his eye but he presses his knuckles to his mouth instead. You can’t really tell what’s going on in his mind. You figure his feelings towards his team are complicated. On the one hand, they got him out of the prison, and he’s known some of them for over a decade. On the other, he wasn’t allowed to rejoin the BAU and the whole experience had made him feel humiliated. You think he wants to see them, but he also doesn’t; he’s stuck in the middle and can’t decide.

Either way, it doesn’t matter today. It’s his birthday and you want him to have a good one, so you redirect his attention. You sit on the couch and pat the spot next to you. “Will you show me your new books?”

The corners of his mouth turn up and he pads across the floor towards you. “Yeah. So, here’s what I’ve learned so far....”

The day continues in much the same fashion—quiet and laidback as you simply enjoy each other’s company. Once he shows you all of the books, you move on to the TV, catching up on the episodes of Doctor Who you’ve both missed (you didn’t want to watch it without him). You order his favorite takeout for dinner, after which you bring out his dessert—half a dozen chocolate frosting and sprinkles donuts arranged in a circle around two candles displaying 36.

“You know, it’s not really sanitary to blow all over food before sharing it,” he says.

You roll your eyes fondly. “We go over this every year. We kiss; I’m not worried about your mouth germs.”

“But it’s not just my “mouth germs”,” he corrects, making air quotes with his fingers. “It involves the entire respiratory track, so—”

“Spencer, as always, it’s a risk I’m willing to take,” you interrupt. You’ve heard this explanation before. “Now make a wish.”

He takes a moment to ponder it, then blows the candles out. You put the plate down and hand him a napkin. “We’re not going to be able to eat all of these before I have to go back,” he says, but the way he bites eagerly into the first one nearly makes you question that.

He gets through two; you only eat one, mostly full from dinner. He wants to go lay down on the bed after, “so we have more room to cuddle”. And cuddle he does, pressing as much of his body to yours as he can. One of your hands settles in his hair automatically. “Did you have a good day?” you ask, running your fingers through it.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Obviously this situation is not ideal,” you start carefully. “But I’m just so happy that you’re still... well, around for your birthday.”

Spencer turns his head into the fabric of your shirt and breathes in deeply. “Me, too,” he says quietly on the exhale.

You lay together in silence for a while, and you savor the feeling of having him in bed next to you again. Sleeping alone wasn’t anything new in your relationship, as his job took him around the country. You’d gotten used to it for the most part, but every night he wasn’t with you because he was in prison was just plain awful. After, you had him back for six weeks, then it became sporadic again as he started using. It’s been so much easier to sleep since he went into treatment, but you still miss sharing the bed with him terribly.

You look at your phone briefly to check the time. “We’ve got about three hours until we have to start heading back. I’m happy to stay like this, but we still have time to do something else if you want to.”

All he says verbally is, “okay”, but the way he squirms against you tells you that he does have something on his mind.

“Just let me know if you do,” you say gently; you don’t want him to feel pressured into speaking. Plus you’re content to lay here playing with his hair and listening to his breathing.

“Well, there is something,” he admits after a few minutes.

He doesn’t continue, so you say, “Okay. What is it?”

He sighs and sits up. “It’s... it’s nothing bad, or—or even that big of a deal, really. At least, it shouldn’t be.”

You push yourself up into a sitting position next to him. “Well, why don’t you tell me so I can help?” you ask. “I can tell that it’s bothering you.”

“That’s exactly the point. It shouldn’t be bothering me,” Spencer complains. “Because I really want to do it. It’s just...”

You put your hand on his back and run it up and down to try and comfort him. You don’t say anything; you just give him time to get the words out.

He takes a deep breath. “I want to have sex,” he says. “I really do, I’m just... not entirely sure I’m... ready yet.”  

“Oh.”

It’s not where you expected the conversation to go, because it’s something that hasn’t really been in your life at all since Mexico. He’d... taken care of you a few times during those first six weeks, but hadn’t let you return the favor. Each time he had scurried off to the bathroom and run a cold shower before you could even touch the waistband of his pants. Then on the night he came back to you, you had been helping him undress since his hands were trembling so much. When you unbuttoned his pants, he had breathed in sharply and frantically pushed your hands away.

Clearly something had happened to him, but he’d never even alluded to anything of the sort. And that was okay—you didn’t need to know. You just wished you knew how to help.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s stupid,” he says, running his hands down his face.

“Oh, baby, no,” you soothe. “It’s not stupid at all.”

He just shakes his head. “You deserve more than this.”

“I don’t know about that. But,” you continue, pushing his hair back so you can see his face better, “I do know what I want, and what I want is you.”

Spencer chews on his bottom lip, doubt clouding his eyes. “Look at me,” you implore. He meets your gaze hesitantly and you take his face in your hands.

“I love you, Spencer Reid. And nothing is going to change that.”

His eyes grow wet. He sniffles once, then lunges forward, capturing your lips with his own. You kiss him back just as passionately, holding onto him as tight as he is to you. It may have been a long time since you kissed at all until this morning, but it’s been even longer since he’s kissed you like this.

“Love you, too, (Y/N),” he mumbles against your lips when he pulls back to take a breath.

You press your forehead to his with a happy sigh. But he’s only content to stay like that for a few moments. He bumps your nose with his and tugs slightly on your shirt, requesting permission to kiss you again. You’d love to do that, and you’d love to do more than that, too, but you don’t want him to rush into something he’s not truly ready for.

“You know what we could do?” you ask, running your hand through the curls on the back of his neck.

Spencer’s eyes keep flicking between yours and your lips. “What?”

“A good old-fashioned high school make out,” you say, smiling at him softly. “And I’ll keep my hands above your waist.”

When he visibly relaxes, you know it’s the right decision. “I’d like that,” he says quietly. “I mean, I never kissed anyone when I was in high school, but I get the idea.”

The shy look he gives you before climbing onto your lap reminds you so much of how he was when you first started dating. He’s still there, your Spencer, the Spencer you fell in love with. You never truly thought he was gone, but there were plenty of moments of doubt, moments when you wondered if he’d ever be able to pull himself out of the wreckage, out of the grip of trauma. As much as you wanted to, you couldn’t do it for him.

As it turns out, he could. He can.

It’s far from over. He still has a long way to go. You both do. But for the first time since the day he came home from prison, a return to normal seems possible.

It won’t be the same as it was before. He’s always going to be a little different. But... that doesn’t necessarily have to be a bad thing.

He kisses you, and it feels like it used to, full of respect, adoration, trust, and love. It feels like Spencer.

Despite everything, it’s still him.

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

tell me what you thought here!

if you made it this far, thank you so much for reading. this was very much a personal work but i decided to share it anyways because why the hell not, i'm proud of it. the next chapter will explore horse therapy, a treatment i did and loved, among other things.

i'd like to encourage you please seek this kind of help if you think need it. i see how it changes lives every day at work and it changed my own as well. there's no shame in getting the treatment you need, whatever that may be. recovery is worth it.

if you’re interested in learning more about trauma and the treatment of it, i cannot recommend the book The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk, M.D., enough. it was my favorite book i read last year and i referred back to it several times while writing this.

[jaskierswolf]

He Had It Coming

Also on AO3

Geraskier - Chicago inspired Fanfic. Rating: E. Word Count: 2165

Warnings: implied weapon kink, masturbation, general spiciness

_________

Geralt scowled as he peered up at the building in front of him. On the outside it just looked like an ordinary house but the rumours about town said something different. Brothels weren’t unusual in a town like this, but for some reason that Geralt couldn’t quite work out, this one was talked about in hushed tones, whispers in ears, and flushed faces. He hummed and tugged at the strap holding his scabbard in place on his back. His medallion was still on his chest but he couldn’t quite shake the feeling of danger. 

He sighed and shook his head. The rumours said that a certain bard had taken up residence at this address. Geralt had been chasing Jaskier around the Continent for months, heading south from the mountains, weaving across the map getting ever closer to Cintra and to the looming threat of Nilfgaard. Geralt’s heart felt tight in his chest, worrying about the bard that he’d tossed aside. He had a remarkable talent for getting in trouble, but this time Geralt wasn’t around to protect him. 

With one last sigh he knocked on the door.

A lady answered, the door ajar, but even through the small gap Geralt could smell the scent of sweat and sex, barely masked by the familiar incense of a brothel. She had short dark hair cropped above her ears, dark skin with thick muscles, more than he would have expected from a whore or a madam. She had silky black bands wrapped around her biceps, a lacy black corset and her skirt, if you could call it that, was shredded. It wasn’t completely unusual for a whore but… there was a dangerous glint in her eyes that put Geralt on edge.

“Yes, witcher?”

Geralt frowned. “I’m looking for Jaskier.”

“Funny place to come looking for a flower,” she narrowed her eyes at him, but didn’t close the door. 

“I’ve been told he’s here.”

“The interesting thing about buttercups, witcher, is that despite their pretty appearance… they’re toxic,” she hissed, dark brown eyes challenging and strong. 

“I know, I’ve come to apologise.”

She laughed and pushed the door open. “Well don’t say I didn’t warn you, Geralt of Rivia. He said you’d come for him.”

Geralt hummed but moved inside. It was dark inside too, barely lit with candles. The air was thick with incense and he grimaced. He’d never enjoyed the stronger perfumes preferred by whores in places such as this. Now he was inside he could see why his sense had been alerted him to danger. Every one of the whores had daggers sheathed in holders on their thighs. They were all draped in lace and silk, some corseted some not, and high heels that could easily be used as a weapon in the right hands. 

Geralt swallowed, looking around the room for his colourful bard amongst all the black lace, but Jaskier was nowhere to be seen. 

“He’s getting ready for his performance. Take a seat near the back, witcher, and don’t touch my darlings, they bite.”

Geralt did as he was told, watching her as she glided through the room with enviable grace. The whores, if that was what they were, were of all different races and gender. He noted a pretty blond elf sat in the lap of a client on the opposite side of the room. He had fishnets covering his arms and long hair covered a sheer chiffon chemise, embroidered with flowers, his underclothes were tight and leather, barely covering the man’s cock as he moved sensually in the client’s lap. Geralt tore his gaze away, he wasn’t here for sex, he was here for Jaskier. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to think of anything that could distract him from the heat pooling at his core. 

He was so deep in thought that didn’t notice Jaskier appearing on the stage, not until he started to talk. Geralt’s eyes snapped up, Jaskier was partially hidden in the dim light by a set of prison bars. He gripped the bars, one long leg stretched out above his head…

Geralt’s breath hitched. Jaskier was wearing long high heeled boots, and like the elf, he had fishnets covering his arms. Geralt had seen Jaskier shirtless countless times but this… this was something else. His forearms looked like they would rip the netting apart as he gripped the bars. Thick, dark chest hair disappeared into a silky black corset, tied at the front. Geralt adjusted his eyes so he could see better in the darkness of the brothel, and he was not disappointed. There were buttercups shimmering on the black fabric and the corset cinched in his waist. His hair had grown out, now just tickling his chin and he looked… he looked like a nightmare; Dark, dangerous…. perfect.  

“My witcher, Geralt and I had this double act,” Jaskier’s soothing tenor took command of the room in an instant. The background hustle and bustle faded to silence, and Geralt heard a steady rhythmic beat of heels, tapping against the floor. The performance had begun. There was a quiet soft chanting in the background, from the performers all around the room; he had it coming. 

Jaskier’s leg slid down the bars and he sauntered out from behind his cage, hips swaying, blue eyes lined with dark kohl. Geralt’s cursed under his breath as Jaskier’s eyes met his in across the room, and the bard winked, licking blood red lips that took Geralt’s breath away. 

My witcher

Geralt hardly deserved that title anymore. He wasn’t anyone’s witcher, he was alone… as he deserved to be. 

“And this sorceress, Yennefer, traveled round with us,” Jaskier’s blue eyes watched his audience carefully as he strutted around the stage. It was only then that Geralt noticed the holsters strapped around Jaskier’s thighs, twin daggers sharp and lethal, jewelled hilts glittering in the candle light. 

“Now, for the last contract together,” Jaskier tilted his head and smirked as two performers joined him on the stage, the blond elf and a pretty young girl with long raven hair, a silk ribbon tied around her neck. 

“We were summoned to join a terrible hunt. There were knights,” Jaskier put his hand on the blond’s shoulder, “dwarves,” one hand landed on Jaskier’s waist, “Reavers,” legs interlinked,”monsters,” the fake Yen put her hand on her hips “dragons,” the elf’s hand linked with Jaskier’s above his head, and the bard’s eyes closed, his head tilting back, bearing his neck… and it took every ounce of Geralt’s self control not to fight his way to the front of stage to claim Jaskier as his own. 

“sword fights, Hirikkas, mages, one right after the other,” Jaskier turned back and smirked at Geralt. 

Jaskier gently pushed the two dancers away and strolled casually to the edge of the stage, hands sliding down the inside of his thighs as he dropped seductively, shimmying back up again, fingers toying with the hilt of a dagger. Geralt couldn’t look away. He didn’t want to look away, this was Jaskier; his bard. There was no use fighting the arousal anymore, he was hard in his pants, and his growled as he palmed himself through his trousers, never taking his eyes off Jaskier.

“So this one night before the hunt we were sitting around the campfire, the three of us, drinking, having a few laughs, until it was time for bed, so.. I settle down on my bedroll,” Jaskier slowly ran his hand through his hair, lips parted, he pulled one dagger from its holster flipping it expertly in his hand. “When I woke up, I went to Yen’s tent…”

He crossed the stage, the flat of the dagger pressed against his cheek carelessly, the elf and the raven haired beauty were in shadows behind him but Geralt could see they were close, his heart dropped. He knew what was coming… knew by his own memories and the ice in the bard’s eyes. 

“And there’s Yennefer and Geralt, in each other’s arms, fucking around!” Jaskier’s voice was like thunder; harsh and unforgiving. 

Geralt winced, looking away from the stage, guilt surging through him. He’d known Jaskier loved him, the bard hadn’t been subtle, and yet… he hadn’t allowed himself the chance to be happy with Jaskier, choosing the icy embrace of the Djinn wish instead of listening to his heart. 

The dagger in Jaskier’s hands brushed the bard’s throat in a clear threat. “Well, I was in such a state of shock, I completely blacked out, I can't remember a thing,” the dagger returned to its holster and Jaskier turned around, as a dancer crossed his path, when he faced Geralt once more his fists were clenched. “It wasn't until later, when I was washing the blood off my hands, I even knew they were dead.”

Red ribbons fell from Jaskier’s hands, a sinister grin on his face. The chanting got louder and Jaskier joined the song. “They had it coming!” He growled as he sang, and fuck it shouldn’t have been so hot. Geralt knew he should feel bad but all he wanted was to drag the bard from the stage and fuck him until neither of them could remember their own names. 

The dance routine was like fire in his blood, hands were all over Jaskier’s body, in his hair, on his arse, hips, thighs… It wasn’t fair. It should be Geralt, but he’d missed his window. All he could do now was stroke his own cock to the sight of his bard dressed like sin, confident, calculating, deadly. He bit his own hand as he came, the candles in the brothel extinguishing as Jaskier returned to his ‘cell’. 

“Fuck,” Geralt growled as he wiped his hand on his trousers, grimacing at the mess. This was not why he’d come to the house… how could he face Jaskier now?

“Oh dear, witcher…” Jaskier’s voice whispered, light and teasing, in his ear. He shivered and closed his eyes. 

“Jaskier.”

“Why are you here, Geralt? In case you hadn’t noticed… you aren’t exactly welcome.”

Geralt resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Not dead either,” he groused. 

“Hmm, true… but that’s hardly a good story,” Jaskier chuckled, his hands brushing along Geralt’s shoulders before he straddled Geralt’s lap. “You never answered my question, witcher.”

Geralt swallowed, unprepared for the lapful of bard. He’d expected Jaskier to keep his distance, but this was more torturous, to have what he wanted so tantalisingly close, and yet out of reach. “I came for you.”

Jaskier laughed. “I can see that, Geralt, but why are you here?”

Geralt snorted. “To apologise, I, I miss you.”

“Go on then,” Jaskier cooed, his hands wrapping around Geralt’s neck. “apologise.”

Geralt tried, he really did, but Jaskier was rocking against him, soft moans falling from his lips. Geralt groaned and buried his face in Jaskier’s neck, hands gripping the bards arse. He could already feel himself getting hard again as Jaskier moved so delightfully in his lap. “Jask,” he hissed. 

“Yes, darling?”

“I need you,” he panted “I need you in my life… but right now, fuck. Have you got a room?”

Jaskier laughed and brushed his lips along Geralt’s jaw. “I do, do you deserve an invitation?”

Geralt moaned and shook his head. “No, gods, I fucked up, Jask. I don’t deserve you, want you though, need you.” 

Jaskier’s lips ghosted over his, never quite kissing him. He smirked and pulled away with a tilt of his head, sliding from Geralt’s lap and extending a hand. “Come along, witcher. We will talk about this properly in the morning, I want a full apology or else we’re done. Is that clear?”

Geralt nodded as he was pulled from his seat.

“But, I have been dreaming about this since I was eighteen, so I’m allowing myself one final night of self-indulgence,” he winked. “then it’s judgement day, witcher.”

“One night?”

Jaskier laughed, fingers wrapping around one of the daggers strapped to his thighs. “We’ll see, darling, depends how good your apology is,” the teasing glimmer fell from his eyes. “I loved you, you know that?”

Geralt nodded glumly. “I knew yeah.”

“Good, I wanted you to know,” Jaskier shook his head. “bit masochistic of me, but I needed you to know someone loved you, without destiny or magic, without any expectations.”

Geralt hummed, unable to say the words that were stuck in his throat. So instead he pulled his bard into a kiss, pouring his love into it, hoping Jaskier would hear the words hidden behind his actions. Jaskier seemed startled but soon kissed back, moaning as the kiss deepened, pulling Geralt towards the stairs without letting them break apart. A warmth spread in Geralt’s chest. Jaskier had said he loved Geralt, but he knew now that he still did. It wasn’t too late, it should have been but someone somewhere thought that Geralt deserved a second chance, and it would try his hardest not to fuck it up this time.

________

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[murmel-malt-deactivated]

The Song of Ice and Fire - A Daensa Skyrim!AU (Part 1)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Summery: All Daenerys wanted was to see the land of her birth but when her execution is crashed by a creature of legend her future takes a sharp turn.

Sansa hoped to spent the rest of her days in peace studying magic at the College of Winterhold but when she discovers a strange artifact in the depths of an ancient nord ruin her quiet life is thrown into chaos.

A/N: now that I have figured tumblr formatting out, I decided to share the snippets I have written for my Daensa Skyrim!AU. They won’t be long, just around 800 words average I think, and I cannot promise that I will continue them beyond what I already have but I thought I would share at least that.

Chapter 1: Helgen

Daenerys opened her eyes to the gentle sway of a cart and the creaking of wheels. It would have been calming if her hands hadn't been bound.

Her head hurt and she was sure there was a nasty cut on her forehead. Slowly she started piecing together the bits of memories.

She had been crossing over into Skyrim for Cyrodiil. Finally free from her fanatic brother she wanted to see the land she had been born in but had no memory of.

Just outside of Blackwater Crossing she had been swept up in a group of men and women. They had seemed friendly enough so she decided to travel with them for a bit for safety reasons. She had heard about Skyrim's dangerous wilds.

After that things became blurry. There was an attack - it was likely where she got hit in the head - that seemed to have taken the group she had travelled with prisoner. And her along with it.

"Hey lass", a gruff voice said from her right. Turning her head only slightly to avoid worsening the raging headache, her eyes fell on one of the men she had travelled alongside. "Good, you are finally awake. Had me worried there for a bit."

"What happened?"

"Imperial ambush", he explained. "We walked right into it, along with you and that thief over there." He jerked his head at the man opposite them, who glared right back.

"Damn you Stormcloaks", he hissed angrily. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell." He looked at Dany. "You and me - we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

Stormcloaks. That explained the Imperial ambush.

"We are all brothers and sisters in the binds now, thief", the Stormcloak soldier next to her chuckled and his calm did not help smothering Daenerys' rising panic.

"Silence, back there."

She tried to calm her racing heart. This was obviously a misunderstanding. She wasn't a rebel, she wasn't a criminal; just a young woman returning to a homeland she barely even remembered.

Surely they'd let her go once they realised that. That is what she told herself as the cart slowly rolled down the cobbled stone path, beneath ancient pines and a grey foreboding sky.

"And what's wrong with him?" She looked up to the thief that was staring at a man that had not only his hands bound but was also gagged.

"Watch your tongue", the soldier next to her growled. "That's Ulfric Stormcloak, the true high king of Skyrim."

The horse thief went pale and Daenerys' heart sank.

"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion", the thief whispered. "But if they have captured you… By the Gods, where are they taking us?"

"I don't know where we are going", the soldier admitted, "but Sovngarde awaits."

"No this can't be happening. This isn't happening", the thief voiced Dany's thoughts. For a split second she wondered if she should just burn through the ropes binding her hands and try to make a run for it. It was a rash idea and she shot to down as soon as she thought of it. There was a whole caravan of Imperial soldiers.

If they didn't catch her again, some of the local wildlife would likely get her.

"What village are you from?"

"Why do you care?"

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home", the Stormcloak soldier shrugged.

Home. She wished she had one to think of. Skyrim was the land she had been born in, but she didn't even remember it properly. They never stayed long enough at any place Viserys had dragged her to in his fanatic pursuit of power, for her to consider home.

She wondered if she would be allowed to even enter Sovngarde. She was nord but neither a great warrior nor had she done anything of importance, let alone been in touch with her people's culture.

Viserys had been more interested in the daedric forces than the aedric, and probably had considered an afterlife in servitude to one of the princes a more desirable path than anything the gods were offering.

"General Tullius, sir!"

Her head shot up. They had reached the gates of a town. More imperial soldiers and the Empire's banners flying in the wind.

"The Headsman is waiting."

-----------

A/N: That was the first chapter for Dany. The next one will be Sansa and the start of her own journey. This will go back and forth between the two with the occassional shift in POV. Again, I cannot promise how many chapters there will be, beyond what I have already written.

[senju-sekhmet]

The Leash (Part 1)

Summary: Your rescue was supposed to be as smooth as these missions can be. However very quickly, Tobirama faces off against an enemy that has no form, color or smell - and time is running short, very fast. Unless he figures out what truly holds you hostage, your life will be lost. Warnings (for the finished work): Blood, illness, descriptions of heavy injuries and graphic violence, torture (both depicted and implied), needles, morally grey territory, human experimentation, panic attacks, character death ~6800 words (this chapter, finished work: 80.000) Disclaimer below the cut!

DISCLAIMER! This is a purely self-indulgent work I didn’t think I’d publish anywhere - but ultimately, if just one other person enjoyed this, it’d be worth it, right?. However, all of this is catering entirely to what I was feeling at the time of writing this (I’m the biggest sucker for hurt/comfort). It’s fairly possible the plot seems short on breath at times and even confusing because to me it just… made sense. I had a string of scenes I wanted to write and so I did, if that makes sense.

Now for a more technical thing - I took a fair amount of liberty with all the ‘lore’ that is offered in the original work. I’m a huge high/fantasy fan and I believe you’ll notice with how chakra is used here. Also my personal headcanons for Tobirama, uh-huh. There is gonna be SCIENCE… and science-y work… uh-huuuuh... _______________ He practically flew past the trees. His heart pounded in his ears, but it wasn't exhaustion. What fuelled his movements was sheer desperation. And ire. Ice-cold fury burning against those that had taken from him what was amongst the most precious beings in his life. How could he have allowed for this to happen? If only he had paid closer attention. If only he had been there with you, he'd have prevented this, he'd have protected you - such thoughts were futile now. He wouldn't dwell on them anyhow, he was too consumed with ending the increasingly despairing search for you. They would come back at him later no doubt, but Tobirama would devote every single fiber of his very being to bringing you back to safety. Though he tried not to think of it - he knew, they hardly kept you in a cell only. It only made his blood boil more. The news of your MIA-status had hit him nearly like the death of his brothers had, many years ago. Beneath his feet, the floor had been ripped away for a moment, a punch to the gut that left him breathless. His love, in the hands of an enemy village that was not known for treating prisoners kindly. Your high status in Konoha no doubt aggravated the situation. A woke mind like Tobirama's would paint a gruesome picture of the fate that might befall you, and his stomach roiled. The cruel logic behind the action, the tactical approach - something he himself might have thought of. That made it worse. "We will find her," Hashirama had assured him, placing a hand on his shoulder. His gaze had fixated on his brother. He clenched his teeth. "Of course we will - I will not rest until she's back here, anija," he had replied, no, growled. A fierce promise which he intended to keep, no matter what. Hashirama was unfazed by the sincerity of the statement. "Neither will I," he promised. Then his brows had knitted in a way Tobirama did not like at all. His brother was about to say something of which he thought Tobirama might not appreciate it. "She is strong, Tobira-", "I know she is," he snapped back at him, "But she will not suffer for a second longer than she has to." Hashirama closed his eyes. "No, she will not." That had been weeks ago, now. Weeks in which Tobirama's desperation had grown by each passing day. Silently he had wondered if he had ever been in more distress to accomplish a mission before. He'd have to go with no. And progress was agonizingly slow. The enemy knew well to hide their traces, and even for his superior sensor skills, the trail was faint. Barely a whisper in the lush forests of the north-west parts Fire country. The sheer difficulty of the task made him almost balk. Almost. The truth was it worried him. He never found himself deteriorating himself in any way before, even when his own life had hung in the balance. The higher the stakes, the more collected he was. But now? Now he felt he was racing against a clock. And time was running out. For even your beautifully strong mind might break eventually. And he knew what happens to enemies that have no use anymore. The thought choked him at night. To never hold your warm body against his anymore - No. He would succeed. They had picked up on their trail, finally. He clenched his teeth. They would not get away. Tobirama just needed a single thread to unravel this knot and then follow it through the labyrinth, back to you. He rose a hand to bring the squad to a halt - composed of his brother and a couple of experienced jonin of the village, all long-standing comrades. Some even from the warring states period. He closed his eyes to touch the ground and send a pulse of chakra through the area, letting his sensor abilities give him an overview of the signatures in the area. Besides the overwhelming presence of his brother right next to him as well as the far more mute team members around, all he found was animals. Except - "To the east." His voice was devoid of anything except steely urgency.He didn't even look back to check if everyone kept in formation as they followed him. Finely tuned sensory skills had locked in on his target; an unknown chakra signature. Humanoid. In an area where no travellers should pass for there were no connecting roads, no villages to visit. It was what had led them here initially: traces of chakra where there should be none. You were here. Tobirama just knew. If only he had branded you with the hiraishin seal. A regret that festered in his heart in a most painful way. How careless. How stupid. He shoved it aside for later. It was useless now. They enclosed around the signature that soon proved to be not just humanoid, but human indeed. Naturally, they wouldn't give up on the element of surprise. And there still was a slight chance this might just be a civilian. A child, even. Tobirama didn't believe that. Maybe he didn't want to. But as soon as they had a line of sight on the target, walking on a narrow path in the woods - he just knew. This was a Hidden Stone Village Spy. No doubt scouting for any intruders near their hideout. Where they kept you. Tobirama bristled with white-hot rage as soon as the target was in viewing range. Almost, he directly lunged for the man dressed in inconspicuous, earthen-colored clothes. Almost. The team had spread around, hidden in the trees. Hashirama beat him to hailing the stranger. "Greetings," he announced amicably, arms spread, trademark smile. How he was still like this was beyond Tobirama. As gingerly as the First approached, as stormy his brother followed - scowling in such a condemning way the man flinched away. "G-greetings," he stuttered, eyes trained on Tobirama who was well aware of what he looked like now. Good. Let that man be scared. He well should be. His armor clanked as he crossed his arms in front of his chest, eyes narrowed to slits, assessing. "May I ask, what brings a man such as yourself to this remote area of the Fire country?", Hashirama inquired, ever friendly, slowly enclosing. "H-herbs," the man was quick to answer, still not looking away from Tobirama. Damn, that answer was sensible - almost. "Is that so? Then where are your gathering utensils? Bag? Or did you intend to rip it all out with your bare hands and stuff your pants full of it all?", Tobirama spat back, the undertone of his voice a perfectly fine, icy growl. Hashirama turned around to give his brother an incredulous gaze. Tobirama snorted. As if that was the worst he had ever said. The logic of his argument was sound nonetheless."I-I-I h-h-have t-t-them o-o-o-ver t-t-there," the man stammered, backing off slowly, lip quivering. He pointed to the trees - where some of the team hid. Perfect, Tobirama figured. Hashirama threw both hands up immediately in an apologetic manner. "Oh, don't worry, please! You must excuse my brother," he approached the man slowly, much like a one would a startled animal. The stranger wasn't swayed. He kept backing off. Then, he started to make a run. That was all the confirmation he needed. Immediately, Tobirama snatched a branded kunai from his satchel and threw it after the man with full force, uncaring if it might hit him - and a second later, the world lurched and he landed right beside him, where the weapon had buried itself in the ground. Swiftly, he tackled the man into the side, sending him off balance and into the ground. Another few finger signals later, a shadow clone of his had picked his target up, restraining his arms behind his back with one hand and securing the head with the other. "Tobirama!", Hashirama called out, no longer bothering to hide his fury. Already, he began to run over. Tobirama ignored him. "Search the area he pointed at for gathering utensils!", he shouted, seemingly at nowhere. Then his scarlet gaze was back on the man in front of him, arms crossing in front of his chest again. "Pray they find them," he spat. With a deep sigh and a shake of his head, Hashirama came to a halt next to him. "There was no need to-" "Shut up!", Tobirama didn't even spare him a glance. His brother sighed again, now in full kicked-puppy mode. Tobirama's anger flared again. He had no time for these antics. They needed to interrogate this man, now, and then continue with the information. "Lord Hokage!", a call echoed through the forest. Tobirama's head snapped around. One of the jonin returned. Kaori held up a satchel - but her mien was grave. A chill ran down Tobirama's spine. Had he made a mistake? His gaze swayed to the man who started to squirm against his clone's vice hold, earning him only a more bruising treatment. "What's in there?", he demanded immediately, ignoring the fact she had addressed Hashirama, actually. She turned the bag upside down, pouring the contents on the ground. Kunai, flares, paper bombs. Tobirama's heartbeat thrummed in his ears. He took a decisive step towards the man who suddenly had become very still. Hashirama backed off. Wisely. "Start talking. Now." A dangerous undercurrent leaked into his icy tone. The man stared back, defiantly. "Fine." Tobirama's patience had worn out. He was by no means a master of interrogation techniques - but he knew ways to amplify the intensity of a mental assault. He'd have no qualms using every bit of his ability on this person. Already, his clone was moving the man towards one of the trees. Brutally, he wrestled both arms above his head while pinning him against the trunk. Tobirama meanwhile had picked up the branded kunai he had thrown after the stranger earlier. When his clone had both palms aligned over one another he rammed the blade through the flesh. A scream accompanied the sickening crunch as steel forced itself past the metacarpal bones. Blood trickled down the arms of the man whose eyes were wide now. Behind Tobirama, his brother and the squad had gathered at a respectable distance. They didn't say a word. Either they didn't dare, or they had accepted one of them had to take up the tainting burden of the acts that were to follow. Tobirama didn't care at all for that. His mien was ice-cold, his glare as threatening as his intent towards the poor victim. He let his clone disappear. His hand slapped down on the man's scalp, closing his eyes. His chakra wound through the man's network like a snake in prey's den. Viciously, the man fought back, but the pain he had inflicted disrupted his focus. Good. Tobirama focused his own chakra to assault the vault with the information he desperately needed - the mind. Distantly, he heard a loud, anguished scream. A shudder went through the whole of the network, another attempt to buck the intruder off and out of his mind. Tobirama clenched his teeth. Already, he knew the man's chakra reserve was far inferior to his own - he might as well be able to simply overpower him much in a way that might best be described as metaphorical curb stomping. But that bore the risk of impairing the information stored in his mind. Very well, then. He reached into his satchel, procuring a second kunai. The man barely had time to register what Tobirama was doing before the weapon buried itself in his right forearm, hailed by another anguished scream that rang through an eerily calm forest. Tobirama stared him dead in the eye with a glance devoid of any emotion as he gave the weapon, nicely lodged between radius and ulna, a twist. A snap was heard. The scream intensified - then it broke off. The man huffed. "I won't tell you anything!", he shouted, panting, face red by the blood that was dripping down. "How very wrong you are." Tobirama sounded perfectly dejected, raising his hand again to once more assault the man's mind. Who laughed in reply."You think that will make me break?", he spat, "You'll never get that bitch back!" He threw his head back, laughing. Tobirama closed his eyes. His head was swimming with white-hot rage. In a moment of weakness, his mind painted deliciously cruel ways in which he might harm this man, kill him even - ways so despicable that for a moment, he was disgusted by himself, even. Distantly, surprised he’d stoop so low. They were just thoughts, anyway. Yet his body became numb besides ire and every fiber of his being felt like bellowing his rage at this man while he mangled his body beyond recognition for the sheer mention of you. "What you're doing to me is a joke compared to what we do to her, day in, day out," he continued then, finishing with the audacity to spit at Tobirama's white fur collar. "Oh, shit," he heard Kaori mumble behind him. Not a second later, Tobirama raised his leg and kicked with full force against the left thigh of the man, aiming for the femur. The snap was audible, the pain amplified by the way he sacked against the impaling hold of the kunai above his head. The scream was harrowing. But Tobirama wasn't finished. He raised his leg again. The right femur snapped just like the left one had, the howls of the man becoming incoherent screams of anguish, paused only by gasping for breath. Cruelly, the kunai had begun to further cut open his palms and his forearm as his legs wouldn't hold his body's weight anymore due to sheer pain. "Tobirama," a voice called out to him. Hashirama. His tone carried a warning. He didn't have the information yet. He needed the information first. He needed to know where you were. Now. With his heart hammering in his chest, he raised his arm again and grabbed the man's scalp again. This time, his assault was different than the first time. Not a pointed stab of chakra after winding his way through his network - this time, Tobirama let his presence suffocate the man from the inside. His network was a mess anyway - the pain was heavily impairing his control of his chakra now and Tobirama's own gargantuan chakra moved over his like a cruel invader, sparing no mercy for how mentally painful this was to him, how he must feel like being suffocated from the inside out by someone else. Distantly, the screams had picked up again. Tobirama let his chakra encircle around the man's mind; the brain - then he pulled closer. And closer. The man must have felt like someone was sawing his skull open. A few more seconds - then it was over. The fight inside stilled completely, and his victim had given in and him free reign to access every memory of the man. A millisecond later, Tobirama halted his assault and began to assess the information. Instantly, Tobirama knew this man's name was Akio, he was the youngest member of the newly formed Hidden Stone village's espionage team. He tossed that aside quickly to rip open the figurative drawer that held all the information about this mission. He knew, then. He knew it all. Where you were kept - what they had done to you. Well, all that Akio knew of. He wasn't one of the interrogators. Through his memories, he saw your face. Anguished, gaunt. But defiant. Alive. There was time, yet. Even though these memories made Tobirama tremble. It hit him with a force that nearly knocked the air out of his lungs simply for how heart-wrenching it was. He opened his eyes again to find the man limp against the bloodied tree. He gazed at his own palm, balling it to a fist. It shook. His heartbeat was all he heard. All of himself was entirely stiff and still from the sheer, utter rage that had completely become him. Again and again, the Akio's memories thrummed through Tobirama's skull, and with them, your screams of pain, your anguish, your whimpers of pain. Slowly, the scarlet eyes settled on the sorry excuse of an enemy in front of him. He didn't feel a shred of pity- "Tobirama!", a stern voice ripped him out of the tunnel of his emotions. His head turned to find Hashirama next to him now. "Enough, brother," he said - no, commanded. His hand had gripped Tobirama's wrist. Slowly, the fires of ire within were simmering down if just by the calming presence of his brother. Objectivity returned to Tobirama's mind, piece by piece. But no shred of regret. Or disgust. Objective accomplished. That he knew. "You have the information, no?", Hashirama pushed again, not letting up on the unmistakable sternness of his own tone. "I do." Tobirama's own voice was calm, collected. In a grotesque contrast to the atrocity he had just committed. In fact, clarity was settling in - his focus restored, though haunted. Perfectly in control, but still driven by desperate urgency. If anything, said urgency had kicked up a notch now.He had his target now. "Kaori, Daichi," Hashirama called, nodding for Akio. "Stabilise him and take him as prisoner back to Konoha." They confirmed their order and began their work. Tobirama turned around, not sparing the man another look. Luckily he also knew the enemy's numbers and their capabilities, roughly, from Akio's memories. They'd be no match for him and his brother, let alone with their jonin as backup. Soon, you'd be safe again. __________ The hideout was - befitting for shinobi of the Hidden Stone village - underground. Concealed so well that without the information coerced out of Akio, it would have been impossible to find. Tobirama had to give them that. But now they did not just know where it was located, but also how to get in without setting one of the deadly traps they had laced each of the two entries with. Smart. Akio had also been so generous to provide them with a mental map of the place, of course - functional it was, a narrow corridor, just a couple of rooms. Sleeping and living quarters, a weapons and supply chamber which also seemed to serve as a tactical planning room - and finally, the place Tobirama felt physically drawn to. The interrogation chamber. Adjoined, a holding cell fitted to be bereft of any chakra. Just another form of sensory deprivation. He could barely restrain himself from rushing in there full force and eliminate any obstacle in his way. He knew in this very moment, this very second, you were down there, suffering - and the thought wound around his chest and squeezed until his breaths came uneven and his heart stuttered. Until he believed to be in physical pain. But Tobirama also knew how precarious the situation was. The team had gathered at a respectful distance to discuss their plan. Time was running short. They soon would search for Akio, and if they so much as caught a whiff of their presence, you'd slip from his grasp again as they’d flee. Or worse, they might kill you. Tobirama would sooner die himself than allow for that to happen - the mere notion let the blood freeze in his veins. At the very least, it did well to reign himself in. Still, his mind, one thing about the course of action was clear. No mercy. At the very least, they were enemies to the village. "We can easily overpower them. Use the element of surprise, and be fast in and out. I know their numbers and capabilities, roughly." Tobirama crossed his arms in front of his chest. His face was drawn in a deep frown. "That is correct," Hashirama answered evenly, holding his brother's icy glare. Probably the only person around here to do so with ease, Tobirama found. His patience for more faint-hearted had been long gone. "But you mustn't forget that Y/n is down here too-" "I assure you, anija, I am not," Tobirama spat back, knuckles white from how hard he gripped the fabric of his undergarment on his arms. His nostrils flared from the sharp breath he took, offended his brother might even think he’d forget this. "They could use her as a living shield." Hashirama was completely unfazed by Tobirama's hostility. He probably had gotten used to it at this point, in a pitiful way - his brother's predicament pained him as much as your fate did, Tobirama knew. After all, Hashirama was the gentle soul out of the two of them. That wouldn't extend Tobirama's patience, but still. "And you seriously think I don't consider that?", Tobirama huffed, through clenched teeth. Desperation was leaking into his voice more than anger did. The team held a respectful distance at this point. "There is no other way, Hashirama." "There is," he replied far too quickly for Tobirama's liking. "Enlighten me then, please." He took a deep breath, seemingly well aware his next words will not sit well with his younger brother. "We offer them to leave for their home if they release Y/n without a fight." Tobirama's eyes widened. "You must be joking." The mere notion - "After what they did-" he scowled - his voice low, dangerous. The all too familiar rage was roaring within him again, his heart pounding high in his chest. "You haven't seen what I've seen!" his voice bordered a shout, as much as secrecy would allow for right now. Without ever having wanted to, he had taken a step towards his brother, arms outstretched. They were trembling again. He balled his fist. What on earth was Hashirama thinking? "It would be safest for her," he replied evenly, not backing off a single inch. His calmness was unnerving Tobirama even more. He actually seemed to consider this a good plan - "Safest? Safest? What if they slit her throat before my very eyes to let her see me fail her ultimately? Did you consider that in your clever approach?!" Tobirama's voice had risen in volume, but even now, he was aware they were to be hidden still. But the mental image was burned into his mind, now. Your eyes - panicked first, then growing dull as the realisation of being forsaken kicked in. And then, lifelessly gazing at him. That was almost too much for Tobirama to take and the white-hot rage burned so intensely, it felt as unbearable as the thought of losing you while being so close to getting you back. The thought of all the agony you had gone through. Hashirama took a decisive step forward then, placing a hand on Tobirama's shoulderguard. "We won't lose her, Tobirama," he spoke with such conviction, Tobirama was glad to latch onto it if just to escape the dark place his mind was at now. He needed to focus. For you. He shook his head as though to free himself of emotional turmoil, momentarily. "They're still enemies to the village, trespassing in our protected country and guilty of torturing our own. We cannot let them go unpunished." His baritone voice nearly shook towards the end. Hashirama pondered before he sighed deeply. "Very well." Tobirama took a deep breath, then crossed his arms again. "We will use what means of surveillance we have at hand to locate each of them before entering. Preferably when," he cleared his throat uncomfortably and forced himself to speak the next select words neutrally and calmly, "Y/n isn't being tortured. They won't be as close to her. Then we incapacitate them swiftly before they can get to her. The hideout is small. It should be easy to corner them before they can get to her." He needed to take a few more deep breaths, closing his eyes. A hand rubbed over his forehead and happuri absent-mindedly. This plan had to work. It just had. Tobirama wouldn't compromise more, anyway. Hashirama nodded then, turning towards the squad. "Everyone heard him. Let's go." Surveillance proved to be more difficult than they had expected. With Akio's information, they knew how to approach, but the hideout was secured from sensory scanning, of course. Which meant Tobirama was as good as blind, unless he got inside. That was out of question. It turned out their only means of getting inside views were the bugs of Hoshiko Aburame, who was more than eager to show off her newly joined clan's capabilities. And amazing they were, Tobirama found. Not half an hour later, they knew the enemy currently kept to the living quarters of the underground hideout, and the interrogation chamber was empty. You were in the cell, just as expected. The news made Tobirama's heart stutter again, but he reigned himself in quickly now. His focus was required now, even though he itched to rush in there like he never had before. You were right there, alive, breathing. Alone, suffering. He wanted nothing more than to save you from all that, posthaste. Frankly the timing was just too perfect. They had to act now. And they did. Swiftly, and without mercy. They split in two groups to enter the hideout from each entrance, dancing around the traps like only a member of the Hidden Stone shinobi team could. When Tobirama heard their voices, their laughter from the chamber - he saw red. But much more than to punish them, he wanted to take the other turn - through the interrogation chamber, to your cell. Hashirama had explicitly forbidden him to. Tobirama knew, too - the enemy needed to be subdued first. You were not being tortured right now. He needed to be calm and logical now; his help was needed in the fight - you just needed to hang on a little longer. Just a tiny bit. He was almost there, with you again. The battle inside the chamber was atrocious as one might expect from such close quarters and a force such as their own. Tobirama's water release mowed through their earthen defenses as they tried to use the surroundings to their advantage with their expert knowledge of Earth jutsu - though quickly, he had to give way to his brother's wood release lest he'd flood the chamber completely. The squad each had engaged with an enemy personally, the clashes of blades echoed through the room, incantations were shouted, chakra released left and right. No matter, he figured, he was still lethal enough without his water release. With his ice-cold burning ire, he lunged for a very particular enemy: the shinobi he knew had been responsible for your torture, mostly. He just needed to recall Akio's memories of you: what they had done to you, what you looked like. Tobirama's precision was meticulous and deadly, in every way. Later, those who bore witness to the fight uttered words of fright for how the First's brother had been back then - a stern reminder never to cross this man. Tobirama's precision to kill was ruthless, chilling. Parrying maneuvers of his target where punished not just with a clash of metal but the slicing of muscles and nerves. Undeniably he did not just fight the torture master - his target was punished for every mistake in this fight. As soon as the opening for a kill offered itself, Tobirama struck without mercy. The blind rage started boiling inside him more, numbing his body to a point he was sure he wouldn't feel anything despite ire anymore. And the deep desire to get back to you. This battle was taking too long. All throughout it, Tobirama kept his sensory skills trained on the whole underground complex - and especially so on the door that led outside, to you. He would not allow for a single person to leave this room and make a run for you, or outside for that manner. Not that anyone got the chance. Soon, the Stone shinobi were decimated to a number far smaller than the Konoha team, and they realised they were being overpowered - swiftly. But there was no escaping any more. Briefly, Hashirama had entertained taking them prisoner prior to starting their assault - much to Tobirama’s annoyance. Lethal force would be simpler and faster, he argued. Another team member, Taro, had made a more sensible objection then - he doubted they'd surrender and it was questionable if they would manage to subdue them if they didn't. Well, trust Hashirama to make it possible anyway. With his wood release, he managed to ensnare them, an unmistakable sign to the rest of the squad. Fine, then. They might hold valuable information, anyway. Tobirama turned around on his heel to do what he had been wanting to do from the start. He broke down the door towards the interrogation chamber with no grace, clenching his teeth when he laid eyes on the inside. There was a table fitted with restrains - and blood. Dried blood. Your blood. His throat went dry. A flickering gaze wandered over the walls where various tools were stored, all of them kept in neat shape. Drills, saws, irons - he closed his eyes. He couldn't - he didn't want to see that anymore, now. His heart hurt, his body trembled again with sheer rage. How could he allow for this to happen in the first place? He opened his eyes again, bearing the ache the sight brought him. Briefly, his scarlet eyes wandered left and right to find more utensils: drugs. More refined tools, possibly to inflict damage to the chakra network of the victim. Various vials filled with substances, very possibly used to alter perception of reality and make a person more susceptible to torture. Bile rose in his throat. Enough of that. With a few decisive steps, he rounded the table to finally find himself in front of your door. He stared down at his shaking hand before he opened it. He was sure his heart would jump out of his chest at any moment now. The door swung open inaudibly. The room beyond was just illuminated by the dim lights coming from behind Tobirama. When his gaze found you again for the first time in weeks, he nearly fell to his knees. You were curled up in the far corner of the tiny cell, dressed in rags. Your form looked far too delicate - far too gaunt. You were shivering, your hands covered your face and your head. There were bruises on your pale skin. Tobirama swallowed a heavy lump down his throat. A prickling sensation formed in his eyes. He blinked. Wetness rolled down his cheeks. He wiped swiftly at it with his sleeve. "Y/n," he spoke, incredibly softly, entering slowly, as though you might disappear if he were too hasty. He, who was covered in blood - his fine fur collar ruffled, sprayed red. The epitome of violence. You stirred. Flailed. Slow at first, as though you had to work through a haze. To hear a voice beside that of your tormentor - it must frighten you, or so Tobirama thought. Your gaze - your gaze was the worst. It was wide-eyed, devoid of your lively spark. Haunted. Tormented. The ache inside his heart was a physically painful sensation now within his chest. Tears rolled down his cheeks again, but he did not sob. All that ran through him was the fine tremor of despair; of having finally gotten you back and yet being confronted with the reality of your capture. Tobirama knelt down near your side very slowly, just in arms reach but at a respectful distance yet. Frankly he wanted to sweep you up in his arms, kiss you and never let go of you again - but he knew better than that. Recognition had not yet settled into your gaze again. There was fear in them. It continued to feed into the ache inside his chest. It was them - they had done this to you. "Y/n," he whispered your name again, tenderly, in a desperate hope of waking your memory. Your gaze was wild as you straightened yourself against the corner, boney knees tucked towards your body as quivering hands steadied yourself. "N-No...", your raspy, quiet voice stuttered. The abuse it had suffered was evident - for quite some time, you had done nothing with it but scream, Tobirama concluded. His teeth clenched down so hard, his jaw hurt. More tears smeared his facial paint. "I'm here, my love," he finally stammered out. Your eyes glistened. More violent shivers ran through your body. Tobirama subconsciously shifted closer. He needed to comfort you, to hold you - to do anything to ease your discomfort. To help you out of wherever your mind was right now. "I- I've broken, have I?", you suddenly croaked, "They gotten into me, now they're using you to torture me-" - you threw your head back against the stone wall with an audible thud. The sound made Tobirama shudder - that must have hurt you. But it was nothing compared to your words - he understood now. You thought he was part of a genjutsu. The cruel, cruel logic behind that - his eyes wandered downwards momentarily, and he couldn't stop the broken huff that snuffed out any sob he might have made. In his crouched stance, he wiped his palm over his face. You, his beautiful woman, the love of his life - in shambles, all due to his incompetence to keep you safe. He drew a ragged breath. All he now could do was to make up for it by getting you away from here - making you realise he really was here - and keep you safe now. Ensure you'd heal. "No, my love," he answered finally, letting his own agony break into his voice that had become a husky whisper while two scarlet eyes gave you a sad, sad look. "This is real. I'm here, you're safe now. It's over. You're safe now." Signing the genjutsu release in here was pointless - the room was designed to be void of chakra. In fact, Tobirama had not even noticed when he entered - he had been too concerned with you. That realisation now was disturbing - how careless of him - but he very much felt deaf in here for his sensory skills were blocked. No chakra would leave his body, at all. It was an oppressive feeling. To think you had been in here for weeks - You kept staring at him with wide eyes. Uncertainty had settled into your gaze. Tobirama knew he needed to keep leading you out of the darkness now. He inched closer, very slowly. His glance he kept locked with yours, attentive of any sign of fear or hesitation. The last thing he wanted to do was overstep your boundaries now. You remained still. Finally, he was right beside you, kneeling. He was shaking again. As were you. "T-Tobirama...", your abused voice whimpered, the question in your tone tormented him. The magnitude of anguish the whole situation brought him pushed him to a point where wondered how he could handle it - bear it - other than soldier through and simply ignore it for now. What he knew was he had to get you out now and start to move things along. "I'm here," he repeated, "I'm real. You're safe, now. All right?", he raised his shaking hand slowly to lay it on your far too bony shoulder. Your body was agonizingly cold under his palm. "Y/n," he downright whimpered, relieved for a brief second when you did not flinch. Your gaze drifted down onto the hand he had put on your shoulder. Incredulous. The first gentle touch you had received - in weeks. "Tobirama...", you whispered again, now laced with more than uncertainty. There was pain in it. Not the physical kind - the emotional kind. The despair of your struggle to believe all this, to allow yourself to know this to be true was showing. And Tobirama grew increasingly desperate alongside to make you believe this - to end your suffering as fast as he could. His own pain would endure far longer, he knew. That didn't matter, though - his aching heart could wait, if it only meant you were safe. "I will get you out, okay? May I carry you, Y/n?", he asked in a hushed voice, as gentle as he could. When you didn't reply but also showed no sign of refusal, he let his hand slide over your neck slowly to grasp around your shoulder while his other arm reached out to tuck under your knees. He never broke eye contact again. Yours, however wandered to your own body. It shook again - a mixture of temperature and quite possibly the same reason Tobirama himself shook, he deduced. His protectiveness flared even more. It was only when you felt gravity shift towards him and up from the ground that you whimpered - and flailed slightly. "N-no-", you suddenly whispered, shaking your head and the unkempt hair on it. But Tobirama didn't want to ease up now. He just needed you out of this terrible room to make you see he was real and end this nightmare. "Please, Y/n," Tobirama countered immediately, "Trust me." He practically implored you at this point. Your flailing increased. "D-don't," you whispered, your eyes wide again, lip quivering. "I can't," you wheezed, "No more, please!" Your thin arms pawed at his chest armor as he rose to his full height slowly. Your body was far too light in his arms. Your gaze shifted to the open door slowly, the fear becoming painfully apparent, but Tobirama's eyes would never leave you. Realisation dawned on Tobirama then. And once more, he felt as though he nearly doubled over by the implication of it - what your real issue now was. "I'm not going to hurt you, Y/n, nobody is anymore," Tobirama choked instantly. "We just need to get out here, I can't use my chakra here, neither can you." he tried to reason, unsure of how much that would get through to you. He took a slow step towards the door, though the pain inside his chest made it difficult when he saw your reaction. "Please," you croaked, the fight becoming stronger. He had to close his arms around you more firmly just so you wouldn't wind out of his hold. "Nothing bad is going to happen anymore, Y/n, I promise," Tobirama whispered over your sobs. Then, he opted to take the two steps out of the cell into the damned interrogation chamber - back to where chakra could be used. You were near screaming frightened pleas for mercy then, a sound that would haunt Tobirama. But it was over the second he carried you into the other room. In that very moment, Tobirama let his chakra graze over your network already. But not before he muttered: "Release." His voice bore some relief - the crooked, defeated kind. You stilled completely then. Your eyes were back at his face, he held your gaze evenly while his chakra wrapped around yours, much like a blanket on a cold winter's night. The familiarity of the sensation - to hold you and to feel you in such an intimate way at the same time - Tobirama nearly had thought he might have never have gotten another chance to. For all his determination of the past weeks - the danger had been near suffocating him. But you were here now, in his arms. "You're safe, Y/n," he repeated, over and over. "I'm here." His eyes were glistening again, as were yours. Stray tears fell on the rags they had dressed you in. Tobirama pulled you closer to let your forehead rest against his happuri for a moment. He closed his eyes to drink in the sensation of your chakra intertwining more, feeling you. Stilling the ache in his heart, quenching the rage that had roared in him for weeks. The both of you feeling one another. "Tobirama... I thought -", you finally began, your voice finally more than a hush or a whimper. Still raspy of course. But... more yourself. You had begun to come out of the proverbial darkness back to him, again. The relief Tobirama felt made his knees weak. "I thought I'd never see you again," you finally whispered. Slowly, he pulled his head back. He swallowed. "I'm so sorry," he choked out. It was all he could say right now. But there was so much more he wanted to say. Your head slipped from his forehead to the side of his neck. Exhaustion seemed to be getting to you, too. "I'll keep you safe, Y/n," he let his arms wrap around even tighter, for a moment worrying if he might bruise you. You didn't protest though. Tobirama felt you couldn't be close enough to him now. Your frail hand reached up for his fur collar, fingers winding through it, gripping it, then sliding to the side of his neck. You didn't speak anymore. He shuddered for how cold it felt again, but it only served to make him feel more determined to take care of you now. It was Hashirama who disturbed the moment. The relief was written over his face, though his eyes were wide when they first settled on you, then on Tobirama. "Let's go home," Tobirama then announced, sighing.

[fandomnetworks]

MILK RUN

PART 1

Summary: As you’re getting used to your new apartment, our favorite DEA agents are assigned to check up on you from time to time. Only, one of the DEA agents is nicer than the other. 

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader

Word Count: 2K

Carrillo knocked on the open door that led into your brother's office, the president's office. He stepped in without pausing for a reply, you lingering behind him.

Your brother sat behind his desk while two towering men hovered over him. One of them was a tall white man with a mustache, his left hand running through his air. The other man was tanner; a distinct mustache also cemented on top of his upper lip. The three seemed to be entertained with papers across the desk.

All three gazed towards the door. First, they saw Carrillo, his broad body obstructing your view. But then you pushed to the side, "Y/n!" Cesar stood up and dumped the papers that were in his hands. He passed Carrillo and gave you a lasting hug. In return, you hugged him but not as lovingly, irritated at him since he had you caged in like a bird.

Once he let go, he glanced back at both men who were staring at your interactions, "Muchahos, this is my sister, Y/n." Cesar made his way to his desk.

Both men acquainted themselves as Steve Murphy and Javier Peña. You noted that both men were handsome, but Steve had a band occupying his left ring finger.

"Hi," You timidly smiled at both men, feeling all eyes on you, "can I talk to you?" You directed Cesar, not knowing what else to say.

"First, I need to settle some things," He motioned for the four of you to take a seat in front of his desk.

Once settled, Cesar began his speech, "As we all know, Escobar's men have been abducting high ranking women for a while now. My sister is one of them." You rolled your eyes and achieved a chuckle from Murphy. "But now that Escobar is in prison, I think it time to loosen the chains."

You liked where this was going, "Wait, you're saying I ca-"

Your brother lifted his hand, trying to silence you, "I have made some arrangements, and with an empty apartment in the same building as these men. Noonan agreed that the two of you" he looked at the DEA agents, "should check up on Y/n from time to time."

His words were music to your ears.

Freedom.

Freedom to an extent, but it was still freedom.

Some rules were laid out, but it was nothing you couldn't manage. One of the main things that stuck out was that you couldn't go out in the evening unless Peña or Murphy took you or one of Carrillo's men.

Standing up, you went over to your brother's desk and hugged him, a little more festive than when you had first entered, whispering a heartfelt thank you.

In the interim, the other men stood up and discussed among themselves while you wrapped up your conversation with Cesar.

It had been a week since you relocated into the new apartment. It took approximately three full days to unpack and furnish your new home. Steve had been the only one to come check up on you every night before he went to his apartment to Connie. Connie had become a close friend of yours. Multiple times a day, you would both visit each others' apartments. The two of you would chat about life back in America, what you missed the most, and really just talking about anything. Her adoptive daughter, Olivia, had taken a liking to you as well; she'd give you her toys whenever you'd go over.

Tonight you knew for a fact that Connie and Steve were going out on a date, and Steve wouldn't be doing his daily routine to come check up on you.

You hadn't seen Peña since you last visited your brother, and you didn't expect him to be coming. You and Connie had gone earlier to get some sweet bread, but as the night rolled in, you noted there was no milk to go alongside.

No one would notice you left your house at 8, right?

You picked up your purse and keys and walked out of the building, only going to the convenience store down the store. You'd grab milk and some eggs for tomorrow's breakfast, and slip back into your apartment as if nothing happened.

You passed by a few stores and restaurants in order to reach the convenience store.

----

Javier Peña sat at a bar, drinking away his thoughts, a beautiful woman on his right. He and she knew well how the night would end. She would be in his bed by midnight and be gone before sunrise. He should be ashamed of these habits, but in reality, he found comfort when there were women in his bed. For just those few hours, there was nothing but the lucky lady and him.

Peña happened to look up towards the bar's entrance, see your face passing by, and your hair flowing behind you. He didn't think much as he stood up in a fury. He and Murphy did not just spend a whole week trying to keep you safe, only for you to break one of the only rules your brother put in place.

Peña laid some money on the bar and walked off, apologizing to the woman for the abrupt absence.

He silently followed behind you, making sure to make no noise. He noticed you were walking with a light step to your feet. The creamy silk blouse that wrapped around your back was loose as it swayed with the soft wind of the night. He was gaining ground, and now he was just a few feet behind you. You were oblivious to what was happening behind you, which only made Peña even more enraged.

He was three feet away...then two...he was just inches away now.

----

You felt someone push your body up against the brick wall, your face being slapped onto it, and your hand being twisted behind your back. A sharp yelp left your lips, and your heart didn't know how to handle the adrenaline. It was beating as fast as it ever had, and you felt like it would collapse at any minute.

"What are you doing out?" A gruff voice asked as he leaned against you. His face near your ear, giving you goosebumps. You could smell alcohol in his words.

You recognized the manly voice but from where?

"Answer." He tighten his grip on your forearm, waiting for a reply.

Then it hit you, "Peña?" You tried turning to look at his face, but only until he loosened his grip could you entirely turn and look at the man. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" You shoved his chest to try and get some space between the two of you.

He was quiet, waiting for your reply to his previous question. His nostrils flared and his eyes fixated on you/ 

You huffed and walked away, not wanting to deal with the DEA agent.

Peña followed you silently, not uttering another word.

You passed a few more stores before reaching the desired one and walked in, Peña a few feet away. Going straight towards the refrigerators at the end of the store, you went to open the door, but Peña beat you to it. His body was brushing up against yours as he grabbed the handle, opening it for you.

"Uh, thank you." You reached for the milk, turned behind, and realized how much closer he was then you expected.

Due to the nervousness you felt being watched by Peña so closely, you forgot about the eggs and went straight to pay. You placed the pint of milk on the counter and pulled your purse towards you in order to pay but were surprised to see Peña pull his wallet faster and handed the change to the elderly lady.

"Mira que bonita pareja! (Look, what a lovely couple!)" The lady said, handing Peña the change.

"No seño, ni me gusta. (No ma'am, I don't even like him)" You tried laughing the awkwardness off and looked at Peña to see an emotionless stare looking back at you. He picked up the carton and thanked her before walking back to the apartment.

During the walk, Peña led in front of you, waiting for you often when your short steps couldn't catch up to his long strides. The walk was so silent; you swear you could hear the faint music of a party that was going on, on the other side of town.

In a few short minutes, you were back in the building and heading up the stairs. You expected Peña to depart to his apartment next to yours or go back to whatever hellhole he climbed out of. But to your astonishment, he remained behind you as you fumbled with the keys until you obtained the right one.

Once inside, Peña set the milk on the counter and looked at you. "You went out for some fucking milk?" He bombarded, letting what he had inside out. "You risked your life for fucking milk?" His long steps reached you, where you still stood at the doorway.

"Fuck off." You stepped to the side and walked into the kitchen.

"Y/n!" He grabbed your forearm for the second time that night. You hated to admit it, but his cologne alongside the sweat he had accumulated throughout the day gave off the best odor you have ever smelled your whole life. If it weren't for how rude he was, you would have leaned in closer to get a better smell.

You took a second to question your thoughts. You just admitted to yourself you would smell Peña. What the fuck were you? A dog? Maybe you should ask Carrillo to formally invite you to work alongside the canines during a raid.

Plus, you would not be thinking about him like that.

"Are you even listening to me?" You jogged your train of thought back to the present and saw a red-faced Peña standing in front of you.

"I wanted milk, sorry." Your sarcastic tone did not help ease Peña's anger. "Why the hell do you care so much, anyway?" Going to one of the cabinet's you got a cup and filled it with the milk.

He gave a heavy sigh and began to walk towards the door, "Just don't go out again, ok?"

You offered him a tight grin and watched his body retreat towards the door.

Just as he was about to leave, a voicemail on the receiver was left,

"Listen, little girl, next time you leave me waiting like you did tonight, I will kill you. Do you understand? I will fucking kill you."

You closed your eyes shut, hoping in God's name Peña was too far to overhear it.

"Who the fuck is that?" Peña came striding into the room again, his face fixated on anger, his jaw tighten as he waited for a reply. His eyes were tired but thoroughly scanning your face for any sign of distress or upsetness.

You opened your eyes and made eye contact with Peña, but soon looked down shamefully. You twirled the cup of milk in your hands, "He's someone I used to go to school with, back in la prepa. I thought I'd give him a second chance." You went digging inside the paper bag that contained the sweet bread. "Turns out, he's still a prick." You looked up to see his eyes trained on you, hoping you'd elaborate. 

For a few seconds, the two of you just stared at each other, not knowing what to say.

Breaking the silence, his first question was, "Does he know where you live?" His voice was laced with less anger this time.

"He knows where my last apartment was. I highly doubt he knows I'm here now."

"Why didn't you tell anyone?" There he goes, raising his voice for the millionth time that night.

"He's a nobody, that's why. He's just doing it for attention. We met up a few days ago, but I realized he's the same guy as before. He hasn't changed. When he asked me on another date, I felt bad to say no, so I agreed. But I never planned to go." You took your bread and milk in your hands and walked towards the dining table. "I guess I pushed the wrong buttons."

PART 3

lmk if you want to be added to the list:

 luvzoria

[justa-mysticmess]

mc’s attempted forced engagement

submitted by @manacharlotte​

hello!! thank you for your lovely request, and sincere apologies it took so long for it to be posted :) i think i might be getting back into the swing of things now though ^^;;

sorry it’s so long btw! some of it also became repetitive but, i did my best ^^;;  hope you like it!! enjoy! xoxo

.

jaehee

it had been easy for mc to open up to jaehee, likely because their relationship had been based off of strong friendship and respect

also because jaehee was such a quiet person and a great listener

in fact, mc felt they had opened up to the other too soon

however, when they were kidnapped by one of their father’s loyal and unfortunately talented henchmen, jaehee was glad that mc had confided in her about their forced engagement beforehand because otherwise, jaehee wouldn’t have a clue as to where to start looking for mc

she wasn’t surprised that she didn’t even need to convince the other members of the rfa, but what did surprise her was jumin’s investment in finding mc

it made her feel warm that her ex-boss cared about her and her s/o this much despite them having rejected his offers to work for him

with jumin joinining in the search for mc and his many resources which he wasn’t shy to use, they were able to not only track mc’s whereabouts (they were kept locked up in their father’s mansion in a rural setting), but due to 707′s unparalleled research and hacking abilities, they were able to get a lot of info on mc’s father, his business dealings, and family background

707 also went so far as to research all about mc’s fiance and any flaws or shady areas in his family business or background

they all showed up to mc’s father’s mansion, and jumin ensured they did so in style

jaehee was surprised that even v took time out of his busy schedule to join them, and both him and jumin posed as her guardians of sort

with an impressive entourage that included a rising idol, a modern-day prince, a celebrated photographer, and well settled youths, jaehee knew they made heads turn, and she knew she was the envy and desire of many a high-society people

that wasn’t what she was interested in, and she knew neither was mc. however, to sway mc’s father, this was all very important

they were received well enough- rich people had traditions and protocols to stick to after all, if for nothing else then for appearance sake

they weren’t allowed to see mc, and jaehee was seething on the inside, but she kept a calm and professional facade

they were invited to have traditional style tea with mc’s parents, and jumin smartly led the conversation towards business

jaehee, having had more than sufficient experience working with jumin, and then running her own cafe with mc, easily joined the conversation and she could tell how impressed the old man was, although he didn’t outright say anything

mc’s mother on the other hand, looked fondly at jaehee and commented about how smart and experienced jaehee is especially for being so knowledgably at such a young age. jaehee tried not to let it get to her head, but she knew her face was warm

they stayed a week, only seeing mc at dinner time where everyone was to come dressed formally, and mc took every chance to sit next to jaehee and talk to their friends. it warmed jaehee’s heart and also pulled at her heart strings to see that mc had become so lonely in the few days apart that they tried to drag out dinner as much as they could, because as soon as their plate was empty, they were chaperoned back to their room. like a prisoner

it was v and 707 who revealed not only the failing business of mc’s fiance’s family business, but also their overall bad decisions which had led their company to be in debt now. money was the only reason they wanted their son to marry mc

mc’s father was horrified and at first blamed them for trying to ruin his business deal, but v calmly reiterated that even if the wedding happened, only the fiance’s family would benefit from their business and would soon run mc’s father’s business into the ground too

it was 707 who decided to open up about his research into the family business and told mc’s father that his business was struggling too and he needed to be careful with his deals

the engagement was broken off that very day by mc’s father, and they were allowed to at least roam the mansion freely, however, the job wasn’t done

they still ad to convince mc’s father to accept jaehee’s proposal, which they had yet to put forth. mc’s mother overheard some part of their discussion, and she was down for it. she told them a weakness even jumin hadn’t considered yet

just remind him his business, family, and mc would be looked down upon and questions would be raised about the sudden end of the engagement. and remind him that to show their was no weakness on his part, mc needs ot be married off or at least engaged again as soon as possible, she had told them with a knowing smile

they were grateful for the advice and knew what to do after!

touching all his pressure points at the next dinner, where he looked haggard already about the sudden end of a deal which would have sunk his business, jumin put forth jaehee as a candidate for mc to be engaged to

they were expecting for it to take at least a couple days for him to give them a response, so everybody was pleasantly surprised when mc’s father agreed to the proposal by the end of dinner!

jumin

the moment he returned to the penthouse and the staff were in a disarray, his first thought was that elizabeth 3rd had escaped again

he did feel frantic, but not so much as he once would have, assured that his cat wouldn’t have gone too far or for too long

but the moment the butler informed him that mc had left to go get some groceries hours ago and never returned, he heard sirens go off in his hed

he first called 707 to start immediately tracking mc, and secondly called v

he was secure enough in their relationship that he knew what happened to v and rika wasn’t what was happening to him and mc, but he needed his friend’s support

someone had taken mc, and he would find them and make the fools suffer by throwing them in jail

707 had mc’s location within an hour, and the three left immediately

only once on the way did jumin remember to inform jaehee and put her in charge till he returned, feeling some pity for the poor woman because she would be worried too despite being too professional to say anything outright

they tracked mc to a warehouse on their father’s land where mc was being held hostage, according to 707′s deductions probably because they attempted escape again

saying that jumin was livid at the information was an understatement

jumin didn’t waste time in having the warehouse surrounded by his security team and within half an hour, mc’s father came with a team of his own

seeing who it was, mc’s father’s temper immediately calmed down and he became almost jovial with jumin, who remained icy because of the man’s treatment of mc

it was v who turned on his charm, and handled the situation so it wouldn’t get worse

mc’s father invited them for tea to his favourite teahouse, and jumin joined very reluctantly, only after leaving 707 at the warehouse to ensure mc was safe and wel-looked after till he could come back

once at their destination, jumin wasted no time in getting to the point

“break off mc’s engagement with whomever you’ve arranged it. mc and i want to get married, and i want it possible without any... inconveniences,” he said it with a straight face and a controlled tone, trying very hard not to erupt at mc’s father. after all, he would be his father-in-law one day, and mc probably wouldn’t appreciate him disrespecting their father

v just calmly handled the situation as mc’s father spluttered at the sudden declaration and demand

they didn’t have to worry, though- it was clear that out of any bachelor’s mc’s father had been interested in, jumin was on a whole different level and class

jumin, v, and 707 went back home a couple days later, and they took a newly engagement-free mc with them, soon to be engaged to jumin in an extravagant celebration 

saeran

it almost doesn’t come as a surprise when mc vanishes on him- after all, how can good things last for him?

however, he’s been working on getting better, thanks to mc, 707, and even rfa, although he still holds an uncalled for grudge against them

fighting the internal negative-talk playing in his head, saeran immediately contacts 707 about the situation and his suspicion that mc might be in danger, right before putting his own hacking skills to use

it’s just something to fall back on at this point and comforts him to know that saeyoung will be looking out for mc too in case his own emotions get the better of him

he finds the general area mc is being held in, but  leaves 707 to hack mc’s exact location in favor of hacking their mobile and calling them

their phone has been altered and cut off to prevent calls, but saeran is grateful that the idiots left the device with mc so he is still able to hack past those blockers

707 drives them in one of his racecars, going for speed and stealth, while saeran continues to track the signals and try to call mc

mc’s voice on the other end is a bit confused, and also very hoarse. they must have been crying or screaming

he quickly asks mc if they’re okay and who the hell dared to kidnap them.

mc speaks in a hushed tone but he can hear the relief and excitement in their voice as they tell him that in was their father’s men who kidnapped them in order to force them into an arranged marriage

mc also tells him that the place is well guarded from the outside but that they are locked away alone in some sort of dark room as punishment for breaking off the engagement and not agreeing to marry

saeran’s heart breaks but more than that he is pissed. he wants to make mc’s father and fiance’s family suffer, but mc quickly tells him to not hurt their family or parents

“just get me out and away from here... i never want to come back here but i don’t want anyone harmed either”

it makes him smile to hear that mc didn’t even think twice about asking him to come pick them up from wherever they were, saeyoung seems to have heard it and also looks proud

“don’t worry mc! we’ll get you outta there in no time! you just stay put and ready!, he calls out in a loud and carefree tone, but saeran can see the tightness around his eyes from here. good, he thinks. saeyoung is also angry on behalf of mc

they reach just as the sun sets but wait till midnight, when the guards change shifts all over, to break mc out

having been given the exact of the change, and the general locations of guard placement, and the general layout of their family vacation home (because that is where mc figured out they were being held when saeran told them the general area of their location), both brothers break mc out within 15 minutes, and they are on their way out and away before someone even figures out mc is missing

out of a sudden bout of boldness and a mix of adrenaline, saeran proposes to mc on the drive back tot he city in their get-away car, and mc blushes and splutters and agrees even as saeyoung throws his head back and cackles, proud that his twin finally made this decision

saeyoung/707

it honestly took saeyoung a lot later to even notice mc was missing

it wasn’t that he didn’t pay attention to mc or didn’t care, but mc also generally kept to themselves, especially while he was busy doing his regular work

when he finally got done with his work for the day, the first thing saeyoung noticed was the absolute silence

he checked his texts and saw the last thing mc had texted him was a cat video from last night

saeyoung decided to call mc and see where they were at and if they want to have a midnight snack for dinner

when the call wouldn’t connect, he immediately knew something was wrong and started hacking into their device in order to reach out and track, but before that remembered to shoot off a text in the rfa group chat to see if mc was hanging out with one of the members

when the call connected, he was already anxious because tracking the device showed mc was far away at this point

mc’s voice was hesitant and confused on the other end, but saeyoung still sighed in relief because he knew they were unharmed so far

what he wasn’t prepared for was the knowledge that it was mc’s own family’s bodyguards who had tracked and kidnapped them in order to take mc back and continue on with their forced engagement

hearing this, he froze up for a moment- on the one hand, he couldn’t give mc much and if they were married off to this rich fiance, mc would have an easy life and be taken care of

on the other hand, he knew he loved and cherished mc and fully understood that mc loved him back

before he could think about what to do in this situation- to be selfish or ensure mc’s future, mc’s voice broke him out of his stupor: “saeyoung, come get me right away. i can’t do this... especially now that i’ve found you”

they didn’t sound defeated or frightened, instead, he was proud and happy to hear the note of determination in mc’s voice

thanks to mc’s words, his choice was already made for him

he took v to mc’s family home the veyr next day, both of them arriving in style- v having pulled all the stops for the first time to impress someone with his appearance and wealth

it warmed saeyoung’s heart to know that v did it for him!

with an impressive and reliable person like v posing as his guardian, and saeyoung managing to charm mc’s parents thoroughly with his humor, wit, and success at a young age, it was relatively easier than they’d expected to sway mc’s parents and get their blessing for saeyoung to marry mc 

v/jihyun 

the whole fiasco with rika and her past role in v’s life meant that mc found an opening to tell v early on in their relationship about the forced engagement they had run away from

v had been nothing but understanding and supportive, even reassuring mc that if it came down to it, or even if mc just wanted to speak to their family, he would arrange it for them and accompany them

mc was thankful for the gesture but hadn’t wanted to reach out to their family yet, still feeling betrayed by their parents for trying to push them into that relationship

so, he immediately noticed when mc went missing, especially because they had a habit of updating him about their whereabouts when mc and v were  away from each other

immediately employed 707′s help to contact mc as their mobile was being blocked

v, jumin, and 707 were already on the way to where the tracker was showing mc’s current location when 707 managed to connect the call to mc

despite being worried sick, v talked to mc calmly and ensured they were unharmed and in good health 

asked mc if they could stall their parents and the engagement till v got there before mc could tell him what had happened

could feel mc’s instant relief that he understood their position and was on his way to them

when they reached mc’s family manison, they were given vip treatment because of jumin’s status, v’s fame, and seven’s apparent wealth

still, they weren’t able to see mc’s parents till dinner that night, but v did not waste any time

despite mc not being allowed to join them all for dinner, which v assumed was as punishment for running away and not agreeing to the arrangement, v managed to remain civil and pitch his proposal

he straight up confessed to being mc’s lover and wanting to get their parents blessings for marrying mc

their parents were a bit surprised, but didn’t hesitate for long to agree

the four of them left mc’s family mansion a week later, along with the rest of the rfa members, after having just celebrated v’s and mc’s engagement

yoosung

yoosung returned home late, as usual, since he had internship at jumin’s office right after classes

mc was a busy person too but they would always be home when yoosung returned from his internship

he immediately felt something was wrong when he saw all the lights were out and everything seemed untouched

becausse even if mc went out, they would come home from work in order to freshen up before leaving with friends or going out on their own

but there was no sign of them having returned at all

not wanting to panic for no reason, yoosung checked his messages to first see if mc had sent any text telling him they would be coming home late or something

sure enough, there were no texts 

BUT there had been a miscall around 3 hours ago!

now a bit worried, yoosung immediately tried calling them back but the call would’t connect

finally panicking, he did thoughtlessly called his boss in a frantic worry

jumin was less than impressed at having been called at this time of night but he understood yoosung’s situation somewhat. he calmly told yoosung to ask seven to track mc’s phone- if the device was with them, it could still be traced even if it was shut off

yoosung thanked him before calling seven

seven had mc’s location under 10 minutes, but when he told yoosung of the area, he felt a bit shocked and scared

he remembered that was mc’s hometown! if mc was there, then something horrible must have happened to theri family, or there must have been some other emergency!

jumin reluctantly allowed yoosung to take jaehee, because he understood this was a delicate situation and did care for mc as a member of the rfa and a friend. hearing of the situation, zen came along for protection and offering any help

when they reached the location, thanks to seven guiding them through call, they were shocked to see that mc came from considerable wealth

they were allowed inside after they introduced themselves as mc’s friends and they were invited into a fancy sitting area and served tea

jaehee commented that the house seemed pretty tranquil so it probably wasn’t an emergency reason that mc had come here, but that it was odd that they hadn’t come to see them yet

almost as if on cue, mc rushed in just then, breathless and looking a bit wild

yoosung froze up seeing them in such a state, but zen was on his feet immediately and steadied mc

upon seeing the three of them, mc calmed down a bit and took a moment to collect themself

it was jaehee who took mc’s hands and held them between hers till mc stopped shaking

“i thought i’d never see you guys again”

it broke yoosung’s heart to hear mc say that, their voice hoarse as if they’d been screaming or crying

then it hit him. “you mean you didn’t come here on your own mc?!”

mc flinched and jaehee told him to lower his volume just as zen grabbed his shoulder in support and warning

mc composed themself and shook their head. after looking about to make sure nobody else was there, they leaned forward and whispered that their family had basically kidnapped them to continue the engagement they had run away from

zen offered to break them out of there, but yoosung was looking livid

before mc could reply, yoosung spoke up instead, “hey, zen? hold that offer”

he got up and headed for the sitting room’s entrance, when jaehee asked him where he was going

“to talk to mc’s parents. if they reject my proposal, we’ll break mc out”

zen laughed, feeling immense pride at yoosung taking such a stance, and jaehee was pleasantly surprised

mc watched yoosung walk out, feeling proud and a bit bad because they knew that the four of them would have to make a run for it after all. but it warmed their heart to see yoosung ready to confront their parents for mc’s sake

zen/hyun

zen and mc had taken the rare opportunity for privacy to spend time together

they went out for a pleasant stroll on a pleasantly chilly evening 

they’d actually been about to go home after a lovely night out and were nearing zen’s bike when it happened

they were surrounded and mc dragged away from him

despite being outnumbered, zen got a few hits in, and received the end of a punch, but that didn’t stop him

he was on his bike and chased them to the outskirts of the city, but hsi bike soon ran out of gas and the van drove off with mc trapped inside

he felt frustrated and heartbroken wanted to scream as he picked up mc’s cracked cell phone from the ground

but before anything, he called seven

he couldn’t get used to technology easily and so he normally didn’t like it too much, but he was grateful for seven being on their team especially now

since zen was used to memorizing lines for his roles, he had actually managed to memorize the number plate of the car even in the relative darkness

he gave all that information, trusting that seven would find them, and moved the the side of the road in hopes of an empty taxi

seven told him it was bets to come back, regroup and then leave, but zen wasn’t having it

so, he was pleasantly surprised when seven drove up to him in less than half an hour, with yoosung in tow

“you’re so troublesome you know that?” he said, but zen could tell he didn’t mean it

yoosing was just frantic for mc’s safety and informed zen than jumin was sending a security team to go with them

ever since mc had come into his life, zen had managed to mostly smooth things out with jumin, because mc was also friends with jumin. although he sometimes still thought the man was a jerk.

it wasnice to know that he cared for mc too and sent security

seven moved to the backseat of his car and told zen that he would drive, “since i’ll be tracking those kidnapper’s van” he explained

sure enough, the promised security guards arrived in a black minivan just as zen got into the driver’s seat

they reached the mansion mc was being held hostage at just as the sun started to rise. it was massive, but zen was occupied with thoughts of how he’d mess up the face of whoever plotted this right after he had mc safe and sound with him

seven let out a low whistle before dropping another bomb on them- “this is actually the place mc grew up in!”

zen blanched just as yoonsung exclaimed “but what kind of kidnappers bring you to your house?!”

knowing mc wasn’t really on good terms with their family for some time, zen didn’t feel completely relaxed yet, “let’s find out”

the three of them emerged, immediately flanked by jumin’s security team

they were immediately approached by a stern looking man dressed in a black suit, asking who they were and what was their business there

seven reacted with his usual lack of tact (which surprisingly always worked) and claimed that they should be ecstatic that a famous star was visiting them

although zen appreciated what seven was doing, he didn’t have patience right now. he needed to make sure mc was alright. but before he could demand anything, he felt a sharp pain in his leg and looked down to see yoosung pinching his thigh without even looking at him

by then, the man looked the three of them up and down, his gaze lingering on zen, before taking in the security detail

he let them through, noticing that they were probably important people, and a butler opened the mansion doors before they could even knock, welcoming them inside

they were given vip treatment, and allowed to keep a guard each with them

they were allowed to freshen up before being taken to meet the head of the household, who they knew now would be mc’s father

the man immediately recognized zen, and was further impressed by their obvious wealth and status considering the cars they had arrived in and the security they had brought with them 

after chatting with them for a bit, during which zen barely held himself back from demanding mc’s whereabouts, the father asked them, “i am confused as to what business fine, accomplished young men like you came here for” 

not being able to wait any longer, zen spoke before seven or yoosung could, “we’re here to get mc”. when mc’s father simply raised a brow, zen continued, “i’m going to marry mc. and i was quite upset when they were kidnapped on our date”

“hm? i did hear the man with mc put up quite a fight”

zen could feel poor yoosung sweating bullets by the now since the turn of the conversation, but he could also feel seven’s resolve from next to him.

“where are you holding mc? they better be unharmed.”

the man scoffed, “i would never harm my child. or let them harm themself,” he added with a look aimed at zen

instead of responding to the jab, zen grit his teeth “i will never let you take away mc’s choice. i won’t let you do this to them”

if the words had any effect on the man, they couldn’t tell, 

but the moment he was about to press a button, seven caught him. “if you do that, i will leak all your business weaknesses to your rivals,” he said brightly

zen almost laughed at the man’s face changing colours

before the situation could escalate further, he decided to take a slightly different route- after all, he wanted to be a partner mc could be proud of and make sure he didn’t burn any bridges with mc’s family

“listen. you’re mc’s father. i don’t want to cause you any harm. and if your information gets leaked, it will be hell for you. i actually want to do this peacefully. when mc was first taken, i feared the worst! i was ready to do anything. that still hasn’t changed. i’m not leaving without seeing mc. and if they want to go home with me, i’ll do everything to make that happen”

in the end, zen didn’t know if it was because he was impressed by zen’s earnestness and devotion to mc, or because he believed mc would listen to him, but mc’s father did allow the three of them to meet them

mc hugged him so fiercely that for a moment he forgot everything else. but then he was reminded that mc had missed him and longed for him just as much as he had missed them

after checking for their physical wellness and making sure they hadn’t been crying too much, he asked mc if they wanted to go home

he honestly thought mc’s father would throw a fit or start some drama, but the man actually allowed them to go, even if he looked reluctant

it was a week later, when zen and mc were curled up on their couch back at home, that mc got a text from their father saying that he would like to take care of the expenses for their engagement and that he hoped they had better times ahead

[waiting-for-motivation]

loyalty

summary: The mission to the prison with a rather fraudulent group, shows Din that family means love and loyalty.

pairings: Din Djarin x Reader

warnings: chapter six (!?), angst, blood, fluff

words: 1848

MASTERLIST REQUEST RULES

“I told you this was a bad idea, Din. It wasn‘t part of the plan that they would ever set a foot inside our ship. They could see the child and I don‘t want to know what they would do to him“, the female whisper yells and turns to the little foundling sitting in his makeshift cot. The Mandalorian behind her sighs because he knows that she is right. It‘s too dangerous but they are already in hyper-space.

“I understand you worry, cyar‘ika. But we need the credits“, the armed warrior says and places a gloved hand on her cheek. (Y/n) looks up with the shimmer of tears in her eyes.

Before Din can say anything to calm her down, the door slides open and Mayfeld stands in the door frame.

“I heard you whispering in here but I would have never imagined in my dreams that you would meet up with your little girlfriend“, the man says and grins at (Y/n) which makes her feel uncomfortable. Nevertheless, she doesn‘t show her distress, only staring at the man and the two other people behind him. Xi‘an and Burg followed their leader as soon as they heard him talking to Mando.

“What is that, like a pet or something?“, Mayfeld asks and takes a few steps forward, now standing directly in front of (Y/n) who is trying to protect the child.

“Yeah, something like that“, Din says before his love can say anything else. Just like her, he is trying to protect his foundling.

“Didn‘t take you for the type“, Xi‘an says as she enters the small room which is now filled with people. Burg wouldn‘t even fit in if he would be smaller. The female Twi‘lek lets her gaze wander from the Mandalorian to the child and finally to his girlfriend.

“Maybe that code of yours has made you soft and weak“, the Twi‘lek adds without taking her eyes off the female in front of her. She smiles at (Y/n) and shows her sharp teeth.

Mayfeld manages to push past Din and (Y/n), picking up the child. Immediately, the females stomach feels as if she needs to throw up. This bastard shouldn‘t touch her son.

After a few more mean glances they leave the small room. Mayfeld presses the child to his chest.

Outside Burg is stopping Mando and starts growling at him like a hungry wolf. Both look like they want to kill each other.

“Hey! Okay. Okay. Okay. I get it. I‘m a little particular about my personal space too. So, let‘s just do this job. We get in, we get out, and you don‘t have to see our faces anymore“, Mayfeld tries to calm the two warriors down while he sways the child in his arms. (Y/n) stays next to the strange and probably dangerous man because she fears he might hurt the child.

The group starts talking about Mandalorians and Xi‘an even starts to slightly flirt with Din. Although (Y/n) doesn‘t like that, her eyes stay focused on the child.

“He never takes off the helmet?“, Mayfeld asks and that‘s when (Y/n) looks up because she knows what will follow. Din will need her more the next few minutes than the child. “I wonder what you look like under.“

Slowly, (Y/n) walks towards her boyfriend and the huge red man next to him. Mayfeld starts to push the Mandalorian to show them just a glimpse of his face. Burg takes a step closer to the couple but the moment he raises his hand to try lifting up Dins helmet, (Y/n) punches him right in the face. Then she presses a knife to his throat.

“If I were you, I would sit down and leave us alone, asshole“, she growls and presses the knife harder against his red throat, making it bleed a bit.

“Wow, Mando. If you ever have enough of her sometime, I would happily spend a night with this lady“, Mayfeld says with a grin on his lips but the smile fades the moment a knife bores into the wall next to his head.

“Shut up“, (Y/n) says and takes the child from his grasp. She has enough of these strange people.

“Dropping out of hyperspace now“, a mechanic voice says and the next moment the whole ship starts to shake. Din runs towards his family, holding (Y/n) and the child in her arms against his chest, so that they wont fall.

Then it‘s time for the group to leave for the prison. One by one they jump through the hole in the floor.

Din is the last and turns towards his girlfriend and child. He places a hand on (Y/n)s cheek and takes a deep breathe.

“I‘ll be back“, he says with a soft voice.

“I know. Otherwise, I would have to get you“, (Y/n) says with a smile on her lips even though she feels anything but happy right now. She doesn‘t trust those people.

“I don‘t trust this droid. Lock yourself somewhere, okay?“, the mandalorian warrior tells her and caresses the childs ear before jumping down the opening.

It‘s ten minutes later when (Y/n)s bad feeling gets worse and the com-link in her pocket start beeping. She can‘t hear the mandalorians voice but is sure that Din must be in some sort of danger. Hesitantly, she leaves her hideout and places the child on the cot, looking at him with worry in her (e/c) eyes.

“I will be back. I promise! And Din will be with me, okay?“, she tells the child and hopes that she isn‘t lying to him. The child cooes before the door slides closed and (Y/n) jumps through the hole in the floor inside the prison.

Fortunately, she finds the mandalorian warrior quiet easily and quickly through the com-link. He is currently fighting a droid while he is inside one of those cells. When the droid falls to the ground, (Y/n) takes his arm and opens the door. To her own surprise, Din wraps his arms around her and gives her the most heart-warming hug she ever received.

“What happened?“, she ask confused still in his arms and her face pressed against his beskar armor. The mandalorian places his hands on her shoulders and they part but are still close enough.

“They betrayed me. The prisoner we freed, was Xi‘ans brother. It was kind of my fault he got imprisoned“, Din explains and lets one of his hands wander to the females cheeks. His gloved thumb caresses her skin. Then he realizes they should go back to the ship, at least (Y/n) should go back to the ship, so he takes her hand and they walk through the corridors.

“I‘ll stay here until I got all four of them. But you have to go back to the crest. The child needs you and you have to kill that droid“, Din tells his girlfriend as they enter the control room. From here he can help (Y/n) get through the prison without meeting anyone. He pushes some buttons and then turns back to her.

“You have to go now, cyar‘ika“, the mandalorian man whispers and sees the distress in his loves eyes. She takes a step closer to him and leans her forehead against his helmet. It‘s their replacement for a real kiss. It‘s their way of telling that they love each other.

After a few seconds (Y/n) leaves the control room and runs through corridors and to their ship. She climbs the ladder and what awaits her in the ship, takes her breath away.

While the child is hiding behind a box, the droid is holding a blaster and obviously looking for him. Immediately, (Y/n) takes her own blaster and shoots at the droid. He falls to floor, fuming like a fire.

Unfortunately, the droid could shoot too and injured the females left side. She falls forward but can catch herself with one arm. Then she crawls to the next wall and leans against it while she presses one of her hands against the injury.

The child waddles towards his mother and raises his hand to help her with the force, but (Y/n) takes his hand in one of hers.

“No. Don‘t use your strange magic trick. I don‘t want you to sleep the next three days. If you want to help me, get me bacta-spray and a medi-pack. It‘s right over there“, the female whispers weakly and rests her head on the box next to her.

For a few minutes her whole body is filled with pain and she almost can‘t keep her eyes open but then she sees the child with everything she needs and finds new hope. Slowly, she uses the bacta-spray and feels how her injury hurts less. Then she presses a patch to her side and sighs.

Right in that moment where (Y/n) lays there almost lifeless with closed eyes because she is relieved she could treat her own wound, Din returns. He widens his eyes and rushes to his girlfriend, taking her face in his hands. (Y/n) blinks at him and smiles.

“Cyar‘ika“, he says relieved but still looks at the patch on her side. At least, both of her hands are bloody. But it looks like she already did what he would have done.

A Twi‘lek comes inside the crest but Din ignores him and carries his girlfriend in their shared room, laying her on the cot and covering her with a blanket. The child follows him and clambers the bed, watching his mother. (Y/n) falls asleep.

Not before Din comes back, the Twi‘lek long gone and the razor crest in the safety of hyper-space, does the female wake up. She feels much better now, the bacta-spray worked.

“How do you feel?“, Din asks and helps (Y/n) sit up in bed even though she could do this alone by now.

“Much better. What about you? Any injuries I need to worry about?“, (Y/n) asks with a smile on her lips and looks Din up and down but sees no blood on him.

“I already took care of that“, he tells her and places one of his hands at the back of her neck. (Y/n) can feel his skin which means he must have taken off his gloves.

“We should take a hot shower after this terrible day“, the female suggests. Din nods and takes her hand. Together they go inside their little bathroom. The Mandalorian helps his love out of her clothes and inside the shower. It‘s routine by now. (Y/n) will wait facing the wall until the lights go out and Din joins her in the shower without his helmet.

The warm water runs over their bodies. It‘s one of those rare moment in which they can be as close as any other couple. They can feel the others skin and feel their lips press soft kisses wherever they can reach.

Time in the hot shower is cut short because the crest hasn‘t enough hot water for longer sessions. That‘s why Din and (Y/n) honor these moments. Din helps his love wash her hair while (Y/n) starts massaging his sore muscles.

They can be a normal couple in there.

[fiction-fun]

Fanfiction request?? Power Rangers? If you're still doing it, :)

Sometime in the future of the time force, Jen reminisces her memories with the rangers, looking up a wall of memories, that has pictures of her and the rangers together. (It's based on a fanart i drew) the rest of the premise and story and everything is on you!!

And if you don't wanna do it, it's okay!! But thank you so much ofr listening!!!!

Hey! I am so so so sorry this took so long! I really hope this is something like what you wanted!

Fandom: Power Rangers Time Force

Pairings: past Jen/Alex, past Jen/Wes, otherwise none

Words: 1773

Warnings: None, well general Power Rangers drama

*With Jen*

Jen stared off into the distance as memories washed over her. She smiled faintly as a certain memory danced to the front of her mind.

It was the first time she had met Alex, and although even thinking his name still sent a tinge of pain through her, she still loved remembering the happy times. Like when he helped her, in the beginning. She had just joined the academy and she was a nervous wreck. But he saw in her a potential she didn’t see in herself, and helped guide her through the difficulty that was the academy and allowed her to grow.

Jen let out a small sigh, not sad exactly more wistful. Another memory flooded back to her and she shifted her grip on her helmet.

After a while Alex and her had started dating. Getting onto the same team had been like a dream, even with Alex as her superior officer. She worked hard until her and Alex could stand side by side in strength and reputation. Alex managed to capture the villain Ransik. They both, Alex and her, had attended his trial. And once he was convicted without the threat of Ransik Alex had proposed to Jen, and her accepting without hesitation.

Jen stopped for a second shaking her head, her hands shaking around her helmet even as she gripped it tighter. In her rapid hazy thoughts, she failed to hear the sound of the time portal closing.

Then one day Ransik escaped, they had been waylaid during transport and Ransik had escaped. The team had tried to chase him down but arrived in time to see Ransik shoot down Alex and jump into a time portal. Jen and the rest of the team, Lucas, Trip and Katie followed after him, on the orders of their fallen leader.

Jen let out a shaky breath and reached up to wipe her face, from the tears that had slowly been trailing down.

Meeting Wes had only set off anger in her. The pain of loosing Alex so recently and then having to go to their past and finding someone who looked exactly like her lost love. It unsettled her and upset her.

She took a deep breath, dwelling on the thoughts of how her…friendship…relationship…with Wes started, the journey and path made it an experience she’d never forget. Alex reappearing in the middle of everything didn’t exactly help the matter. Her brain started playing out another memory for her.

Alex appeared in front of them and immediately started reprimanding them for ‘Not following the rules by the book.’ she found herself questioning, did she still love Alex as much as she had? He wasn’t the same person she had fallen for, the carefree, kind and gentle man she had fallen for in the academy had been changed into a bitter and stern man. To a point shed almost call him cruel in his words and actions. But Wes who had shown them all nothing but kindness even if she hadn’t always been the nicest. Alex had immediately taken Wes’s Chrono-morpher back angrily telling him he wasn’t needed, and with his father injured like he was Wes had just left. Dragontron had been a new battle and they knew they were overwhelmed especially with Lucas rebelling against Alex’s harsher leadership. This in turn had led to Katie and Trip to confront Alex and force him to hand over the Chrono-morpher. Wes with the help of Trip, Katie, Lucas, and herself immediately went into battle against him and with Wes working with them it made the battle seem…almost to easy.

She smiled softly as more memories washed over her playing almost like a collage of images in front of her eyes. One memory swam forward and she felt the fear grip her stomach as if it had just happened.

Her fists slammed against the metal and glass of the ship as it took off. Trip was besides her as Lucas and Katie tried to get the ship to stop. Nothing they did seemed to matter. Ransik had attacked, his final battle, and to protect them Wes had locked them in their ship and forced them back to the future. Arriving in their time, the year 3000, they found Alex and all of them demanded that he send them back, that they had to go back to help Wes and Eric. Alex kept denying sending them back, even telling them that Wes ultimately dies in this battle. But that just makes them want to go back even more, and with the time rift over Silver Hills it’d be easy for them to get back. Jen finally makes the last move that ultimately sways Alex to send them back, she gives back his ring. This was the final proof that they’d do anything for their new friends and Alex told them to take Time Force MegaZord, as it was likely the only thing to be able to make the trip.

Jen gave a sigh as the rest of that memory played out not hearing the portal opening behind her.

They got back to the past in time to help Wes and Eric but only barely. Jen managed to lure Ransik away from her injured team, to a warehouse where Ransik immediately attacked who he thought was Jen, only for it to be Nadira. Realized who he had just hot Ransik immediately surrendered, not willing to risk injuring his daughter again. Jen in stunned silence arrested him, still looking at were Nadira was crouching protecting what she could barely make out to be a small baby. After that, things had to move fast, she finally admitted to Wes that she loves him and he returned it! But Jen and the other Time Force Rangers had to return to the future to place Ransik in prison. Jen and Wes shared one kiss they’re first but not last. Jen gave him her Time Force badge before leaving and watched him until they entered the time vortex to go back to their own time.

Jen shook her head; she had been in contact with Wes since then. Not often but she had, she really wished he could be there now. She sighed and shook her head again that wouldn’t be possible not after what happened when she left after hunting down the mut-orgs with the Wild Force Rangers.

She smiled at Wes as he showed up, obviously excited about seeing her. That is until she had told him she had already been there for two weeks. The. He was upset because she hadn’t told him that she was back in his time. He had gripped for a while before finally he just smiled and hugged her; they spent that night cuddled together on the animarium. The next morning, they split up into teams to go find the mut-orgs. After stopping the reaction in the reactor and taking down the remaining mut-orgs, Jen and Alyssa having taken out one already, they all returned to the floating island in the sky for a picnic. The next evening when Trip, Lucas, Katie, Ransik, Nadira and her had to return to the future Wes pulled her aside. He told she meant the world to him, but that he couldn’t handle the long distance. It was to much for him, she understood it would be too much for anyone. They parted nicely but it still stung to think about for her.

She smiled sadly as the memories washing over her started to slow down a bit.

Trip had ended up going back to his own home planet after the mut-org mission, but he kept in touch with his friends and teammates. So, when he got word that the Time Force powers and Morphers were going to be switched out for better powered ones, he knew Jen being an instructor and most attached to her current Morpher would be the one most affected. The others still did cases but less so then Jen. He immediately grabbed Circuit and found a ship that would take him back to earth, reaching where Jen was, he saw her totally out of it. He stood next to her watching the emotions play over her face he could almost tell each memory that she was reliving. He made his decision to go get the others, when he saw a tear trail slowly down her face. In a second, he had a time portal open and had headed to Lucas, the one closest to them in the time stream.

*With Trip ~ back to the top*

Getting to him hadn’t been easy, but convincing him to come get Katie Wes and Eric with him had been easy. Back into the time stream for Katie, they got her and Wes and Eric easily, although the last two did have to make some arrangements before leaving.

*with everyone*

The five of them reappeared behind Jen as she seemed to shake herself out of her memories.

“Hey Jen!” Trip called softly.

His sudden voice surprised her and made her jump and turn around, her eyes going wide as she took in the whole team.

“Hey, what are you all doing here?” Jen asked still a bit stunned to see them there.

“Well, someone.” Lucas paused for a second to point at Trip. “heard about the power refit and came to see you before coming to get us. Said something about you ‘needing friends for support’ although he could have chosen a better time to come get me. The middle of enemy territory not the best time.” Lucas said a small smirk.

Trip rubbed the back of his neck but Katie interrupted him before he could speak.

“At least he didn’t catch you in a…hmm…personal situation.” Katie said good naturedly with a gentle smile.

Trips face darkened scarlet and even Lucas turned a light red.

“Honestly he interrupted a meeting I was happy to leave” Wes said with an easy-going smile.

“Speak for yourself! I was having fun running the newbies through training.” Eric said with a smile of his own.

Jen couldn’t help but laugh as she walked the few steps over to her team, no her friends. They all shared hugs and told stories. Jen knew even with things changing, some things never would. She smiled softly feeling Wes’s arm land on her shoulders. They might not have ended up together for obvious reasons, but she knew he’d always be in her corner, and she in his. The team had become friends and from friendship had born a family that nothing, not even something so minor as 1000 years could break apart.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

The Crying: Savvie on Trial

CW: Whumper POV, intimate whumper, sadistic whumper, video of whumpee's child, intense child therapy recording, referenced shock collar and past drugging, emotional/physical abuse, trauma response, child re-enacting trauma

Note: CW for whumper’s justifications for their abuse in internal monologue

@comfy-whumpee‘s Jax Gallagher finally escapes Savannah Marcoset’s obsession with him, with two children in tow and nearly a decade of abuse and trauma written in his mind and on his skin.

Determined to ensure his children will be protected from the Marcoset family’s potential revenge, Jax goes to court one more time - taking down Savvie, her uncle Isaac, and most of his children in the process. 

Savvie sees the second trial, with its ironclad evidence against her, as Jax’s betrayal of her love for him. When a video of their daughter is shown in court, Savvie and Jax are both surprised - and react in very different ways.

While Savvie does not interact with her children, her thought process is... intense. And so is a brief video depicted in the piece.

---

Even Savvie understands she can't charm her way out of this one.

It was one thing to be in her early twenties and beautiful, full of innocent misunderstandings, to tell anyone and everyone that she hadn't known he wasn't above-board (she had), she had thought she was doing a good thing letting him speak to his father (now that was a mistake), he was her best friend and her rock in the hard days after her parents' loss and she simply couldn't remember life without him (that was never a lie). 

The earnest sincerity in her tone as she explained to her prison therapist how hard she was working at understanding the consequences and working to improve herself had simply been more believable then than it could ever be now. 

You can’t very well have the love of your life abducted twice without it becoming a very difficult decision to defend.

This time, she understands that batting her eyelashes can't make her seem like simply another victim of all these terrible cruelties of the world. She is not going to leave the walls of prison once she walks inside. Not this time.

 After all, the second time, she had had her uncle abduct him out of his own father’s apartment and steal his passport and every other form of ID he might have.

Isaac had drugged him, the Marcoset family employees had stolen his passport and identification, kept him slurred, floppy and hardly conscious on a private plane ride that took just a little less than eight hours, drugged again, and driven to her house to wake up tied to a chair in her practice room, right back where he belonged.

He probably didn’t even enjoy the luxury of the plane. It occurs to Savvie now that she never once asked him if he remembered any of the time he’d spent on the plane with Isaac, if he remembered anything between the men who grabbed him and Savvie bringing her violin up to welcome him home.

You can hardly blame that whole re-abduction thing on being young and foolish, and you definitely can't blame it on the indiscretions of youth when you are thirty years old.

Thirty-seven.

She dismisses the thought.

She is clearly only thirty. She doesn't look a day older, and Jax looks… younger, she thinks, mildly surprised at the realization. Younger, with more weight on him and a set to his jaw that she hasn't seen since… since the first day of his return, when he spit insults at her before she drugged him again, and he was so lax, so pliant, and she had known he would marry her one day from that first moment he curled back up and fell asleep with her hands on him. She just hadn't told him that, at first. 

No one here understands how thoroughly Jax belongs to her, not even him, not anymore. He no longer wears his wedding ring, though she thinks there's still a hint of a tan line there. Maybe not. Might just be a scar. 

He's changed his pretty platinum piercings out for duller metal, plus added back the ones she'd taken out of him herself. They're defiant, those bits of rebellion she never allowed him put back in place. She pictures when she took them out, the way he kept his eyes down for it, swaying a little from what she'd given him in his water. Felt a thrill run up her spine at the memory, his soft slurred voice murmuring Yes, Miss Savvie, one of her favorite sounds in the world. 

He looked better the other way. Her way.

All his scars are definitely still hers, though. He can't forget her. He can wear new rings in his ears and eyebrow and lip and he can dress in grubby low-class clothing that isn't even tailored, but every single scar is a scar she has memorized, and he can’t erase them. They all belong to her, and he knows it, and he knows his body is hers and has been and will always be. 

The scars around his neck - her scars, the little circular spots she wants to trace with her fingernails over and over until he begs her to stop, until she forces him to hold his breath, to get that faraway look in his eyes, until he leans in for a carefully cultivated kiss - give too much away. He can't hide them all. 

The ones on his hands, too, are hers, although those are mostly accidental. There are some on his back, subtle, hidden by his button-up shirt and suit jacket where he sits, so close to her and impossibly far away. 

The back, she did on purpose, dragging nails through his skin until blood welled up, streaks of red that stained her manicured nails, sitting on his lower back leaning over him, her hair a waterfall that brushed his skin. She can remember clearly the way he fought to stay still for her, remembers the pain she gave him with his daughter soft and sweet and so very new in a bassinet only a few feet away, how he'd bled from his palms and stained her sheets in his effort to keep himself quiet enough not to wake the baby.

She's never going to forget that. 

Unfortunately... neither will the jury. 

He's banking on it, she thinks, throwing everything out there that he might have kept hidden otherwise. Everything she thought he wouldn't want his father to know, or to be televised… he gets up on the stand, or he sits next to his lawyer, and he gives away all of it. 

He tells them about the wedding, the judge who knew her family and married them with her uncle Isaac and his family as witnesses and guests. He describes, detached from what clearly horrifies the jury, how during his worst injuries, she made the simple task of giving him the pain medication he needed into a game of how good he could be to earn it. He even tells them, with a strange sort of tone in his voice, about the day she told him she was pregnant with Isabella. 

On the stand, he says the day she had him open the box to find the custom cake with CONGRATULATIONS, DADDY written in frosting was the worst day of them all.

And yet… and yet, after sitting up there telling the jury, and the witnesses in the courtroom, and the judge how unhappy he was… still, he won’t let her anywhere near her son and daughter, not even to say goodbye. 

He bleeds out all his pain, just to keep her from seeing her own children. Just to keep her from having access to what belongs to her. 

Her daughter, her son… him.

Her husband, the love of her life, handing every scar and welt and night they spent together over in his bid to keep her from ever touching him again. It’s cruelty, is what it is. She had never known how cruel he was until he ran away from her. 

He had stared at something far away while he related the story of her uncle dislocating his shoulder and breaking his arm (which, that had been a little much, but she’d made sure Isaac never did it again!), his weeks of pure perfect helpless dependence on her. 

She had watched him speak, remembering the way he leaned forward those days when she made sure that dinner was soup, taking each bite from the spoon she held in her hand. The thrill of leaving him just a little bit hungry, that much more willing to be sweet the next morning.

He belongs to her, and he is going to take everything away. 

His scars, the story written on his body of how she loves him, will be her ruin, this time. Well, that, and the existence of the children he has already turned against her. The children she has already been court-ordered never to see or speak to again. She won't even legally be their mother anymore, he and his devious fucking lawyer are even scheming to take her rights as their mother away. Those children are hers, and how dare he take them, when they were hers first.

He didn't even want them, when they were born - and now he acts like he is the only parent they have. 

The worst part, though...

He won't look at her. It's fucking infuriating.

She tries to catch his eye, now and then, and fails. She looks at him with her head tilted to make her hair fall against her cheekbone when he enters the courtroom with his hair all chopped off again. 

He ignores her. 

She shifts in her elegant, tailored dress - no low neckline or sheer fabric, all sobriety and seriousness to show she will be a model defendant. She wears a silver locket she bought years ago, based on an old Victorian design - a lock of his hair is inside it, curled just so. 

He still doesn’t look, even though he knows his hair is in the locket, she showed him when she put it there. She’d cut it while he was sleeping, and showed him when he woke, to see his face go still, his eyes raise to her face only with effort. If she’s honest... she wanted that hesitation, that uncertainty.

In a deep ocean blue, her pale skin and bright, wide blue eyes are set against her dark brown hair, pulled carefully back each day. She looks stylish, and still modest.

She looks innocent.

 It just... doesn’t matter anymore how she looks. The problem is that she isn’t innocent, and no amount of cultivating an image can overcome the evidence against her. But at least she’s trying. 

Now, Jax… She's pretty sure he wore that same gray suit to her last trial. It had hung on him before, too big for how underweight he was. She had liked the way it sharpened his cheekbones, then. Yes… it's definitely the same suit.

She would remember, of course - she had spent the whole trial, all those years ago, staring at him, wondering if she would ever see him again. He'd mostly looked at the floor, then, but she had gotten his eyes on hers a time or two, seen him stare after her as she was led from the courtroom. She had spent the time mourning his loss, before he ever truly left, and then coming to the certainty that she would never allow him to be taken away from her, not forever. No, they were made for each other, meant to be together forever. She had been convinced his father had tricked in, told him lies about her. 

Even after she knew, deep down, that he wanted to stay gone, she knew just as firmly she would never allow that.

Planning to bring him home again, before he ever stepped foot on the plane that carried him across the ocean away from her, had filled all her days and nights. It had made prison seem so short, just a pause before she could bring him home. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

If he would only look at her... 

She tries to catch his eye, but he never looks at her once. It rankles, makes her teeth itch, to see him stare straight ahead, look at the judge or his lawyer, and never at her. He's doing it on purpose - he must be. He's messing with her. That son of a bitch is messing with her, while he takes away her marriage, her money, her house, her entire life, her children. 

She still loves him, even though he keeps his eyes turned away. She still loves him so much, more than he could ever deserve. She would tell him that, if she could, if they’d just give her a chance. She’ll find a way, somehow. She’ll find a way to remind him that she is never, ever going to let him just walk away. Break his legs, maybe.

The judge says something, and she blinks.

She wasn't paying attention, too busy watching Jax not watch her, and now there is a TV on a stand being wheeled in front of them all. Savvie gives a surreptitious glance around the courtroom, but no one else looks surprised. The jury looks bored, mostly, maybe. Or like they hate her.

It's not as easy to win over the jury now. She’s a woman whose children have been stolen by their vindictive, cruel father, who with his soft sad voice calls himself a captive during his testimony, stammering through the stories that explain all his scars. She’s no longer a violin prodigy in mourning, a young ingenue who just didn't understand what she'd done wrong. 

Or who pretended not to, at least. 

There were parts she genuinely hadn’t understood, maybe, although she is no longer young enough to want to lie to herself completely. He was never just her best friend, her confidant, the thing she loved most in the world. He was always going to be more than that.

God, he looks good today. Jax shifts in his seat, slight creak of the wood, whispers something to his lawyer. She just sees his eyes, in her general direction but not on her, as he moves. The lawyer whispers back, puts a hand on his shoulder. 

He might look confused, as he and the lawyer speak. No, not confused. Troubled? She knows just how to smooth the crease from between his eyebrows, how to lay her hand on his forehead until he gives her a slight soft smile, turns his face to nuzzle against her palm. She knows how to leverage his fear enough to get what she wants from him, again and again and again. The lawyer doesn’t do that.

Jax just speaks, even and strong. 

The lawyer doesn’t know what he sounds like when he trembles, has never slid the blindfold over his eyes with a knife in the room, not planning to use it, just wanting him to think she will. 

No one will ever, ever, know him the way she does.

Savvie straightens her posture, moves just enough to make her locket glint in the light, hoping it will catch him enough to raise his eyes to hers. 

Look at me. Look at me, sweetie. You don't get to stay gone for good, I don't care what you did, look at me. I still love you. Fucking look at me, Jax. Just one look. 

He keeps his eyes slightly down as he shifts away and back to look towards the TV, but he's tense. She knows every inch of the muscles under that old gray suit, how they move under his skin. No one, no one, knows that body as well as she does. She made the scar that runs soft as a kiss over a shoulder blade, and she knows he’s nervous about something now. Unhappiness runs under her skin like an electric charge as she understands that what he’s nervous about isn’t her.

She follows his gaze to the rolled-in television, one of the big heavy ones that must be ten years out of date, and she frowns, folding her hands in her lap, as Jax’s lawyer stands and speaks briefly to the judge, and then moves to the TV with something in his hands. 

“What is this?” She whispers to her own lawyer, one of her hands sliding up to run over the flowers etched in tiny relief into the surface of the locket. 

Her lawyer shakes his head, either he doesn’t know or he won’t explain. He’s doing what he can, she thinks, but of course she was never going to be acquitted. The scars she loves are evidence against her, the children are evidence all their own - he didn’t even want them, she grumbles within herself again. She told Bella that, over and over again, that her father didn’t even want her to be born, that Jax had struggled to even feign happiness, and still the little girl was ripped out of her hands just so he could get his revenge on her. James was just an infant, he wasn’t old enough - but Bella could have come running back in, before Jax walked away. 

Bella could have warned her that her father was going to steal their passports and her money and run out of the hotel, get on trains going different directions to throw her off, and finally head back to his fucking father, who she should have killed years ago when she had the chance.

Isabella should have warned her. It’s her fault, really, all of this. It’s her daughter’s fault that she will never see the outside of a prison again.

How many times did she tell her daughter how much her father must hate her for existing? And still… still, the little girl chose him. Savvie’s fingers close over the locket until the point at the bottom of the heart presses painfully into her skin. Her children, her daughter, her son, her husband. Taken from her, and she’s the villain here? 

How dare he.

The TV lights up flat blue until the lawyer gets the recording to start playing, and Savvie blinks as it opens on a recorded scene, showcasing a large room with deep green carpet standing in for ‘grass’, the walls painted with a nonstop mural of rolling hills, flowers, trees, blue sky. Daisies dot the wall, flowers made by tiny handprints in bright colors, each fingerprint a petal, with a yellow circle in the center and a green stem. She can see a yellow sun painted in one corner. Shelves line the painted walls, with toys and big blocky board books, stuffed animals spill out of a basket in the corner. There are blocks, faded with time and use of many little hands.

At a small table painted with dancing animals, sitting in a chair, is Savvie’s daughter Isabella.

She sits up, hearing her own chair creak, and glances sidelong to see Jax suddenly stiffen, eyes widening just the smallest bit. He’s surprised, too, she thinks, and then her eyes go to the jury, trying to read them. The twelve of them - eight women and four men - don’t look at her or Jax. Only the television.

This isn’t a new recording - Bella is so young, with her gorgeous brown hair so like her mother’s spilling in an overwhelming heap around her. This must be from six months or less after Jax stole them in the first place. Savvie fiddles with the locket, nervous in a way she can’t explain. Her little girl isn’t even wearing a dress, but instead swings her little feet in sneakers, wearing jeans and a Paw Patrol t-shirt, humming to herself.

On the table sits a dollhouse, one of those elaborate plastic affairs. Savvie can see a small claw-foot bathtub, a big four-poster bed, an overstuffed armchair. All of it faded, patched, or repaired as small hands have broken or torn or played rough.

Bella, though, sits quietly, and she is gentle with the dolls as she moves them through the house. She has in one hand a doll wearing a blouse and skirt and a brown ponytail, and in the other a doll in a suit with a tie. 

“What are we pretending, Izzy?” A man’s voice asks, and he comes into view, settling right down next to her. Savvie’s lip curls. Izzy? What an awful nickname for her beautiful delicate pretty little girl. Who would see such a lovely little thing, and hear as gorgeous a name as Isabella, and choose to call her Izzy?

“Mom and Dad,” The little girl answers, faint in the way of a distracted child. “I’m playing Mom and Dad.”

Savvie hasn’t heard her daughter’s voice in… in so long, now. She feels a twist of envy that the sound of that high piping voice has been taken from her, too. Jax is taking everything from her, piece by piece. She glances at him - his gaze is fixed on the television screen, mouth slightly open. Her husband, handsome if rumpled and ruined by changing his hair and his appearance, doesn’t take his eyes off his daughter. 

He won’t look at her, no, his wife and the only thing that should matter, but he’ll fucking stare at a recording of his child.

Not her husband anymore, or so he says, and technically he never legally was, but that’s not really important. They’re married for life. It doesn’t matter what Jax thinks. It doesn’t matter what he wants. It doesn’t matter that he took her children and he’s throwing himself in front of them like he thinks Savvie is a moving bus, all to get her locked away. It doesn’t matter.

He still belongs to her.

He does.

He does.

“‘Don’t look at her,’” The little girl says in a voice she deepens a little, looming the Mom doll over the Dad one. “‘Look at me.’”

“Is the Mommy doll saying that to the Daddy doll?” The man in the recording keeps his voice even, and curious. Jax, to her right, shifts in his seat and leans slightly forward. His hands are folded in his lap, closed into fists. 

“Yes,” Bella answers, glancing briefly at the man, then going back to her game. “She doesn’t like when the Dad looks at the little girl too much.”

“And why doesn’t she like that?”

“Because everyone is supposed to always look at the Mom.” Bella sets the female doll down briefly and picks up a smaller one, a little girl with pigtails and a pink dress. “The little girl scraped her leg and it is bloody,” She informs the man, very seriously. “She didn’t mean to make her dad look at her.” She has big brown eyes, and Savvie swallows, thinking now she understands why this video is being shown to the court. She remembers this - she doesn’t remember a lot of what Jax would complain to her about, what he kept calling abuse until she shocked him often and severely enough to make him stop, but she… remembers this. 

“How did she scrape her leg, Izzy?”

Savvie swallows against a burst of rage. Don’t you dare say it, Bella, don’t you fucking dare.

“Mommy shoved her,” Bella answers, and the courtroom around Savvie is so silent she can hear her own pulse, blood rushing in her ears. “Because she was crying.” Her tiny voice is matter-of-fact, it doesn’t shake with real tears or upset. She simply relates a thing that happened, play-acting it out in her game as if it were the most normal thing in the world. 

“‘Don’t hurt her,’” Bella says in a low voice, shaking the male doll over the female one. “The Dad says that. He is telling the Mom that the little girl didn’t mean to cry. The little girl says that she will be good and stop crying now, but the Mom doesn’t believe her.”

“Why was the little girl crying?” The man’s voice is so soft and kind. Savvie feels a sudden urge to find him in whatever hellhole office in Britain he works out of and strangle him to death with her bare hands.  

“The Mom told her she is a bad girl,” Bella replies, and droops a little, now.

“Why would she say that?”

“Because she is,” Bella says, softer than ever. At his table, next to his lawyer, Jax makes a sound. It’s not a word, it’s not understandable. It’s hardly audible - Savvie thinks even the jury likely didn’t hear it. But she did, and she looks subtly over at him to see his face is pale and his hazel-brown eyes are oddly glittery under the fluorescent lights. “She isn’t very good at being a little girl, she’s so bad. She made noises when the mom didn’t want her to.”

“Izzy-”

“‘Don’t say that,’” Bella makes the dad doll say, shaking him in the air, angry, picking up the mom doll to face off with him, their two plastic carved faces with fake smiles inches apart. “‘Don’t say that, Savvie. She is a good little girl and you are mean to her, you are being a mean mommy.’”

Savvie closes her eyes. Fuck. 

“‘How dare you,’” The mom doll says, and Savvie can’t quite force herself to miss how perfectly her daughter can echo her anger, how her voice rises with it. “‘She is mine and I will say whatever I want! She is mine mine mine.’”

Well… she is.

“‘Yes, Savvie,’” The dad doll says, Bella’s little-girl voice feigning depth, and from the corner of her eye she sees Jax shudder, the slightest movement of his body, barely perceptible. “‘But you can’t talk mean to little girls and boys.’”

“‘I am the mom and I can do whatever I want.’” Bella, expression deeply serious, sets the mom doll down and starts fiddling with the dad doll’s legs. She bites down on her lower lip as she works, finally figuring it out and Savvie feels her stomach drop as Bella sets the dad doll up - kneeling on the floor.

“What happens now, Izzy? What are you doing?”

Bella looks up at the doctor, and the grainy video of the recording blurs and lessens the impact, Savvie hopes. She doesn’t dare look at the jury now. Instead, she tries to think of what she’ll say - it’s a lie, Bella was coached, Jax and the lawyer and this Dr. Marty are all teaching Bella to tell lies, he hates her so much he’s poisoning her babies against her. Something, she’ll say something-

“‘Get on your knees for discipline,’” Bella says, in her mom-voice. 

Jax, at his table, closes his eyes and leans forward, one hand over his mouth. His shoulders shake, once, and it reminds her of every time she set off his collar, but much too quick for that. She can’t stop watching him - she shouldn’t, it doesn’t look good when a video like this is playing, but she can’t… stop. He looks so fucking good.

There’s a red streak, a flush, in his cheekbone but otherwise his face is nearly white, the piercings standing out even more than before. His hand grips over his mouth, and she thinks about every time she has pressed her own hand there, with a smile, to mute his objections. His eyes open to look back at the screen, not like he wants to but like he can’t stop himself, like he’s drawn to watch against his will.

“How often does that happen?” The man asks, in his casually neutral voice, and Savvie would put a bullet between his eyes if she could. How dare he, this is leading. At the same time, she feels a sudden swell of rage towards the little girl being led. Bella knew how to keep secrets before Jax left, did she forget so soon? He must have told her-... but no, no, he’s as surprised to see this video as Savvie is. No, this little game is entirely Bella’s fault. Savvie takes in a breath, lets the anger sweep through her, loathes her own child, so thoroughly turned against her now. 

She can lay all of this at the feet of a four-year-old girl. Well, not four any longer. But four when this happened. Or five. When is Bella’s birthday?

How old is she, now? 

Bella only shrugs at the question, lost in her game now. She has the mom doll tell the dad doll to stay quiet - “‘You’ll upset her, honey, you know better than to say no to me’” - and then acts out the dad doll shaking from the shocks, and finally makes him scream, the sound deafening loud in the silent courtroom.

She does a pretty good impression of the way Jax sounds when he’s screaming, actually. If the jury didn’t hate Savvie before, they definitely do now.

The man in the video looks surprised and sits back a little, then asks, almost tentatively, “And what does the little girl do?"

Bella sets the dolls down and picks the little girl one up, frowning at her. “She watches,” She says, voice low and soft. 

“Why does the little girl watch?”

“Because it’s her fault.” Bella’s voice trembles. “If she looks away, her mom will make it worse. She can’t-... she can’t help.” She looks at the doctor, something imploring in big brown eyes and her rounded small-child face. “She tries and tries and she can’t keep her dad safe.”

Damn straight it’s your fault. Savvie fights to keep her irritation and annoyance from showing on her face, tries to look sympathetic, maybe even worried. She’s usually good at this, but at the moment, she’s so angry at Bella for repeating this on a video, for giving Jax another tool to hurt her with, that she isn’t quite sure if she pulls off a sad expression at all.

“It’s not a little girl’s job to keep her daddy safe, Izzy,” The man says, softly, soothing. Reassuring. 

“It is her job,” Bella says, and shakes her head, looking at the little girl in her hand. “But she’s not good enough at it. She’s too little, she can’t do anything. I hate her!” She throws the doll across the room in a sudden burst of anger - it flies offscreen, but the clatter of it hitting something is audible - then claps her hands over her mouth, staring wide-eyed in horror. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry. I’m not angry I’m sorry, I know better, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry-”

The man speaks to her, trying to interrupt the flow of apologies, It’s all right, Izzy, nothing is broken, you are allowed to feel angry, you are allowed to be angry about this, hoping to hold back the waterfall of her sudden fear. The little girl turns her face away from him, pulls her hands down and rubs them compulsively, nervously along the seams of her leggings. She shakes her head at something the man says and looks down at the floor, the green-grass carpet, her own brightly colored tennis shoes. 

Her hands close into fists, as tightly as they can, a perfect echo of her father.

Jax’s shoulders shake again, and this time Savvie recognizes the sound, it sings deep down into her soul. It’s a sob, desperately muffled. He’s trying to hide it, but he can’t hide, not from her. She knows all his sounds of pain by heart. He says something to his lawyer, less whispered, less controlled. 

She thinks she hears a please, and hates him for giving that word to anyone but her.

The video cuts off, and Jax’s lawyer calls for a recess. Savvie rolls her eyes when the judge grants it - theater, that’s all this is, make Jax look all bothered by a stupid video, so he’s the sad scared little man and she’s the big bad witch. It’s so transparent, really. He does a good job acting, though, his face is reddened and she can see the faintest glimmer of a tear track as his hated awful father stands, from his own spot in the first row, to take him by the arm. Jax leans, just barely, away from him and he never looks up as he’s led down the aisle and out. They’re talking to each other, in voices too low for her to overhear, except to hear Jax’s crack a little.

Oh. Maybe he’s not entirely acting.

Savvie stands as the courtroom erupts into whispers, ignoring the weight of every eye on her and her lawyer’s attempts to get her to sit back down, looking after the two of them, and she wonders what about the video upset him so much.

Maybe it was just the crying.

----

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