#significant eye trauma mention

[emmcfrxst]

I’m wondering how Laura would react if reader and OldMan!Logan got into a fight? Maybe they tried to keep it away from her but unfortunately the girls too much like her father and ends up hearing most of it.

Ugh and imagine if she saw Logan storming off not realizing that he left you in tears…

(I’m feeling extremely angsty tonight.)

TW: MENTIONS OF DEATH, TRAUMA, ILLNESS, UNHEALTHY COPING MECHANISMS, SUICIDAL IDEATIONS & GOD (I guess????) Set before Logan gets, as nonnie put it, chest-fucked, so during the period of time everyone’s trying to escape the fucking Reavers while figuring shit out. It got too long so it’s under the cut

You don’t argue that often with Logan— your relationship is solid and although communication was rocky at first, he’s made significant progress and is able to hold a serious conversation without immediately jumping back into his defense mechanisms (misguided anger, deflection and ultimately fleeing were his initial reactions when you tried establishing proper communication about feelings in the beginning). His progress, however, is rendered completely useless when the conversation is about his rapidly declining health; he’s immediately on the defensive, body going rigid and eyes going dark, jaw clenched so hard you’re afraid he might shatter it— he hates thinking about his newfound mortality, not necessarily because he’s afraid of death (it’s actually quite the opposite, he seeks death in a way, longing for the pain and the nightmares to just stop once and for all) but because he knows that dying means leaving you on your own and that’s something he can’t bear to think about— the guilt he feels at the thought of leaving you is immeasurable; it overwhelms him entirely because he knows that losing him would break you and it makes him feel physically ill to think about the consequences. So in true Logan fashion, he blows you off whenever you bring up your concerns, stating that he’s fine, and the anger he feels at himself and his body for failing him ends up being taken out on you through biting words he regrets as soon as they slip from his tongue.

“I’m the one who’s fuckin’ dying, for Christ’s sake, quit your fuckin’ yapping.” It’s a phrase he regrets uttering for multiple reasons: he hates being rude to you in any way, shape or form because you’re the last person who deserves to be subjected to his emotional constipation— you’ve taken all of his broken parts into your hands and pieced them back together with your unconditional love and unwavering patience, you’ve made him feel loved, you’ve made him feel alive, and most importantly, you’ve shown him that he doesn’t have to feel guilty or bitter about his existence. You’ve done so much for him throughout the years and he fucking hates himself for letting his emotions get the better of him like that. The other thing that bothers him deeply about his reaction is the verbal acknowledgment of his condition; it’s something that he somehow believes can be ignored, as if denying it could make it any less real. Acknowledging that he’s dying makes bile rise up his throat— it’s a bitter feeling, really, because he used to wish for death everyday before he met you, heart and mind torn to shreds from years of horrific abuse and unwavering violence; he even prayed to whatever God was out there, despite not being a believer, to just let him go, to free him of the chains of trauma that bound his psyche. His prayers were left unanswered, Logan only accumulating more trauma as the years went by— he can’t count how many times he’s cursed God for making him go through what he’s gone through, needing someone to blame and wishing for a way to end it all. Ironically, Logan’s immortality only seems to waver once he starts treasuring life; it feels like a stab in the back, a cruel joke orchestrated by God who finally decided to answer his prayers now that he wishes he could take them back. The feeling of betrayal only seems to further fuel Logan’s anger towards his illness, which, combined with the guilt he feels at the thought of leaving you alone, causes him to act out whenever you bring up the subject. You take offense in the words thrown at you, hurt by the reminder of his impending death and the way he navigates it, arguing back that you do this because you care about him, for fuck’s sake. Unfortunately, that only seems to make things worse, upsetting Logan further and bringing back years’ worth of feeling unworthy of your affections.

“That’s your fuckin’ problem bub. I told ya you shouldn’t waste your time with a man like me.” he physically winces as he utters those words, wishing he could unsee the way it makes your entire face crumble with despair— it’s a slap in the face, really, to be brought back to square one and have him reject you in this way. Logan flees before either of you can say anything else, slamming the front door behind him and walking in no particular direction until he feels like he can finally breathe again, leaving you in tears at home. Laura, although playing in her makeshift room at the time, hears the whole exchange as clear as day due to her enhanced senses, her fists clenching with rage when her ears pick up the sound of your stifled sobs. You feel her before you even hear her, your body tensing as a pair of small, skinny arms wrap around your middle, a head resting along your spine. After the initial alarm of feeling someone touching you, you can’t help but let out a watery laugh at just how easy it seemed for her to surprise you, turning around in Laura’s arms so you can look down at her. A frown is etched onto her features, lips puckered into an angry pout as she hugs you tighter, insulting Logan in spanish under her breath. It makes you laugh again, this time softly, your hand smoothing out her hair as you sniffle.

“I’m okay, Laura. I’m okay.” she glares up at you, unconvinced, giving you another squeeze and reluctantly allowing her features to relax when you gently run a fingertip across the furrow of her brows— despite not being together for long, you find that you’re able to soothe Laura quite easily; there is a connection between the two of you like you’ve never felt before, a bond that you feel like you were always destined to have. Your heart warms at the obvious way the child seems to care for you, wanting nothing more than to make all of her worries disappear.

“He made you cry.” her voice is so quiet that you almost miss it, a soft, indignant noise leaving her at the sight of your tear-stained cheeks. You sniffle again, free hand moving up to wipe at your eyes, the other caressing her hair lovingly.

“I know.” you don’t say that it’s okay because it’s not— Logan crossed a line that you thought had been worn down ages ago, and you’ll be damned before you ever teach Laura that hurtful words can be brushed aside so easily without an apology. It’s for her as much as for you; you’re aware that you deserve respect even when Logan is upset, and you’re not about to stomp down on your self-worth to coddle him when he’s done something wrong. He’ll apologize, you’re sure of it, but until that happens, you’re not going to pretend that his reaction was acceptable. It’s something you categorically refuse to do, and it’s one of the many reasons Logan fell in love with you in the first place. You know your worth.

“I’ll be okay soon.” you tell her honestly, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to the top of her head. She studies you for a moment longer before nodding her head, allowing you to lead her onto the couch where she curls up next to you.

You’re asleep by the time Logan starts walking back towards the house but Laura hears the crunching of sand and gravel under his shoes, quietly untangling herself from you and moving to the side of the door, frown back on her features. Logan barely has the time to pass the threshold before she’s on him, jumping onto his back like a feral animal and punching his shoulders repeatedly, growling when he grabs her and holds her still, visibly confused and irritated by her behavior.

“Don’t even think about it.” he warns her when she makes to bite the hand that holds her down, frowning down at her just as hard she does up to him. She struggles in his hold, trying to hit him again, making him grunt in pain.

“You made her cry, coño.” the words make Logan freeze in his tracks, eyes falling on your sleeping form on the couch, noting the way your eyes look reddened and the tear tracks on your cheeks. Nausea immediately strikes him like lightning, the expression on his face seeming to satisfy Laura as she stops struggling, frown still evident on her face. She sits up and watches silently once he lets her go, staying nearby to see the situation unfold.

You awake to a calloused hand gently running over the plane of your cheekbone, eyes opening to meet Logan’s remorseful ones. He’s sitting on the ground next to the couch, looming over you in a way that makes you feel safe like no one else ever could.

“Hey.” his voice is hoarse but soft, thumb swiping back and forth over your skin in a silent act of comfort. It makes you smile despite your grogginess, and you feel more than you hear Logan releasing a soft, relieved inhale through his nose.

“Hey.” you answer him just as softly, leaning into his touch and closing your eyes again, content to feel him again.

“I’m sorry.” the words sound heavy coming out of his mouth, a grim expression taking over his features as he wipes off the remnants of your earlier tears.

“I know.” you reply simply, turning your head to press a gentle kiss against the roughened palm of his hand. It makes him exhale shakily, shoulders squaring as he prepares himself for the discomfort of the following words.

“Didn’t mean to snap at you, baby. I just… I feel helpless, I guess, and it fuckin’ pisses me off. Never had to worry about dying and leaving you alone before.” he says the words slowly, trying to make the last sentence sound like a joke, tone falling flat. You can tell he’s uncomfortable with the discussion but he pushes through, causing you to feel a rush of sympathy— he’s trying, you know he’s trying, and that means something to you.

“I know. I feel helpless, too. But you have to remember that you’re not alone. Not anymore. And I’m not going anywhere. No matter what happens, it’s you and me until the end.” he laughs wetly at your words, nodding his head and swallowing thickly before speaking again.

“I know.” this time it’s his turn to provide reassurance, the two little words more than enough for the both of you. The feeling of his warm lips connecting with your forehead makes your eyes flutter shut, hand coming up to lay over the one he’s curled around the back of your neck.

“Kid’s kicked my ass for making you cry.” he mumbles against your skin, the amusement in his voice clear. It makes you snort in surprise, unaware that Laura had intervened before you woke up.

“Did she? Well, you kinda deserved it.” your answer is playful, tone devoid of its previous heaviness, your eyes meeting Laura’s over Logan’s shoulder for a brief moment before focusing on your lover once again.

“That I did.” he agrees simply, a soft, tender, apologetic smile on his face. You lean further into him when he kisses your nose, heart feeling lighter than it had in a while.

You were going to be okay.

[thisblogisaboutabook]

Baby, Mine

Azriel x Reader - Angst/Fluff - One shot

Rhys returns from under the mountain and Azriel’s life is changed forever as a bond snaps with the female his brother brings back with him. After an unexpected pregnancy is revealed, Azriel strives to show his mate just how much she and their child mean to him. Please read warnings below.

Bonus Chapter/Part 2

Warnings: discussion of rape and S/A, pregnancy resulting from rape, mentions of trauma, language, mention of pregnancy termination

“We should get up. My stomach’s growling.”

“And I thought it was just the little one chatting with my shadows.” Azriel teased, flushing beneath her gaze as his scarred fingers traced lightly over the growing swell of her abdomen, becoming more apparent by the day. He’d been nervous touching it for the first time, like he’d desecrate that precious life force growing underneath with his hands that had inflicted so much pain. But the way her eyes lit up the first time he touched it, he never wanted to forget the feeling of love and joy radiating into him through that newfound bond. It was beautiful - made him feel worthy of helping raise the beautiful life she was bringing into the world.

Though her stomach growled again, she made no move to get up, and by the way her hands were holding onto him, Azriel knew better than to go retrieve a plate from the House of Wind’s kitchen for her. So he sent a shadow beneath the door to see if Nuala or Cerridwen were there and if they could bring leftovers in, that is if Cassian and Mor hadn’t devoured the entire breakfast already.

“How’s she doing?” Rhys asked into his mind.

“Better than some days but not great, Rhys.”

There was a pause before Rhys’ guilty voice reentered his conscious.

“She’s the most selfless person I know, Az. I’m glad you two have eachother. But if she needs anything, if you need anything, let me know.”

And she was. Selfless in a way that Azriel couldn’t fathom. Selfless in a way that made his gut churn, a way he wanted to roar at the moon and the stars, and anyone who would listen. Selfless when she should have never had to be. She was bright and radiant and kind. The world looked at her and saw ethereal sunshine, walking starlight, unfathomable beauty both inside and out. But there was darkness and pain there too, so buried down deep that only Azriel could feel it in the middle of the night as whimpers disrupted her sleep.

So many nights Rhys would have to come in and cradle her mind, send her soothing thoughts and visions of anything beautiful that could mask the perils that haunted her dreams.

Azriel hated himself for it, the jealousy. He wished he could soothe her in that way but no matter how much love he sent through their bond, that darkness rooted itself so deeply within her that sometimes it took significant power from Rhys to reach it.

As if Rhys wasn’t already fighting his own trauma and waging against the insurmountable guilt he carried after being under the mountain, plus worrying about Feyre in the Spring Court. And that wasn’t to say Y/N was a burden in any way, though she felt she was. It killed Azriel to see both his mate and his brother fighting so much grief and not being able to do anything about it.

She’d have been better suited to be Rhysand’s mate than Azriel’s own by their intertwined traumas, by their ability to put themselves aside for a better world. Azriel, of course, fit into this court of dreamers but she… despite only being here for such a short period of time, she was the biggest dreamer of them all.

Another rumble from her stomach snapped Azriel out of his thoughts, mentally noting to Rhys, “She could use breakfast.”

“I’ll send some for both of you. You need to take care of yourself too.”

Azriel smelled the salt of her tears before he saw the silver lining her eyes. Propping himself up on an elbow, draping a wing over her, he began to ask softly, “Hey-“. Her head immediately shaking and she choked on the word, “No.”

“Baby, I know what you’re thinking and it’s not a burden. He just wanted to know if you needed anything.”

She took a few deep breaths, willing away those tears. “He doesn’t have to check on me. It’s my f-“

“Stop that. Listen to me, I’m always here to listen to you and I know that you’re dealing with complex emotions and trauma that I cannot even begin to fully fathom but this.. it’s not your fault.”

Her eyes welled up further as Azriel continued,

“I don’t want to lecture you or invalidate what you are feeling. Your emotions are justified but… these thoughts will eat you alive, they’re vicious lies that have been conditioned into you, and I can promise you that nobody blames anything on you. This entire family is so fucking grateful to have you as a part of it. In a world of darkness, where you had every right, every reason to bring that darkness with you, you chose light.”

He choked on his words as those tears flowed down her face. “You chose light when it only brought more darkness upon yourself.”

She cut him off. “She’s not darkness.”

Azriel raised an eyebrow. “She?”

And through her tears, he saw the slightest gleam of radiance in her eyes. “I can just feel it. Feel her.”

Azriel pressed a kiss to Y/N’s belly. “Yes, you are absolutely right. She is not darkness - she’s a beacon of light, the brightest star in the sky, perhaps aside from her mother - but the mental load you are carrying, it is dark and it’s heavy. And yes, you would carry darkness with you regardless of this spark of hope” he rubbed her belly in tender circles for emphasis. “But I know that mind of yours. That you are telling yourself that you’re a burden, that you made the wrong choice, when there was no wrong choice.”

At this point, the tears were streaming down her face, his shadows dutifully whisking them away, but only gratitude and love flowed from her.

A knock came on the door. Azriel’s eyes glazed over as Y/N recognized the telltale signs of what was happening. A line creased in his brow before she placed a gentle hand on his arm. “It’s okay, he can come in.”

“You sure, my love? He understands when you need space.”

She nodded. “I know but I think I need to see him today.” Azriel brushed his thumb in soothing ministrations across her abdomen until she pulled her night gown back down to cover herself.

The door creaked open and Rhys padded over to the bed, guilt and adoration limning his features. “Hey, starshine.” She blushed at the term. She hated her own name after Amarantha had called it so many times under the mountain. Rhys had begun calling her Starshine in secret due to her Day Court origins and the fact that he was convinced she’d been more suited for the Night Court.

Rhys had been drawn to her under the mountain, something about her reminding him of his brother. Rhysand could admit that Azriel was the most beautiful of the three brothers, his features seemingly crafted by the gods themselves. But if Azriel’s features were crafted by the gods, Y/N’s were crafted by the Mother herself. Aside from that, she had a quiet presence, though far less stoic and broody than Azriel’s, it was more of a quiet, gentle grace. A grace that Amarantha had tried so hard to shed her of but was never quite successful.

Amarantha, of course, made it her mission to both seek pleasure from her and torment her. When she never fully broke, Amarantha decided that instead of throwing her to the dark corridors she stuffed most lesser fae in, she’d make an excellent play thing. She looked mostly High Fae after all, yet had enhanced sexual appeal due to her nymph ancestry - perfect high and round breasts, long legs, a firm yet supple ass, and an arousing scent - needless to say, Amarantha delighted to add her to her roster of bed chamber accompaniment.

Y/N and Rhys developed a quiet understanding of each other and the roles they were forced to play in the year that she’d been under the mountain before Feyre arrived. They did not grow close enough for Amarantha to become concerned but enough that she knew her play things got along well enough to bring them both into her chambers at the same time.

Rhys would never forget the first time Amarantha had forced he and her into her chambers at the same time. Y/N tried to be strong, and she was. Another aspect of her that reminded him of his brother.

But she began to crack slightly, and Rhys knew Amarantha would make it so much worse for her if she did. So he did the only thing he knew to do and held her mind. He showed her visions of the Night Skies of the Night Court, the spirits of Starfall, the laughter of a family surrounding a table in a beloved restaurant, anything that could help her through it.

As he held her mind, she’d unwittingly sent visions from throughout her twenty-two years of life prior to being captured and brought under the mountain. She was loved deeply by her family who had little more than love to give. Eventually they had been murdered by Amarantha’s cronies at the age of nineteen - she’d been able to escape and live among the High Fae who sneered and objectified her, but offered enough coin to sleep with her to keep a roof over her head.

Rhys had determined that night that if they ever made it out of there alive, he was taking her to Velaris with him. She’d never live like that again.

He even smiled at the thought of introducing her and Azriel when she was ready to meet his family, already picturing his brother’s rose-dusted cheeks in her presence.

“Thank you” Azriel’s low voice withdrew Rhys from his thoughts, taking the plate from his hands.

A familiar scent wafted off of Rhys to Y/N. Pregnancy had heightened her sense of smell substantially.

As she sniffed the air Rhys gave a soft, sad smile at the eye brow she raised at him before asking, “Where is she?”

He shook his head, darkness rolling in waves off of him. “Tamlin locked her in his fucking manor. She had a breakdown.”

Her face drew tight. “That bastard!” Azriel flinched at the rage flowing down the bond. “She must have been terrified.”

“She certainly terrified the servants in his manor. She shrouded herself in darkness and nobody could get through to her.”

“He doesn’t deserve her.”

Rhys nodded. “He doesn’t.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Rhys. Where is she?”

“At the Town House.”

Her eyes blew wide. “Cauldron boil me, is she staying?”

Azriel smiled as he felt her excitement flow into him. A bit of that Day Court sunshine returning to her.

“I don’t know. She knows she can’t tell anyone if she goes back, but…”

“I felt it through the bond, Y/N. I think she’s here to stay.”

Azriel’s shadows agitated at the pause in verbal conversation, chattering back and forth,

“Secrets”

“Secrets”

He rolled his eyes and dismissed them, already knowing there were some things that remained between just Y/N and Rhys. He’d accepted it the very moment he’d shown up after he received word that Rhys was finally home and the bond snapped as soon as he laid eyes upon the radiant female by his side. He knew it snapped for her too when she walked right up to him, touched the hands he tried to hide behind his back, her eyes speaking everything she couldn’t. “I see your scars. I bear them too.” And pressed a kiss to each hand.

“Do you want me to leave? I assume she’s at the Town House but I’m sure she’ll be visiting here too, yes?”

Azriel bristled. No way in hell was Rhys going to make his mate leave, whether this home was his or not, she had a right to be present wherever she wished.

“Easy brother.”

Azriel shook off the feeling. The mating instinct was still so strong that he had a hard time not jumping in to defend her at the thought of any threat, physical or emotional.

“Y/N” Rhys took her hand.

“Don’t bite my head off for holding her hand, either.”

Azriel huffed before firing back to Rhys’ mind “I can’t wait for you to find your mate someday so you can see what it feels like to be so wound up like this.”

Rhys only gave a small, secret smile in return.

Y/N interjected. “Are you two done gossiping or can I know whether I should pack up or not?”

“This is your home just as much as it is my home. You are my family and I want Feyre to meet all of you. Cassian has already barreled through the door of the Town House along with Mor begging to be fed. Feyre went up to nap and recollect herself.”

“Can we have dinner with her… if she wants to?” She asked softly with a mixture of excitement and nervousness to her voice.

Rhys gave a nod. “I was thinking that same thing. Would you be comfortable?”

She nodded before the reality of the situation caught up with her.

“Y/N.” Rhys leaned in, gently tilting her head up to look at him. “I am not ashamed of you. I will never hide you or the life you are selflessly bringing into this Court of Dreamers.” His eyes lined with silver. “And I will always be so proud of the love that you both share. I knew from the moment I met you that my brother would adore you. And the fact that you two are mates? It’s one of the greatest things to come from that shit hole of a mountain. A reminder of the beauty that can prevail, even after the most dreadful of circumstances. I love all three of you.”

Azriel held his mate closely, ensuring she felt just how loved she truly was.

“She kicked for the first time the other day.”

Rhys raised a brow.

Y/N let out a sigh. “Ugh, you two are so skeptical. I really believe that this baby is a girl.”

Rhys eyed the scarred hand protectively placed over her round bump, so many complicated emotions running through him, with love being the strongest.

“Feyre will likely ask questions tonight regarding all of us, our stories. Nobody has to share anything they do not wish to, but you also may share if you are comfortable doing so. I would really like for Feyre to become a member of the Inner Circle-“

Rhys looked to Y/N rolling his eyes at the smirk and waggling eyebrows she gave him.

“Stop that. My point is just that, I would like for her to know all of you. I know she’ll love you all just as I do. Hell, she’ll probably love all of you before she’s ready to even fully tolerate me.”

Azriel let out a chuckle as his mate quipped “Tell me the story of the time she threw a shoe at you. It’s my favorite!”

“You cruel, lovely little thing.” Rhys laughed. “See you both for dinner.”

As Rhys exited them room, Y/N sighed. “You were awfully quiet.”

Az nudged her. “And that surprises you?”

“Okay, quieter than usual.”

Azriel pulled her in close, peppering kisses across her forehead. “I just don’t want you to do anything you’re not ready for. You are still healing and now you’ll be facing someone else that was under the mountain with you.”

“She saved us all, Az.” She looked up into his hazel eyes with nothing but genuine adoration. “Without her, I never would have met you. And what kind of existence would that be?”

She began picking at the plate Rhys had brought in. Letting out a moan as the flavors burst on her tongue.

Az couldn’t help the involuntary twitch of his wings at the sound.

She laughed. “Don’t get any ideas until I’m finished with my food.”

Azriel raised his palms. “I’d never get between my pregnant mate and her meal. With the way she’s started moving, she’d likely kick me away anyway.”

She took another bite while nonchalantly commenting, “I thought of a name for her.”

“Oh yeah?” Azriel’s brows raised in anticipation of a potential name for their child.

“Azure. The same blue as the skies. I thought…”

Azriel cut her off, marveling at the name. Whispering more to himself than her. “Blue like the Day Court skies, blue like the skies that I love to take you flying in.”

She flushed. “Yes, exactly. And though it’s a different shade of blue, like your siphons.”

A lone tear escaped his eye. “And,” she continued with a coy smile. “We could call her ‘Az’”

Azriel sat still for a moment. And she would have thought he didn’t like it had it not been the rush of pure shock and awe flowing through the bond.

Suddenly he took her face in his hands, barely giving her time to swallow the bite of bacon she’d just taken, and crashed his lips into hers. And after her lips were swollen and puffy from the heat of his lips, he began pressing kisses all over her belly, whispering between them, “I love you, little Az. I love you more than the skies I fly in. More than my own name. More than any dreamer could dream of being loved. I can’t wait to fly you through the open skies, and show you every shade of blue this beautiful world has to offer. Nothing in this world matters more than you and your mother. I couldn’t be more proud to be your father.”

And he meant it. Every single word. The blood running through the baby growing inside of his mate didn’t need to be his, what mattered was the love flowing within the child and he intended to pour every single ounce of love he had into their baby.

It was Y/N though who broke down at those words. She and Azriel had spent every free moment together since meeting. He’d healed her in ways that she never could have dreamed. Finding her mate changed the time after Under the Mountain from the lonesome trauma reckoning hellhole she’d anticipated and into a time of healing. He listened to her, understood her, let her set the pace in every aspect. And he’d shared his trauma with her, all of it.

The child who had been abused by a wicked stepmother and horrid step-brothers, overlooked by his own father had grown up to be loving, caring, and patient in every way. And now, he was going to be the parent of a child that was not his by conception, choosing to love the child just as he would his very own. A vow he’d sworn in their mating vows and sealed with a bargain.

“What is it, love?” Azriel wiped away her tears.

“Stupid hormones. I just love you so much and I need you to know that you are so much more than I ever could have dreamed of. If I had to, I would go through it all again as long as it led me to you.”

Azriel’s eyes began watering again. “Look at us, Y/N. We’re quite a sight. Whatever you say tonight, just don’t let Cassian know that I’ve gotten so soft.”

Her glassy eyes sparkled as she gave a sweet smile. “I have a feeling that softness has already been there, my love, I just had the privilege of coaxing it out of you.”

He smiled. “Truth Teller personified.”

————————-

“We’re heading up now.” Rhys’ voice cut into Y/N’s mind.

“Are you sure about this, Rhys? Most of them do not know what all happened under the mountain. What if it’s too much for Feyre to take in?”

“She’s my mate, I have to hope that she will love and accept us all in time. It may be a lot to meet us and hear our stories but they’re a part of us, a part of loving us. I’m worried about Cassian scaring her off more than anything.”

“Valid concern. See you soon. Despite the circumstances, I’m so happy she’s here.”

“You know,” Rhys chuckled. “I feel the same way about you, Starshine.”

“You flatter me. Now enjoy your flight with the literal girl of your dreams.”

“She’s glaring daggers at me right now. Pray I make it there alive.”

“Where’d you go?” Az nudged.

Leaning into her mate’s side, embracing the warmth of his arms wrapped around her shoulders she replied, “Rhys and Feyre are on the way.”

“Are you ready for this?” He asked.

“I’m sure you can already feel my nerves down the bond but I appreciate you for asking.” She teased.

Azriel kept his pace slow as they wound through the hallways of the House of Wind toward the dining table. “If you’re not ready…”

She took a steadying breath. “No, he needs to get off on a solid foundation with her. And Cassian, Mor, and Amren have eyed us for a while, they realize that something is off. Plus, I mean, look at this thing.” Her delicate hands found her stomach. “They’re going to figure out that the timelines don’t match up soon enough.”

“Our girl IS growing.” Azriel spoke, not missing the opportunity to feel the life growing within his mate.

She teased, “You’ve referred to the babe as “her” a few times now. Coming around to the idea?”

“I know better than to go against your intuition.”

With that, Y/N gave a wicked grin. “Mother knows best.”

As they approached the dining room, Azriel pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be right by your side.”

She beamed. “And I’ll be by yours too, with whatever you may share tonight…and forever, of course.”

As everyone arrived and gathered at the dining table, Y/N couldn’t help but admire how lovely Feyre and Rhys were together. Though she hated the situation that brought her there, that Tamlin tried to hoard her away in his manor, she couldn’t help but feel joy knowing that she was finally beginning to see the true Rhysand.

The Inner Circle kept up with the typical antics and plenty of laughter filled the space, but the conversation eventually turned more serious as everyone took turns giving Feyre insight into themselves.

Feyre looked to Y/N with curiosity. “You were under the mountain, but Azriel was not?”

Her hands shook as she prepared to share. A warmth covered them as Azriel gave a gentle squeeze, sending waves of that reassurance in abundance. She took a breath.

She began by sharing the background of her family, their deaths, that she’d sold her body to survive afterward, how she’d only been under the mountain for a year before Feyre arrived.

“You didn’t know Azriel before they took you?” Feyre asked. Not harshly, just inquisitively.

Y/N held her head high. Her story was not one to be ashamed of.

“I did not. Rhys was one of the only souls to show me kindness under the mountain. I have nymph ancestry with primarily High Fae features. Amarantha took an interest in me and….”

An unreadable expression covered Rhys’ face. This was his trauma too, but he gave a reassuring nod.

“She began taking me to her chambers. I had no choice. It was warm her bed, or face physical torture until death.”

Feyre flinched along with Rhys. Y/N recognized that they were remembering the human girl Amarantha had tortured to death just before Feyre’s arrival.

“She also, against our hopes, realized that Rhysand and I had an understanding of eachother - serve her or die. Being the lust-driven wretch that she was, she began taking us both to her chambers. There was no room for weakness in there. She wanted us just weak enough to submit to her, but we had to remain strong in every other aspect. The first time she had Rhys and I, together,” she cleared her throat, giving pause before continuing, “Rhys saved me. I began to crack, and he held my mind. I will let Rhys speak on his own trauma and the mental load he carried, but he didn’t hesitate to help me get through it. It was not the last time he had to help me through it.”

The table was completely silent. Heart-wrenching expressions filled each face at the table. Palpable rage could be felt radiating off of Amren, though her face remained straight.

Her voice began cracking. Azriel pulled her close into him. “When you saved us,” She looked to Feyre. “I don’t mean to fawn or gawk over you, but Feyre, you did save us.” Feyre gave an empathetic look, nodding to Y/N to continue. “Rhys brought me back to Velaris because he couldn’t bear for me to return to the life I was living, because this Court of Dreams is made up of individuals who have lived through terrible traumas and, despite every reason to lead bitter lives- have chosen to dream of a better world. To fight for a better world. And he knew a certain Shadowsinger and I would get on quite well. In fact, he’s been a smug bastard ever since over just how well things went between us.”

“When I met him.” She stared lovingly to Azriel who swallowed a lump in his throat. “The bond snapped between us immediately. The same day I was brought here, I met my mate.”

Instinctively she placed her hands on the swell of her abdomen. “Rhys gave Azriel leave to spend time with me, for him to help me through the aftermath of what I’d been through…”

“But two weeks after arriving back, my scent began to shift.” Mor’s brows furrowed in contemplation.

“I became very sick shortly after that. Rhys called in a healer, Madja, who confirmed that I was two and a half months pregnant.”

Cassian audibly gasped and Mor murmured “Oh my gods.”

Azriel kept his composure for the sake of his mate, but this was killing him. His brother and his mate being forced by that fucking witch. “Azriel is not the biological father of this baby. The child was conceived under the forced coupling of Rhysand and I by Amarantha.”

Feyre’s face was a mix of sadness, and rage, and sympathy.

“There were options to terminate the pregnancy. However, due to my Nymph ancestry, such options can have negative, potentially deadly effects. Aside from that, though I never planned to have a child - I couldn’t bear the thought of losing another family member. Rhys, after losing his family, felt the same, which he only expressed after I shared my feelings with him. He was completely supportive of any decision I made.” Feyre looked to Rhys and then back to Y/N, no negative judgement written on those lovely features.

Y/N looked to Azriel with a loving grin “And Azriel- he took me to a priestess that night. We both wanted to accept the bond from the moment we met, the connection was unbelievably strong, I never believed in the power of the bond until I found him. And now because he’s ever the romantic, though I see him already blushing at the mention of it, he wanted to make a vow before the Mother - a vow to love me no matter what choice I made, a vow to love the life within me as his very own child, to love and cherish us both until his last breath.”

She pulled the sleeve off of her shoulder, revealing the intricate tattoo solidifying his vow.

“And Rhys,” She gave a soft smile. “He made a bargain to love and care for this child and to recognize Azriel as its father. We will not hide the parentage from our child. And Rhys, I know, already loves them dearly, but mine and Azriel’s decisions for our baby come first and will be respected as any biological parents would.”

She’d left out the part where Azriel had gone under the mountain to investigate later on and found that Amarantha had begun supplying a fertility tonic instead of birth control to Y/N after the Calanmai that Rhys had gone to the Spring Court and seen Feyre. Though she didn’t know who Rhys saw, she likely suspected he’d developed interest in someone else and become jealous, hoping an accidental pregnancy would either create a rift in any potential relationship or, even worse, that the baby could be used as leverage against him.

The table remained silent until Rhys chimed in. “So my brother is my child’s father. I’m sure stranger things have happened.”

Despite that sadness the Inner Circle felt, Rhysand’s comment elicited smiles. Azriel gave his brother a nod of thanks for breaking the tension while affectionately caressing his mate.

Mor eased the tension further by chiming in “Y/N! You are further along than we realized which means….. we get to go shopping for our newest family member sooner!!!”

Feyre decided soon after that she would like to work with the Court of Dreams.

————————-

Epilogue

Because his mate was always right, Azriel was indeed the father of a beautiful little girl, clever and stubborn like her mother, and the light of his life. Her mother the sun, and she the moon.

He and Rhys had just returned from taking “Baby Azzie” who was now a toddler to get pastries along the Sidra. Azriel returned with his half-asleep daughter in his arms, who perked up upon seeing her baby brother cooing in his bassinet. “Nyxie!!” She yelled, hurrying over to the winged babe. Rhys, however, arrived with numerous shopping bags in his own arms.

Feyre, who had been lounging with her head on Y/N’s shoulder gave the two a big smile. Y/N raised an eyebrow. “All of that better be for Nyx.”

Azriel and Rhys shared a laugh before Rhys spoke. “Well, half of it is, but only because someone batted her little lashes at us repeating ‘Brother, present. Brother, present’ until we took her into what is conveniently her favorite toy store.” Az cut in, “And because my brother is getting soft in his old age” before Rhys could remind Azriel that he was, in fact, the older of the two, Az continued, “Rhys had to buy something for her for every item she picked out for Nyx.”

Y/N groaned. “Cassian literally just bought her five new toys and six new outfits on their last outing.”

The raven-haired toddler with her mother’s nose and radiant skin, Rhys’ smile, and by some gift of the Mother - had Azriel’s golden-flecked hazel eyes, toddled up to Feyre, giving her a big hug. She then turned to her mother, leaning in to whisper something, that came out as quietly as a yell. “I got something for sissy too. Daddy has it in the pocket realm.”

Y/N’s face flushed as Rhys and Feyre gaped. “So much for keeping that a secret for a little longer.”

Feyre squealed leaning in and throwing her arms around Y/N. “I thought that maybe I was getting allergies, your scent hasn’t been as strong but you were glamouring it!”

Rhys pulled Azriel into a long hug, then walked over to Y/N with a wide smile, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Azriel placed a hand on his chest as he took in the sight of his blended family. It wasn’t what he’d ever expected but, to him, it was everything.

[angelblushe]

HSR 3.3 UPDATE SPOILERS

This entire post is is my insane ramblings about phaidei within the context of this scene. ⬇️

I want to talk about the significance of this farewell scene with the implications this has about Phainon’s bond with Mydeimos, as well as talking about artistic choices in the illustration and dialogue.

There is a stark difference between Phainon’s imagined farewells with the Mydei and with the rest of the Chrysos Heirs.

Everyone else says the same line, “Goodbye, Phainon.”

Mydei on the other hand? He says, “See you around, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.” Not only is it a promise to see one another again, rather than a farewell, but it is also so much more intimate.

Mydei is referring to him with respect as to where he came from. Typically, Mydei refers to Phainon as “Deliverer”, (and from what other Heirs have mentioned, it comes from a good place), this title having meaning to Phainon’s future—his role in relation to the prophecy. In this instance, Phainon imagines Mydei referring to him in terms of his identity that more closely coincides with his past. The same past that Phainon discusses with Mydei before he departures to Castrum Kremnos. In this past scene, they both open up to each other about aspects of their past they haven’t spoken about to others.

When Mydei leaves for Castrum Kremnos, this is after he has stepped up into divinity, having to face his traumas and fears in regard to his leadership and culture as a whole. Mydei understands Phainon’s grief to a certain capacity, as they both come from homes that are now destroyed.

Phainon’s home is one that no one knows of, and Mydei’s idea of a home is one that his culture is hesitant to accept.

With this in mind, it’s obvious Phainon has shared a more vulnerable part of himself in regards to his past with Mydei. Seeing as his imagined farewell with Mydei is so much different than it is with everyone else, it’s clear that it comes from a special connection between the two that sets them apart as a pair.

In the 3.1 update, even during Tribios’ story, it is brought up time and time again that Mydei and Phainon are two warriors that go hand in hand. They are portrayed to be equals in strength, balancing each other (this can be further explored in their sun and moon motifs directly ingrained into their designs).

Now, I want to talk about the illustration that accompanies this scene. Phainon says goodbye to all the characters that have departed thus far: Trianne, Anaxa, Castorice, and Aglaea. As each farewell is spoken, each character leaves the illustration. We see that each of them is also painted monochromatically in a color that is associated with them.

Mydei is an exception to this rule. Interestingly, Castorice is not. I point this out because (at least from personal interpretation) she is—to an extent—not truly dead, as we actually get to briefly see her with Mydei during the 3.4 update when in battle. This is important to note because both of them have virtually stepped away from Okhema to fulfill their roles of the prophecy without truly dying.

I think it’s very interesting that Mydei is the only one illustrated in full color in Phainon’s mind. I interpret this as meaning that, to Phainon, Mydei is still someone who is stable, consistent, and truly alive.

Phainon has lost his home, his grief over Aedes Elysiae being something that he struggles with for the first few patches of Amphoreus. In addition, in the recent patches, he is continuing to lose his loved ones—people that very obviously hold each other closely (the Chrysos Heirs are very much found family in my eyes, often outright using familial terms to refer to one another).

Despite these constant losses, Mydei is a steady rock, his curse of immortality being a source of comfort for Phainon (although something he anguishes as well since we see him struggle with his guilt when having to leave Mydei to fight alone twice).

Nevertheless, when he imagines speaking to Mydei, he imagines flesh, bone, and blood. Something more tangible than what he thinks of when contemplating the others. Even his dialogue with Mydei is different, his whole conversation set up to be almost separate from what he discusses with the others.

For this reason, I believe that Phainon derives a deep sense of comfort from Mydei. Mydeimos is his equal in strength, a tank on the battlefield, he is dependable and has arrived time and time again to save the day. To Phainon, he is not as easily defeated as any of the rest.

To cap it all off: I think there is something so heartbreaking about their wishes to see each other again.

During Mydei’s real farewell, he says, “But... if there's a chance in the next life, you should come visit my library.”

A wish that they could meet again, in world unlike the one which confines them to prophecies and fate.

However, in Phainon’s farewell to Mydei, contained in his imagination, Phainon expresses that, “We aren't parting ways forever. You're just off to guard the gates at Castrum Kremnos. Let's not make this a tearful farewell.” In which Mydei agrees, and says that he believes they’ll meet up again within this same life time (to duel, of course).

I think there’s a sad yearning there, that Phainon wants to hold out hope that he will be able to have some kind of peaceful ending with Mydei. Especially since he perceives Mydei to be a pillar of strength, someone that can withstand it all. We have seen time and time again that when Phainon is unsure of himself, or what to do as a whole, he thinks of Mydei.

For someone who has lost so much to death, to have someone who can withstand the tantalizing whisper of the west winds, it’s a relief. That finally, this is someone Phainon can’t lose.

Until he does.

…

OH and I’m not even going to get into the whole, “It's a date, Mydeimos.” I will have a break down.

[sabrinajenre96]

"Badges and Bedside Manners"

Pairing: Tim Bradford x Doctor!Wife! Reader

Warning: mention of injury, surgery and inaccurate medical definitions ( I am not a doctor I apologize in advance) , angst, some fluff and humor.

The shrill ring of her phone cut through the organized chaos of the ER. Dr. Y/N Bradford wiped her hands on a towel and glanced at the caller ID: Sgt. Grey.

Her stomach dropped.

“Grey?” she answered, breath tight. “What’s going on?”

“Y/N… it’s Tim. He’s at St. Joe’s. A piece of metal’s dangerously close to his spine. He’s stable, but it’s serious.”

The world tilted for a second. She gripped the edge of the nurse’s station.

“I’m on my way.”

—

Outside Tim’s hospital room, it looked like a scene straight out of a precinct family reunion. Angela, Nyla, Nolan, Lucy, and even Jackson were all huddled by the window, peering in.

“He’s being so Tim about it,” Lucy whispered. “Stubborn, refusing help, complaining about the bed—”

“And flirting with the nurse he just insulted five minutes ago,” Angela added, arms crossed.

Y/N walked up, coat flaring behind her, her bump barely concealed under her scrubs. The group turned like guilty schoolchildren.

“Oh, you’re so dead,” Nyla muttered with a grin.

She pushed open the door, cool authority radiating off her.

“Timothy Bradford!” she barked.

Tim, mid-argument with a nurse, stiffened like a cadet.

“Hi, honey,” he said sheepishly.

“Don’t you hi honey me. You got impaled, ignored the pain, scared the hell out of everyone—and you yelled at my favorite nurse!”

“I didn’t yell—”

“Apologize.”

Tim blinked. The room outside went silent. Then, without missing a beat, he turned to the nurse. “I’m sorry. Ma’am.”

The nurse smiled smugly and walked out, passing Y/N with a grateful nod.

Angela whispered, “You need to teach me how to do that.”

—

When the attending neurosurgeon arrived, he paused, surprised to see Y/N already flipping through Tim’s chart like she owned the place.

“Doctor Bradford,” the surgeon said, nodding.

“Doctor Han,” she returned. “Can you explain the MRI findings? I want a second read.”

Tim grunted from the bed. “Do I get a say in this?”

“No,” both doctors said in unison.

Han chuckled. “The metal fragment is precariously close to the spinal cord. There’s a chance it could shift. Without surgery, there’s a significant risk of paralysis if it moves.”

Tim looked up at Y/N. “And with surgery?”

“There are risks,” Han admitted. “But we’ve done this before. He’s in good hands.”

Y/N stepped forward, hand gently brushing Tim’s arm. “We’ll do this together. Whatever happens, I’m here. Always.”

He nodded slowly, then kissed her knuckles.

—

Y/N stepped out to check on a trauma case, but her pager went off again before she reached the doors. Her nurse flagged her down.

“Doctor Bradford, your husband’s in OR. Emergency. He chased a suspect down the stairwell. It dislodged the fragment.”

“What?!” she shouted.

“And Sergeant Grey’s being admitted too. Blood pressure crisis after trying to stop him.”

Y/N closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I swear to God, if I didn’t love that man…”

—

Hours later, Tim was groggy but alive, in recovery. The surgery went smoothly.

Grey was lying in the bed next to him, hooked up to monitors, reading a newspaper like it was a vacation.

Y/N walked in slowly, hands on her hips.

Tim tried a grin. “Hey, doc.”

“You ran after a suspect with a spinal injury?!”

“She was getting away—”

“Tim.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Grey cleared his throat. “To be fair, I tried to stop him.”

“And ended up hospitalized with a BP of 200 over 110.”

“Occupational hazard?” Grey offered.

Y/N shook her head and sat on the edge of Tim’s bed. “You're both lucky I love you. And that my blood pressure is the only thing in this room that’s normal.”

Outside the room, their friends watched through the glass again, amused.

“Think we should get her a badge?” Nolan joked.

“No,” Lucy grinned. “She’s way scarier without one.”

—

END

[johannesviii]

Nearly every time I've rewatched Infinity Train Book 3 since I first saw it in February, I saw more parallels and narrative echos, and infodumping my friends about them isn't enough anymore

I figured I should do a post about this one because I don't think I've seen a post about that specific thing yet, and I love this show's writing, and. idk. I just need to praise it I guess

So, the most obvious part first:

Grace became everything she hated about her parents

When Grace mentions her mother in the Debutante Ball Car, it's made pretty clear she's trying to distance herself from her mother as much as possible, and at this point, we realise retrospectively that Grace's room in the Mall Car in episode one was full of sports clothes - it seems she tries to avoid things reminding her of her life before the train. And of her mother. And yet-

She tries to control everyone and everything around her, and makes people do what she doesn't want to do

And she decides what's cool and what isn't

She makes people kneel in her presence, like her mother towers over her in her mind's eye

Obviously she constantly lies to get what she wants, and her dad does that in her tape

When her younger self looks up, she looks right through adult Grace, and it's actually her parents she's looking at! Her younger self is metaphorically seeing her parents where her adult self is standing!! I still can't get over this shot

Also I feel the need to mention her mother has the same voice actor as her in her tape and even if it might be to cut corners in the budget, that feels significant (and to be fair, sometimes you can cut corners while making meaningful choices at the same time)

Now you might think I'd have nothing to say about Simon on that matter, since we don't see any flashback of his life before the Train, and we know next to nothing about his parents. But I think it's very telling that the only actual backstory we get for him is his backstory with The Cat.

Because-

Simon became everything he hated about The Cat

Ok I never see anyone mentioning this, but hear me out

First, we have no idea if Simon knew The Cat was routinely invading people's privacy through their memory tapes, but he sure has no issue doing the exact same thing

But that doesn't stop there. He also collects things obsessively

And makes kids collect things for him as well, by the way

He thinks he's above others, but he immediately switches to victim mode when it comes back to bite him

HE. ABANDONS. A CHILD. WHO WAS UNDER HIS CARE!!

And. Uh. They both dig their heels instead of trying to change, too

Don't get me wrong, on some level I would have liked to know what Simon's parents were like too. I would have liked that a lot. But there's a good chance it wouldn't change anything, because everything we need to know about his background to understand why he's Like That™ is already in the show

But yeah, Grace and Simon both pretend they found freedom on the Train, and both distance themselves from parental figures who are at the source of their trauma, claiming they're different and better than them - and yet they are both subconsciously repeating patterns that caused at least part of their problems and/or trauma in the first place

And since they decided that making numbers go up was good, as long as they stick to that idea, they are bound to never escape from that self-perpetuating loop of harm and trauma

And I love it

And I hate it

[strawbeerossi]

August - Prologue

Pairing: Fem!Reader x Spencer Reid

Chapter Description: You look back on the way that you bonded with Spencer over the course of the time you've known him. After one night spent between you both, you tell the girls that you want to ask Spencer to Rossi's wedding. Too bad JJ had other plans.

Content/Warnings: Spoilers for 14x15, unrequited love, alcohol consumption, mentions of sex, JJ is a horrible friend (I’m so sorry), general heartbreak.

WC: 2.4K

Navigation || August Masterlist || Main Masterlist || Request

🏷️ @sadroses98

Spencer’s love life was a trainwreck. Everyone knew that after the Maeve debacle, dating wasn’t something that he was concerned with. He saw the horrible things that could happen to significant others of the BAU members. Haley dying, Jack being targeted, and Savannah being shot were things he’d seen first hand and he wasn’t eager to have a loved one go through any of it. He’d never forgive himself.

JJ was always special, in his eyes. Even whenever they were both young on the field together, he always pined after her. She was beautiful, funny, and she didn’t always look so bothered to talk to him. Of course, their failed attempt at a date to the Redskins game was just an indication that he should admire from afar. Besides, he’d like to have her in his life regardless. 

He maintained a healthy friendship with JJ over all fourteen years that he worked with the BAU, the woman being by his side even whenever he didn’t deserve it. It was something he wouldn’t trade for the world. He appreciated her, loving her so much that his heart swelled every time she came near him. He buried all those feelings deep in his heart, keeping quiet on the subject. It wasn’t the healthiest way to handle unspoken feelings but it was the easiest. Work would be awkward, plus she didn’t seem romantically interested. Best not to push.

Whenever you joined the BAU, you were blissfully unaware of Spencer’s feelings toward JJ, instead meeting a version of him that was so dedicated to bottling up those feelings. He was a bit standoffish with you at first, which you didn’t take personally. You’d heard of the endless trauma he’d been through and you felt like you had to work overtime to gain his trust.The problem was, you did damn near everything and it was like it wasn’t working.

You learned how he liked his coffee and brought him a cup every morning, you asked for facts about zany topics, you even mentioned Doctor Who in an effort to reach out to him. It was like he didn’t even want to look in your direction.

You managed to chip away at him over the next few months, getting him to laugh in certain circumstances or even having him greet you in the mornings. It was something that you had to work for but it was all worth it in the end whenever he’d gotten fully comfortable with you. He learned that he enjoyed talking to you, having you around.

The both of you had grown quite close to the point where every Friday that you weren’t on a case was spent having a movie night. He’d even taught you how to sew a scarf after too much trial and error. All the time you spent together was causing you to fall deeper in love with the lovable genius with each interaction. Every silly complaint about a show not being true to science, his rambles on topics that interested him, even when you two would get into arguments. 

It was no surprise that you’d fallen so fast. You wore your heart on your sleeve, yearning for a deep connection that nobody else could take away. Spencer was your person, you could feel it. There were daydreams of having a nice home with a big backyard for your kids, Spencer teaching them magic tricks or helping them excel in their academics. 

It was a Saturday night after a successful case that the team went out drinking together to celebrate. You may have let Penelope and Emily influence you into drinking your body weight in whatever liquor was put in front of you. Spencer hardly drank, however he allowed himself to have a few drinks, his tolerance being so low that he could feel a buzz after just one. 

You were too far gone to remember the events of the night but you did know that you and Spencer left together. The night was spent with drunken sex and whatever else you two got up to within the span of seven hours. You both woke up the next morning and it was still okay. There was no sneaking out when someone was sleeping, no forcing them out. You two actually spent a good portion of the morning together. The only issue? You got more attached. It was like you associated the sex with mutual feelings, the dream of actually finding someone to settle with. 

You’d gotten so caught up with the fantasy that you just had to tell the girls at work during one of your morning gossip sessions.

“I don’t know, I just feel like this could be the start of something great. I really do like him, he means the world to me. I just wish that I could say it.” You admitted, leaning against Penelope’s desk while sipping from your coffee mug. 

“Well, I say just go for it! Our genius needs to settle down.” Penelope encouraged, her eyes widening with excitement. “You two can have babies! I don’t think we could ever have enough BAU babies.” She gushed. 

JJ was laughing softly from her spot in the room at her friend’s excitement. “I mean, the worst he could really do is say no. No harm in trying to ask, right?” The blonde let her shoulders bounce. In a way, she could feel a pang of jealousy in her chest. You and Spencer? That didn’t seem right at all.

“He won’t say no! I am convinced he loves you! I mean, you always brighten his day.” Penelope was piling on encouragement, pushing you to take the bull by the horns and just get yourself out there, to put your feelings first.”Plus, you can invite him to Rossi’s wedding!”

It was safe to say that it was working. You felt a wave of confidence rush over you, taking it with stride. JJ had a point, Spencer wouldn’t be rude about turning you down. The pain would still be there in the event he did but at least he wouldn’t be cruel, right? 

“I’m gonna go talk to him about it. It’s a paperwork day, so it’ll be quiet.” Plus, she could just delve into files that needed to be filed away if he did let her down gently. It was the perfect plan!

You were planning on talking to him later in the afternoon, just enough time to give yourself a pep talk. However, Emily and Penelope killed that idea with a snap of a finger as a case had come up. It came with the territory of your job – make plans and have them destroyed by some loser who decided to massacre multiple people for the fun of it.

***

The case had taken a turn for the worse whenever JJ and Spencer were hot on the unsub’s trail, being locked inside a bank with no way to contact the outside world. The only thing anyone had was shitty footage from the security camera inside with no audio to accompany it. All you could do was assume what was happening as you stared at the screen, Emily beside you as she was talking to Penelope about getting anything if they could.

Their body language said it all though, the way that JJ seemed tense and the way Spencer had a look of… Relief? You didn’t know what was happening in the slightest but it was like you could feel your stomach churn, your heart slowly cracking. 

You didn’t want to assume it was anything too crazy, you didn’t need to worry. You were being silly. Once there were shots inside, everyone was rushing to the back door of the building to get inside. You were frozen in place, eyes focused on the room now filled with agents and cops. 

The sound of everyone talking was muffled, your mind somewhere else as you were slowly turning to the screen before approaching the two agents when they were coming out of the building. “Are you two okay?!” She asked quickly, a shaky edge to her voice as she was bringing a hand to her face. “This job stresses me out,” 

There was lighthearted, yet awkward laughter as you were eventually heading back to the SUVs. 

There was a tension hanging in the air any time that Spencer and JJ were together, the two barely sharing glances as the rest of the team were rejoicing and ending the case and preventing losing innocent people as well as potentially losing two of their best agents.

There was something wrong but you weren’t going to say anything.

Clearly something personal happened in the moment they were forced to play along with whatever the unsub wanted from them. You were curious but you didn’t want to bring it up, maybe out of fear of hearing something that you don't wanna hear. 

You didn’t ask Spencer to be your date to Dave’s wedding, instead going on your own.

The whole environment there made you sad. You were thrilled for Dave and Krystall but it was an atmosphere oozing with love while you were alone, the man you wanted to ask being weird and not speaking to you the way he usually did. There was a lot you wondered about. 

Did you do something wrong? Was he angry at you? More questions echoed in your mind, feeling defeated on how such a good relationship has fizzled out to nothing. 

You were brought out of your thoughts whenever Penelope was passing out whatever concoction of drink she came up with. “Here you go, sour puss.” The blonde spoke while placing the mixed drink in front of you at the bar, you offering a small smile in response. 

“It’s a good day, don’t be sad in the corner all night.” Luke added soon after while you were waving it off. He didn’t know the extent of why you felt the way you did. He just knew that you had been in a funk for days, not being your usual self.

“I’m not sad. I’m just.. I’m not really in the mood.” It was honest, however you knew that you had to show up for Dave, he was family. You would’ve done the same for anyone else in the team for whatever event. 

In the midst of your denial, your gaze had fallen on Spencer and JJ, the two talking together at a table farther from the rest of you. It could’ve been some deep, poorly concealed anger that had you putting the cup down and walking over to the two who seemed to be having a great time together. You were falling apart and it was like he wasn’t even paying attention. It stung. 

“Spencer! JJ!” You announced your presence with a smile, your hands clasping together. “I didn’t get to come talk to you guys earlier. I wanted to say hi.” You began. “Also, why are you two isolated from the team?! Come on!” 

What felt like a knife to your chest was the way Spencer looked at you with a lack of interest, almost as if your presence was bothersome. “Oh, we were just talking. We are fine, we will catch up later.” The male answered, hoping the answer was good enough to be left alone again.

That was the moment you broke.

“What the hell have I done to you? You’ve been dodging my calls and texts for days and you barely talk to me anymore. What is your deal?” In an attempt to not ruin the beautiful ceremony, you were keeping a calm demeanor. Even if you could feel the cracks in the facade. 

“What? Nothing! You’re acting like a child. I’m just having a conversation.” Spencer frowned, his attention finally on you for the first time in days. “You act like we talk every minute of the day.”

“Because we normally do! Come on, Spencer. Just talk to me.” You were begging for a minute of his time, an explanation. For days you’d questioned every interaction and every word said. You thought your relationship was stronger than that.

“I am talking to you. I don’t know what else I’m supposed to say.” 

JJ looked visibly uncomfortable with the whole interaction, so that’s whenever you were turning your attention to her. “And you, I’ve been trying to talk to you for days and you don’t give me the time of day. What is happening? Do you both have a problem with me?”

“Look-” 

“No! She has a point, Spencer. I’ll be honest with her.” JJ finally found her voice, although the nervousness was gone now, instead just taking the situation for what it is. “I’m sorry,” The words made your knees weak. 

You knew what was coming. 

“The other day, the key to us getting out of there and preventing any injuries, I played truth or dare. Which, I know what you’re thinking but it wasn’t a childish game in the slightest.” She said slowly while you watched her in disbelief.

“Anyway, I was told to give a secret that I’d never tell anyone else. Something I’d take to the grave and-” 

“You told Spencer that you loved him.” You finished, throat tight as you were restraining the urge to either sob or scream at the blonde. “It’s just funny that this all came out after I told you what I wanted to do. You never showed him the time of day before.” 

“I don’t think you pay enough attention. Spencer has always been my best friend and we spend time together alone quite frequently. Just because you had sex one time doesn’t mean that you both were in an unspoken relationship.” JJ responded, having the audacity to act as if she didn’t break girl code to the highest degree. 

There were a few moments of silence, every intrusive thought bouncing through your mind. Your gaze was briefly turning to David and Krystall, seeing the two happily talking with guests before you were tuning your head to the pair in front of you. 

You reached over for the glass of water that one of them ended up putting down, hand clutching the glass before you made the wise decision of throwing water in their direction, the glass emptying on the both of them before the same glass was being placed down on the table. 

Without a word, you turned on your heels so you could walk away from the two. The reception was over for you, no feeling of celebration. You leaving with tears brimming your eyes caught the attention of the small group of agents, the group now turning their heads briefly to look at Spencer and JJ.

“Oh no..” Penelope frowned, the normally bubbly blonde turning to Tara, Luke and Matt.

“Something tells me that JJ and Spencer are talking..”

[dreamingkitsunewrites]

Unintended (pt1)

A/N: HELPPP guys I feel terrible after writing this😭 this was the hardest, most heartbreaking angst I've ever written.

Syn:unplanned pregnancy with Choso as your boyfriend but the trauma of his origins speaks for him...

TW: HEAVY ANGST!!, traumatized Choso, unplanned pregnancy, panic attacks, suggestiveness, mentions of abortion,dark topics and possible spoilers (about Choso's origins)

1.5k words | PT 2 COMING SOON

Your period was late. You had first noticed it two weeks ago on a seemingly ordinary morning, but today felt different. Today, you decided it was finally time to take the pregnancy test you had been anxiously holding onto. Choso had been away, along with Yuji, on a mission for a few days, and he was due to return today. As you stood by the bathroom sink, a single tear of joy slipped down your cheek, the test trembling slightly in your hands. The reality of it washed over you: you and Choso were going to be parents. Sweet images of the two of you raising a child together danced in your mind, filling your heart with warmth and anticipation as you gazed at the two small parallel lines that had appeared on the test.

A couple of hours later, you sat in your living room, wearing your favorite dress, counting the seconds until Choso walked through the door. The anticipation filled you with a mix of excitement and nerves; you could hardly wait to share the news. For Choso, the last two days had felt like an eternity. The longing to touch you, to kiss you, and to hold you close had been a kind of torture. Yet, as he opened the door to your shared apartment, he was met with an unexpected heaviness in the air. The familiar scent of home was tinged with something so foreign yet somehow familiar, a strange vibration that has been sending shivers down his spine whenever he approached you during the previous weeks. That same protective instinct he classified as the special way you always made him feel. Just now he understood how much of a fool he had been for underestimating it.

His sharp senses were now on high alert. Choso noticed immediately that you weren’t rushing towards him with your usual enthusiasm. Instead, you sat on the couch, a uniquely beautiful, radiant smile illuminating your features, but there was something in your eyes that made his heart skip a beat. He approached you cautiously, his brow furrowing in confusion as he took in the scene before him. 

Your gaze locked with his for a brief moment before you lowered your eyes to the small blue box that lay on the table in front of you. Choso’s heart raced as he approached the box, reading the unfamiliar brand name—Clearblue—etched on its surface. The moment he recognized the potential significance of the object wrapped in a delicate white bow, a wave of unadulterated panic flooded his mind. “What does this mean?” he asked, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.

“It means I’m pregnant, Cho!” you exclaimed fiercely, your eyes sparkling with the joy of the moment. “You’re going to be a father!”

The word “father” echoed in his mind, a jarring sound that sent his thoughts spiraling into chaos. What did it even mean to be a father? Choso had no idea about what that word ultimately meant. Was a father merely the individual who biologically contributed to the creation of a child, or was he the one who bore the weight of responsibility for that child’s life? In any case, he never knew what that meant. The foreign concept of parenthood unsettled him to the core, stirring an urge to flee from the situation entirely. He wasn’t ready for this, and the thought of becoming a father and possibly continuing the path of despair created by his own ‘creator’ filled him with dread.

Your face fell at the sight of his serious, unwavering expression. “Oh my god… this cannot be true…You—you don’t want this, right?” The realization that everything you had hoped for could crumble before your eyes shattered your heart. You had believed, with every fiber of your being, that your relationship was stronger than any obstacle, but now, standing before him, you felt the ground beneath you give way.

“H-How could this happen?” Choso’s voice was barely above a whisper, laden with confusion and disbelief. He couldn’t meet your gaze, unable to bear the sight of the pain etched across your features. His mind raced, grappling with the bizarre reality that his half-cursed cells could actually have made someone pregnant. The thought was as surreal as it was terrifying. 

You scoffed bitterly, your voice laced with sarcasm. “How could this happen? For real, Choso? I’ll tell you how it did happen: you must have gotten me pregnant on one of those early mornings when you woke up and held me tightly against your chest in bed  making love to me for hours, because ‘I was too soft to resist’; or maybe it was that night we went stargazing on the rooftop. Do you remember how you pushed me back down on you and finished deep inside me because you ‘needed to feel me for a little longer’? About how we slept -totally unbothered- the whole night still tangled up like that?” Your words dripped with disdain, each one a reminder of the intimacy you had shared. “You didn’t think about the consequences back then, did you? You know what hurts the most now: you did all of this while claiming you loved me all along…but how can you love someone and dread the idea of creating a future with them at the same time? You said you wanted to be with me forever...”

Choso collapsed on the sofa, frozen, his mind scrambling to process your words. “But you said… you said you were taking precautions…and…” His voice was weak, barely a whisper. The weight of the situation pressed down on him, causing his lungs to burn with anxiety.

Your humorless laugh filled the space between you, thick with despair. “Well, breaking news, Choso: precautions aren’t infallible… especially when you spend half the day nutting inside your girlfriend…”you yell to his face “Did you ever even consider that something like this could happen Choso?” You began to pace the room, your heart racing as tears of frustration threatened to spill. This definitely wasn’t how you had envisioned sharing the news of your pregnancy. You had known Choso lacked any form of experience when it came to relationships, but his shock over something so obvious still drove you mad. 

Choso was lost in a fog of disbelief, unable to comprehend the gravity of the situation. He remained seated, wiping his sweaty palms nervously against his thighs, eyes fixed on a distant point as a whirlwind of thoughts spun through his mind. The most terrifying of scenarios played out before him: the pictures of your smiling face and his mother's ones blurred in his brain and he imagined your fragile human body, corrupted by a life that should not exist, a parasite slowly draining you of your vitality. A parasite like the one he once was. No. He couldn’t lose you like that; he couldn’t bear the thought of you suffering as his mother had. Panic crept in, grasping at his throat and squeezing tighter.

“Okay…” he whispered roughly in between short, ragged breaths “we’ll get rid of ...it… and start again… just you and me…” The words desperately slipped from his lips before he could even figure them out, sharper than any blade. 

Silence hung heavy in the air as your heart shattered at his implied suggestion. Something undeniably broke the moment those cursed words cut through the air around you. Tears started to copiously stream down your face, and you could hardly believe what you had just heard. Deep down, you knew that Choso’s trauma was speaking for him, but the pain of his words cut deeper than anything else. 

“Y-You didn’t say that… You couldn't…I refuse to believe it, Choso…” you tried to deny it, your feet unconsciously stumbled back, your whole body recoiling as horror washed over you. Your shoulders slumped in defeat, hands raised defensively, trembling lips and puffy eyes betraying the turmoil within. Choso realized he had crossed a line just by taking a look at your shocked appearance, that he had just dug a deeper wound. What the fuck did he just say? He had fucked up and he didn't even know how to take it back.

“I didn’t mean… I—” He longed to reach out, to pull you into his arms and assure you that he hadn’t meant a word of what he said, but the words were stuck in his throat, the weight of his own thoughts holding him captive. “I cannot do this right now… I am sorry.” his child, his offspring…how could he have thought such a terrible thing?

With his hands tangled in his hair, Choso stood up abruptly and stormed out the door before you could stop him, leaving you in a whirlpool of confusion and heartbreak. He needed to run, faster than his fears, faster than the image of the disgust on your face, faster than the horrible scenario his mind conjured up.

You fell to your knees on the cold floor, sobbing as despair enveloped you. Your arms wrapped protectively around your stomach, you whispered promises to the life growing inside you. “I’ll protect you forever, even if it will be just the two of us.” Tears soaked your dress as you vowed eternal love to the child that had formed from the tender moments you had shared with Choso, while also grappling with the painful realization that this might be the last stop for your relationship….

Thanks for reading this far! Reblogs, comments and interactions are appreciated 💞

© Dreamingkitsunewrites. Don't copy or translate or my works without permission.

[littlelovelunette]

could you do vi x female reader but they start out as friends and reader is being abused by her bf? vi is there for her and also is secretly in love with her, and one night after reader has a terrible fight with her bf, she runs to vi for protection? maybe they end up together, maybe he dies?

My Hero

Contains angst, mentions of abuse, strangling, blood, possible trauma triggers, violence

"Open the door, please, please, hurry..." You whispered to yourself as you banged on, the only person who could protect you right now, Vi's door.

You both had a disagreement once again and of course it ended with him bashing your head against the wall, strangling you, whipping you with his belt as you pathetically wailed and howled for him to stop. But he didn't.

Thats what was different this time. Usually, he did stop after an extent.

But this time you were gasping for air and bled so much, there were bloodstains all over the kitchen counter and living room rug— signs of struggle and abuse before you made a run for it. For your life.

You could hear your boyfriend pulling up somewhere in the driveway just a few feet away before Vi opened the door.

"Hey, wha—"

You pushed your way inside and shut the door behind quickly locking it with all sorts of locks possible.

Your left eye was bruised and there was blood running down your temples. The hand marks on your neck was a clear sign of strangle struggling.

Your lip was busted as well. Vi's thumb grazed over your cut bottom lip, something akin to sadness in her gaze. "Again?"

She asked before pulling you in for a somewhat painful hug mainly due to all the belt whip marks that you had on your torso.

"Please," you pleaded. "Save me." Your voice was hoarse from all the screaming and begging he had put you through which was pointless as you thought back to it. It's not like he stopped.

"How bad is it this time?" Vi asked before she helped you seat yourself at the dining chair.

"Awful." You said wincing as Vi gave you an ice pack for your head. "He tried to kill me. He choked me so hard and I really thought I died then. I had to run away because he wasn't stopping even after I passed out for like... I don't know, 20 minutes into the abuse?"

Vi knelt down, hands holding yours.

"Sweetheart. I've tried to tell you so many times to leave him, I don't know why you never listen to me."

"You don't understand. I need someone to keep myself in check. Sometimes I'm a threat to myself because of how much I struggle mentally and I can't afford therapy— you know that." You reasoned and your voice was shaky as you did, you were probably seconds away from passing out.

"I'm here." Vi said before pausing and adidng. "I love you. I do."

"I love you, too." Your eyes softened before Vi cut in.

"No, not like that. Not platonic. Not anymore. I'm sorry, I have to tell you but—... We've been friends for like eight years now and everytime I've seen you get into a relationship, getting all giddy and happy, I didn't know why I was the one sulking. But I've come to terms with it, I don't sulk because I feel bad for not having a significant partner. I want to me to be YOUR significant partner." Vi looked down before she looked back up at you, blue eyes filled with so much love.

"Vi..." You whispered, hand slowly shifting to cup her face.

"I know. You're straight and you don't feel the same way. I didn't wanna tell you because I didn't want our friendship to get fucked up like this, but— look, I'm sor—" she began but then she was cut out when you smashed your aching swollen lips against hers.

Vi's hands came to grab your wrists as she kissed you oh-so passionately, tasting the iron like taste of your blood with so much love that you'd think she was a vampire.

But the truth was something that was now transparent and uncovered to the both of you. She loved you. You loved her. There was no abusive boyfriend about to stop that now.

You both took a moment to bask in the love you both agreed to share before Vi got up and looked at you with a pointed smirk.

"Want me to take care of him?"

You knew exactly that Vi's taking care meant and you weren't gonna lie— it was hot, heroic and just fitting for the dynamic the both of you shared.

A damsel in distress and a knight in shining armour.

Cliché, but real.

"My hero." You said, despite all your pain and past suffering you managed to smile back at her, but this wasn't teasing. It was genuine.

Just like her love for you.

[lady-phasma]

Martyrdom

The Vampire Armand x gn!reader

Warnings: not that many really, tragically over-dramatic comfort, implied canon trauma if you know a little about Armand’s history (book or series)

Summary: 1k words of 🥺 and comforting our beautiful monster.

a/n: so yeah, I had to work out some stuff between 2.07 and 2.08 because Armand needs some comfort. This is the most melodramatic thing I have ever written. This was going to be fem!reader but then it really wasn’t important to the comfort so it became gn!reader.

Armand didn’t stir as you walked in. His head was bowed, iPad balanced in one hand, tapping at the screen with the other. His dark curls framed his face. You knew he heard you, of course he did, but whatever was happening on his tablet was engrossing. You walked behind the sofa and rested your head on his shoulder. A glance at the screen showed you an online art auction. You smiled as you leaned down to kiss his neck, ear, and cheek. His singular focus wasn’t unusual but when you looked back at his iPad you saw the thumbnail and item description.

The Martyrdom of St. Sebastian - Marius de Romanus

You straightened up and let your hand linger on his shoulder for a moment. He wouldn’t move from that spot until he owned the painting.

When the bidding was closed he found you in the bedroom on your own iPad. You looked up as he walked in. The blank expression he wore was a familiar sight. He didn’t look sad or dejected as others might. Sometimes he simply didn’t emote. But his eyes would betray him. He didn’t make eye contact with you right away. However, he wouldn’t have come to you if he wanted to be alone.

He thought often, spoke less, about broken things, people he had loved. He rarely spoke of those who had broken him. Sometimes you caught a glimpse of him when he felt unobserved and the vacancy in his eyes would be filled with regret and remorse.

“You own a new painting?” You asked with no inflection. You closed the iPad’s cover and set it on the night stand as he sat on his side of the bed. His back was to you, shoulders stiff.

“Yes.”

“When will it arrive?” You didn’t really need to know, but wanted him to know you understood the significance.

“Approximately 4-6 weeks,” his tone was flat. “Possibly sooner.”

“When was the last time you saw it?”

“500 years ago, give or take.”

“‘Give or take?’” He couldn’t see your raised brows.

“492, I believe.” His shoulders slumped slightly.

“What’s the provenance?” You didn’t expect him to answer.

“Venice, Milan, Prague, a few years unaccounted for, then Berlin,” his tone had changed. Rather, there was now tone to his words. The mildest hint of pain colored the city names. It had changed so many hands. It wasn’t rare for a painting to have been sold before the fire. It was the nature of the painting and who you could assume may have commissioned it, that concerned you. Possibly it was for the Church, but more likely for a private patron. Even so, had it been in a church, a museum? Hundreds of eyes moved by the martyrdom of a real boy who they would never think about. Did they even think of the model for Sebastian at all or only of the saint and his ecstasy? If Armand had wanted you to know that a public institution had once held it he would have said. You didn’t press.

You watched him as he slipped off his shoes and turned to sit more comfortably. His long fingers toyed with the crease of his pant leg. He stared off, looking at nothing, for a moment. Then he turned to you. Your heart ached for him. It did from time to time when he would casually mention something from his past, but this was different. You had only seen an expression like this a couple times before. You looked at him, unsmiling, but with a soft gaze, no judgement. For a moment he looked as if he would speak then he closed his mouth, his lips forming a tight line.

Armand wanted to tell you about the nausea he felt, a peculiar feeling, increasingly rare at his age, when the alert had appeared on his phone. He wanted to tell you that he even had an alert for Marius’s name, but he couldn’t. He had never told you everything, there was far too much to tell. But he had told you the broad strokes. He felt he might never tell anyone all of the details, those he could remember, except in the rare moments of weakness when he was jealous of Louis’s and Lestat’s ability to reveal everything.

You sat up straighter and moved toward him. You gently touched his face. He leaned into your hand as you cupped his cheek. His brow furrowed slightly and he closed his eyes. You stroked his cheek with your thumb. You let your hand slide down to his neck. He sighed quietly and when he opened his eyes to look at you, he became every bit the ancient creature trapped in a young man’s body. Every wrong done, every hurt inflicted, every lie told, by him and to him, turbulent beneath his ageless façade. Over 500 years of mistakes, violence, atonement, none of it truly forgotten.

Your fingers gently caressed the back of his neck as you held his gaze. You couldn’t conceal the expression on your face, the compassion and disconsolation. Slowly you moved your hand to his shoulder and guided him toward you. Armand gave in. He rested his head in your lap, his body folded up alongside your outstretched legs. You leaned back against the pillows and headboard. One hand automatically began stroking his hair, smoothing it back from his face. The other lay against his back, making small circles with your fingers against his shoulder blade.

He felt his shoulders relax first, then the tightness in his chest began to fade. He hadn’t realized tears had started to well in his eyes until he closed them. None came, but he was unsure how long they would stay away this time. He sighed heavily and let himself soften against you. Your steady, consistent movements were a balm to the raging of conflicting emotions inside him. He would think of them another day, perhaps when the painting arrived. Now, in this moment, he could rest.

Note about the painting: The Martyrdom of St. Sebastian, Marco Basaiti (active 1496-1530 in Venice), located in Santa Maria della Salute, Venice

Masterlist

[sapphicandgraphic]

Crash

Summary: An accident pulls you and Melissa further into each other’s orbit.

Chapter: 3/4

The meeting passed in a blur. Melissa had a hard time following the agenda. She bounced her knee nervously until Barb laid a gentle hand on her thigh and she stilled. As soon as it was acceptable to leave, Melissa was up like a shot.

“Where are you going now?” Jacob asked. The redhead paused in the doorway, turning to fix him with a glare.

“Who’s askin’?”

“I was just wondering…” Jacob gulped, eyes darting around the table. “Does this have anything to do with a certain school psychologist?”

As soon as he mentioned you, Melissa’s gaze softened.

“Gregory shared that she wasn’t feeling well,” Barbara added. “Is there anything we can do?”

“Not feelin’ well,” Melissa laughed darkly, rocking back on her heels.

“I was trying to respect her privacy,” Gregory explained. “But that’s probably an understatement.”

Barabra’s eyebrows knitted together in alarm. “Why an understatement? What happened?”

Melissa opened her mouth to answer, then closed it, not trusting herself to speak. Gregory chimed in. “Car accident. She’s a little banged up.”

“Someone ran her off the road,” Melissa corrected. “And when I find out who it was, they’re gonna wish they’d never been born.”

Cries of outrage and concern rose up around the table, warming her Sicilian heart. “Has she seen a doctor?” Jacob demanded, already halfway out of his seat.

Melissa held up a hand. “Paramedics treated her at the scene. She has some broken ribs, a bunch of cuts and bruises—“

“And a concussion,” Gregory reminded her. At Melissa’s dumbfounded expression, he muttered, “Am I really the only one that took health class? Her pupils were dilated, she’s got a headache—“

“She’s sensitive to light,” Melissa breathed, awareness dawning on her features. “Oh Jesus, I left her alone in her office, what if she falls asleep?”

“That’s actually a myth,” Gregory supplied. “Sleep is an important part of the healing process after head trauma.”

“Oh, really?” Melissa spat. “Where’d ya get your medical degree, Web MD?”

Barbara walked over quickly and laid a comforting hand on her friend’s shoulder. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

“Hey, is Nurse Donna in today?” Janine asked, redirecting the conversation before Melissa could eviscerate her boyfriend. “Maybe she can stop by and —“

“That’s an excellent idea, Janine,” Barbara said, and the younger teacher beamed. “Check the infirmary. Jacob, why don’t you walk over —“

“Run over,” Melissa interjected.

“—and inform her of the situation.”

Jacob, practically vibrating with nervous energy, sprang from his chair and sprinted out of the room. Barbara squeezed the redhead’s hand, giving her a significant look. “Go. We’ve got this.”

She smiled sheepishly, mumbling a word of thanks. Then she was off again, hurrying back down the long hallway and up the stairs that led to your office. She was kicking herself for not noticing what had been so obvious to Gregory. Melissa had seen your helmet, after all. Just the memory of it made her queasy.

As she chastised herself, the image of your bloody t-shirt flashed in her mind again and she felt a cold spike of fury. Tonight she’d make some calls to her cousin. He had a friend that worked in the DMV. If the cops didn’t find the driver that ran you off the road, she would.

Melissa took a moment to rein in the twin tendrils of rage and vengeance crackling beneath her skin before stepping across the threshold of your office. She was relieved to see that almost everything was exactly as she’d left it. The only difference was that you had changed position, reclining fully on the small sofa. With a terrible stab of fondness, she noticed you had kicked your boots off and your feet (wearing mismatched wool socks) dangled over the edge of the low armrest.

She placed her hands on her hips and looked down at you for a moment, allowing herself to enjoy the sweetness of your face, soft and unguarded in sleep. You looked impossibly young.

The sight was somehow more intimate than seeing you shirtless and vulnerable in the bathroom, more intimate than touching your bare skin with her hands. She had the urge to gather you up in her arms, tuck you into bed, protect you from the fraught, perilous outside world. And it was in this moment, breath hitching in her throat, warmth flooding her chest, that the awful truth finally dawned on Melissa. She had fallen for you. Shit.

As quickly as the realization gripped her, she pushed it away. There would be time to work through these inconvenient emotions later, preferably with a bottle of wine and a few Nicholas Sparks movies (a course of treatment you might have some professional objections to, but hey, Melissa was a creature of habit when it came to heartbreak.)

She crouched down beside you and gave you a gentle shake.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” she whispered. “Can you wake up for me?”

Your features remained slack, as if she hadn’t spoken. Melissa frowned, saying your name a few times. You didn’t move. She raised a hand to your face, gently tapping your cheek. Still nothing.

A soft knock interrupted her rising panic. Nurse Donna stood in the doorway, carrying a small medical bag. Her kind face was schooled into a comforting expression as she surveyed the scene, wire rimmed glasses perched on the edge of her nose. Jacob hovered in the background, hands clasped together.

“I heard there was an accident?” Nurse Donna prompted.

The nurse was a fixture at Abbott. Her neat gray bun and no-nonsense demeanor had weathered many a medical emergency over the decades—broken bones, fevers, asthma attacks, allergic reactions. Melissa stood up and cleared her throat roughly, but her voice still cracked when she spoke.

“She ain’t wakin’ up, Donna.”

The older woman nodded calmly, stepping forward and taking control of the situation. She leaned over your prone form on the couch and placed a hand on your forehead, slowly lifting the lid of one eye and then the other, shining a penlight into your pupils. A few tense moments later you recoiled as if from a slap.

“There she is,” Nurse Donna crowed happily, reaching into her bag to retrieve a stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff.

Melissa sagged against the edge of your desk, relief spreading like a sweet antidote to the malignant venom of fear. Jacob entered the room and stood beside her. He didn’t say anything, but she appreciated his solid, warm presence flush against her side.

“M’lissa?” you slurred.

“I’m right here,” she answered, peering around the nurse to get in your line of sight.

“Had a funny dream.” Your voice was thick with confusion.

“Has she taken any medication?” Nurse Donna asked, affixing the cuff to your arm.

“Some Tylenol,” Melissa said. She plucked the bottle from the table and deposited it into the nurse’s outstretched hand. Donna gave it a cursory glance before continuing with her ministrations.

“Blood pressure is normal,” she reported. Next she listened to your heartbeat, carefully maneuvering the chest piece around to your shoulders, sternum, and lungs. Finally, she lifted your shirt high enough to inspect your ribs. Jacob gasped softly. Bright red blood had soaked through the gauze in several places. She pulled the bandage back, examining the large abrasions and purple bruises thoughtfully.

“Ouch,” she said.

Reaching back into her bag, she withdrew some antiseptic ointment and gently cleaned the wounds before applying a fresh dressing. Then, giving you one last affectionate pat on the cheek, she stood up and exited your office. Melissa and Jacob followed her out into the hallway.

“She does appear to have a slight concussion,” Donna confirmed. “But that’s not the reason she can’t wake up.”

She raised the bottle of pills and gave it a shake.

“Tylenol PM,” Jacob read, eyes widening.

“Combined with the general stress that tends to accompany blunt force trauma, I’d say these little guys are what’s making her so sluggish.”

Melissa closed her eyes. A calm hand landed on her shoulder.

“An honest mistake,” Nurse Donna soothed. “And, in hindsight, perhaps serendipitous! She needs rest, and I bet she’s not the type who goes down without a fight.”

Jacob laughed, nodding his head and jerking a thumb toward Melissa. “The only person more stubborn is —“

The redhead quirked an eyebrow at him, daring him to finish that sentence, but Jacob seemed to become suddenly fascinated by something on the floor and trailed off. Nurse Donna continued her report.

“My advice? Let her sleep it off. She should be more alert in a few hours. As for the rest of her injuries, there’s no quick fix. Ribs will heal on their own in a month or so. Ice will help the pain, but she won’t be doing any heavy lifting for a while. And she should keep the abrasions clean to avoid infection.”

Jacob looked at the redhead, relief plain on his face. “That’s good news, right?”

Melissa nodded. Though part of her still wanted to march down to the hospital and find the paramedics that had treated you. She had a few questions to ask them—like what the hell were they thinking, releasing you with a concussion? She hoped for their sake she never met them in a dark alleyway.

“I’d recommend someone sit with her, she might be disoriented when she wakes up,” Nurse Donna said. “Other than that, if you have any questions, just give me a ring!”

Then, with another comforting squeeze to Melissa’s shoulder and a little wave, she headed back to the infirmary.

“I can bring anything you need from your classroom,” Jacob offered.

Melissa shot him a grateful look. “Thanks, hon,” she said. “I owe ya.”

For a few hours, Melissa worked quietly at your desk. Every so often she would pause and watch the gentle rise and fall of your chest, but overall it was a blissfully uneventful way to pass the time after such a frantic and frightening start to the day. With every minute, she felt the tight coil of anxiety unwinding in her body. She was making good progress on a stack of ungraded tests, thought she might even get her marking done before lunch.

But then you whimpered.

It was a sound not of confusion or pain but something longing, needy. You shifted on the sofa, and made another breathy, keening noise in the back of your throat. Melissa’s mind went blank. The entire world seemed to shrink to your flushed face, your pink lips parted in a sigh of pleasure.

Melissa felt a flash of guilt for witnessing such a private moment, but it was eclipsed by curiosity—what (and who) were you dreaming about?

She knew that the breakup with your ex at the start of the summer had been messy. That you’d fallen back into bed with each other several times before you finally called it quits. And that since then, you’d spent a few nights with different people. It was these casual, faceless hookups that drove Melissa to distraction. Were you picturing some fast fuck in a dive bar bathroom? Reliving a night in a stranger’s apartment, being spread open by some other woman’s hands? The thought made her head foggy with lust, with outrage, with jealousy.

And then you clearly said one word.

“Melissaaaaaaa,” you whined softly.

The lead point of the pencil in her hand snapped, rolling away uselessly across the page she’d been marking. She looked down briefly, then back up to your supine form on the sofa. Your eyes fluttered open.

“Hi,” Melissa said, her voice hoarse. “Good dream?”

“You should know.” You licked your lips. “You were there.”

The confession was laced with none of your usual playful swagger. You were seized by the surreal sleepy clarity of desire, your entire body throbbed with it. She stood up and walked toward you on unsteady legs. Your eyes, bright and glassy, never left her face.

“How do ya feel?” she asked.

“Tired,” you said with a frown. “Like I can’t keep my eyes open.”

You shifted, making space for her on the sofa. She sat down and leaned against you, seeking out your fingers with her own and tangling them together absently. She explained the mix-up with the pain pills and you huffed in disbelief, a teasing smirk edging at the corners of your mouth.

“So you drugged me.”

Melissa squeezed her eyes shut. “Don’t be a brat.”

“You bring it out in me,” you insisted quietly, playing with the edge of her denim shirt. Then, still possessed by the fading memory of dream Melissa, you slipped your hand under the fabric, fingertips dancing along the curve of her bare hip. Your breath caught at her warmth, her softness.

“You’re delirious,” she said, looking down at you in wonder. You were close enough you could see the pulse flickering madly in her throat.

“Feels like I’m still dreaming,” you said, voice little more than a whisper.

“Go back to sleep, hon.”

You protested, but your eyes were already drifting closed. Melissa waited until she was sure you were out again then placed a kiss on your forehead. With great reluctance, she returned to your desk, ignoring the electric hum of affection and arousal stampeding through her body.

Slowly the rest of the day slipped away. When the sky outside began to deepen toward late afternoon, Barbara came to check on you both. She stood in the doorway for a few moments before Melissa noticed her. The redhead looked quite beautiful in the soft halo of lamplight. Her hair fell in a curtain over one shoulder. Every so often, her eyes darted toward your sleeping form. Barbara wondered what revelations the day had bestowed upon her stubborn friend, and what, if anything, would come from them?

She cleared her throat to announce her presence and pulled a chair up next to you on the sofa.

“How’s the patient?” she asked, running her hand over your forehead tenderly. You nuzzled toward her touch, but didn’t wake up.

Melissa leaned back from the desk and stretched, smiling as Barbara proceeded to brush hair out of your face and straighten the blanket draped across your chest, her mama bear instincts on auto-pilot.

“According to Donna, she’ll live.”

“Praise the Lord,” Barbara murmured.

Melissa hummed in agreement. “Wanna give me a hand? I’m gonna drive her home. She don’t look too comfortable on that little couch.”

Barbara helped Melissa pack up her things and together they roused you, walked you to the parking lot, and situated you in the passenger seat of her car. You thanked Barbara, still a little groggy, as she helped you buckle up. You were too tired to be embarrassed.

“Get some rest, dear,” she said, closing the door carefully. Then she turned to her friend. “I know you’ll take good care of her.”

Melissa nodded, looking away. “Yeah, Donna said she shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

Ok, maybe that was bending the truth a bit. But the fact remained you had a concussion, and you lived alone. Melissa couldn’t stomach the idea of dropping you off to an empty apartment. What you needed was a home-cooked meal, a warm bath, and someone to make sure you behaved. Her stomach flipped pleasantly at that last part.

Barbara didn’t press, just gave Melissa a long look before she spoke.

“Make sure you take care of yourself too,” she said, running a gentle hand up and down her friend’s arm. “You don’t always have to be so strong.”

She turned and walked to her own car.

“And call me if you need anything,” she added over her shoulder.

Then she drove away, leaving Melissa standing in the cold afternoon light.

Chapter 4

[toruforuu]

gojo satoru x reader || hogwarts au (18+)

wonderwall chp.3 summer’s passing

✼pairing: hogwarts au - slytherin!gojo x ravenclaw!reader

✼summary: gojo satoru, the golden boy of a famous family lineage of wizards sets his sights on you, a half blood defying his pureblood morals. he makes it a goal in his life to make yours a living hell. years of endless pestering, teasing and rivalry stretching out. as times goes on, he finds himself thinking about you more than he isn’t. he grows torn between his family’s beliefs and the forbidden ache tickling his chest whenever he sees you

✼meaning: wonderwall - the person you cannot stop thinking about (song by oasis)

✼genre/tags: hogwarts au, female reader, strangers to enemies/sort of academic rivals to forbidden lovers, slow burn, angst, eventual smut, pining and yearning (mostly gojo), built up tension, teasing, bickering and pestering, jealousy, slightly spoiled gojo, obsessed and lovesick gojo, both are pretty oblivious to their feelings

✼warnings: discrimination, death, grief, shitty parents, light bullying, mentions of hook ups, sexual topics, family pressure and trauma, mentions of injuries and violence, degradation, mentions of political views, escalating political situation, lgbtq representation

✼word count: 5.4k

✼chapter: 3/?

a/n: welcome and thank you for reading yet another chapter of my story! this one i am rather proud of, so much that it actually left me reminiscing about my prom. lmao, i wasn’t supposed to make myself sad. anyhow, we are finally seeing some significant shift and some corruption of their world. also gojo is kind of a jerk again, yikes

based on this // previous chapter // next chapter

˚⟡˖ ࣪:link to playlist

˚⟡˖ ࣪:link to vision-board

Gojo Satoru went into your fifth year reminiscing about summer which was very unlike him, hazing about the period of fruition, fulfilment and beauty. The season where you do not have to worry what day it is. A season which never captured his fondness. Was it the lack of simple magic which could be casted from the depths of the organ beating against his ribs with no actual logic behind it? Was it because he hadn’t met anyone worth making summer memorable for? Was it due to the reason it spoke a language he was never fluent in? Or perhaps it wasn’t summer he found himself thinking about throughout his free time which was mediocre at best, but he would never acknowledge that. He refused to.

Time flooded by as the students were sent off home to their families. Summer taking up its usual form of isolation from the outside world. Until one fairy night of June turned into warm July and he and his family were off to attend a meeting held in the muggle world, for it wasn’t a meeting honourable enough to be public and neither within the lines of accepted politics swirling in the wizard world. It wasn’t a meeting you wanted to be caught in by any member working for the ministry as it concerned a horrible scheming which was yet to unfold to the wizard world. The Gojo family was one of the few on the list of special picked attendees, their pureblood linage earning them a place in the gathering evil.

The three of them strode through a less busy street of the capital city where they passed hundreds of muggles hurrying through their own lives who occasionally glanced at the abnormality of their sculptured features, the discarding hardened gazes and actions of the Gojo’s spoke louder than their words ever could. Though Satoru couldn’t care less about attending the meeting, he went to keep his parents at bay and out of curiosity since he didn’t get to visit the human world often. His eyes weren’t as judgmental as his parent’s, he took in the surroundings lightly. The construction of the non wizard world looking plain and flavourless, it wasn’t anything he would admire but it wasn’t something to be hated either.

He was couple of steps behind his parents when his orbs wandered towards the other side of the pavement across the main road. That’s where he captured your frame walking down the bustling street with an older man by your side. He pieced it together quite quickly, it must have been your father. A part of him almost froze at the sight of you being so casual and carefree. It felt odd to see you in your natural habitat. One he wasn’t allowed to be a part of. Yet there you were. Only across the road from him, strolling down the street as ice cream dripped down the curve of your hand. A tote bag decorated with ton of trinkets thrown over your shoulder, bouncing against your hip as you moved. A long white linen skirt reaching down to your ankles, the fabric dangling as the wind-chime breeze hit. Your hair was put together by a clip, messily keeping it from coming undone as your lips moved while answering your father. A soft smile plastered on them — one he wasn’t used to seeing — as you laughed at your conversation. Birds chipped in the background followed by a rustling sound of cars driving by along with a mixture of sweat and citrusy perfume hanging in the air. And you, totally unbeknownst to his presence.

If he hadn’t known, he would never guess you were a wizard like him. It struck him then, you were a part of the wizard world as much as the human one. Something he hadn’t thought of before and it left him feeling somewhat uneasy.

It was his mother’s voice pulling him out of the trance he wasn’t aware he was in, causing his gaze to snap back ahead of himself. She scolded him for not paying attention, demanding an explanation. To which he frowned as he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Instead of responding, Satoru’s head tilted in the other direction to scan the apartment buildings in order to push aside the other need to glide his eyes over to your direction again. Meanwhile his mother scanned you from the corner of her eye after she pointed your father out in the crowd of bodies. His mother didn’t press further, letting it slip regardless of her gut feeling warning her.

The memory of you in your linen skirt — similar to a myth, washed over by a wave of present haunted him. He questioned if it was a mere corruption of his own mind toying with him as he was comprehending whenever you were truly strolling down the street or if you were a creation of his fantasy after he replayed the passing moment far too many times. The reminder of your existence and how little he knew added an ode to his low opinion of summer, he wasn’t a fan of it.

Satoru navigated his free time into another direction, different from what he was used to. Rather than staying at his family mansion and spending the time by himself, he welcomed the society parades and balls his family dealt with and organised from time to time. He wasn’t lazy before, simply had no interest. Yet now, he went out of his way by seeking out distractions, meeting up with friends from school. Friends who grew up in the same aspect as he did, fed with silver spoons and whose families had a similar rank in the wizard society — filling his space with people who didn’t make him wonder endlessly as you did. He allowed himself to be swept off his feet this particular break if it meant he would be freed of the thought of you and your stupid flowy skirt.

You considered you were hallucinating for a good moment that one July evening when you picked upon a flash of artic locks shimmering due to the sunlight in the crowd. However, before you could grasp it as you blinked away the blinding sun, the thought of what you were seeing got lost in the busy street. It left a pang of confusion stirring within you, but you brushed it away as you found it immensely impossible and ridiculous to bump into him out of all people in the human world.

The first week of September rolled around soon enough and the weather turned unreasonably, insistently rainy. The sky turned grey, the air was sharp and chilly and the sun no longer beamed. The rain made the ground muddy instead and so came the bittersweet impatience of autumn again. By then, even the professors knew better than to put you and Satoru Gojo anywhere close to each other. Students from years above and below were painfully aware of your tricks against one another. And those who came quickly learnt how things worked between you. Whenever they saw it play out on the field or in the hallway.

Though the fifth year appeared to be special for one more reason. The Yule ball — an addition of sparkles, warming up the already cheery mood as Christmas was approaching. It was a diamond, casting a bright light over everybody, one so rare it outshone anything unpleasant leading up to it. You saw it as a highlight to look forward to, however, you knew such things could be marked as a once in a lifetime opportunity, one that would be carved to your memory for evermore and passed down. So it too left a sentimental hole in your chest. The moment hasn’t come by yet and you were already missing it, mourning the cruel passage of time.

Originally you looked forward to spending the evening with the three of your friends you gathered throughout the years, amongst them your dearest friend Arabella with whom you share your dorm-room and a set of twin sisters whose hair was the colour of raven’s feathers. Their eyes painted like the depths of the Forbidden forest, their frames enveloped in robes embroidered with yellow as their house was Hufflepuff, making their eyes stand out even further. Turns out life itself had other plans for the four of you. It was you who sort of torn up the first plan apart. Or rather someone else did it for you. And in hundreds of years you would not once be able to phantom a reality where the guy you had a crush on would persuade you too. But here it was.

You had first taken notice of him during practice in your third year. Ravenclaws and Gryffindors were on the field together since there had been a mistake in scheduling the accessibility of it. And since then he’s been lingering in your mind, during classes as well as on quiet afternoons. It’s been almost two whole years and you haven’t mustered up the courage to speak to the Gryffindor’s beater outside of quidditch practices or matches.

The turn of events happened on a random Monday morning two weeks before the actual ball. A morning on which you somehow overslept, you never slept through your alarm so it seemed it was scripted for you to bum into the guy you took a secret liking to. You quickly mustered up a greeting as you passed him near the Astronomy tower, rushing footsteps echoing in the hallway. A sound of your name ringed through the walls which put you to an abrupt stop, turning to face the amber eyed dirty blonde beater who made your heart beat quicken with a simple gaze so hearing your name falling from his lips almost caused you an entire heart attack. The conversation was awkward at first as the guy questioned you, subtly suggesting if you managed to find yourself a date for the ball. You were utterly and wholeheartedly oblivious to his intentions so you went through embarrassing comebacks between one another. Until the Gryffindor actually decided asking you directly would be the best option. Seems like he was rather nervous about talking to you as well.

Out of overbearing shock, you stumbled out a question, asking if you were hearing him right. To which he simply laughed and nodded, the sound sending you over the edge as it charmed a genuine smile upon your lips. You accepted and just like that, your life took an unexpected turn you never would’ve seen coming.

Later that same week as the ball keept getting dangerously closer, the white haired Slytherin made sure to stop by and poke you as it was his habit.

“Why sulking? Afraid you won’t fetch yourself a date for Yule ball?” a familiar smooth voice called out which made you stop reading mid sentence and look up from your lap where you had your notes carefully sprawled out. You blinked at him as if to properly comprehend what he said before your brows furrowed automatically.

“I am not sulking, Gojo,” you replied calmly, giddy from being asked out earlier this week, but it still had a bitting undertone to it. He stood still, masked in the Slytherin’s uniform in front of you and your friends, barely sparing them any attention. His hair wasn’t neatly kept, strands of crestfallen hair peaking out of all directions. The green tie on his neck was loosened as he slightly hovered above you, his porcelain skin glowing due to the light casted at him from the nearby window. Iridescent eyes full of mischief and playfulness stared down at you. It was no doubt he was gorgeous. Both of you grew into your teenage features and it served him justice. If only his attitude had been better, possibly then you would bring yourself to admit you found him charming too. In a way.

“As a matter of a fact, I already have a date,” you shrugged nonchalantly trying to appear cool, not entirely sure why you felt the need to inform him on the situation.

“Bet you do,” he snickered, not believing a word you just said and then he was gone as quickly as he spawned. The smallest part of him thought you might be telling the truth, however, he was quick to reject that idea as his chest felt a bit heavier so he rather focused on how he’d mock you when you’d show up unescorted to the ball.

“He will be in for a shock,” the younger of the twins called Beatrice said when the mischief itself was out of earshot and all of you then laughed out loud. You fantasised of countless scenarios on how the ball would go, each one having its significance as well as the moment of truth when Gojo Satoru would realised what you said was indeed true. You were excited to have him disappointed as you would actually show up with a very real date by your side.

“Does he already have a date?” the older twin Dorothy beamed a second later, her voice dripping with curiosity as her gaze followed the boy in the distance.

“Without a doubt,” Arabella chuckled as she cut her down before she could get any wrong ideas.

It was no secret that Satoru Gojo rapidly went up on the scale of swooning the ladies as he transformed into a young man, making him a heartthrob.

He was after all the living legend and the spitting imagine of his father, so it was no-brainer why.

“You wouldn’t go out with him, would you?” your gaze tilted towards the older twin with your lips almost turned downward in disgust.

“I dunno, maybe,” she joked around while somehow still being serious. At that you simply shot her a questionable look, you weren’t able to wrap your head around the fact that not even your friends were immune to his charm. It left you feeling like an alien in an enemy territory

“What? He’s nice to look at,” she whispered in addition, her voice cracking softly with an undertone of dreaminess. To which you only huffed, not wanting to judge her or acknowledge it any further.

For Satoru Gojo it hadn’t come off as grand, the ball was simply a formal occasion he was not too thrilled to attend as he came across countless of the same kind throughout his life. It didn’t cause his days to blend together into a blur like it did for you. Actually, the dazzling wizard found himself fixated on the summer’s passing and hyperventilating over his newly discovered sense of emotions and their unknown meaning rather than a dumb ball. By that time he was all too familiar with the tingling feeling enveloping his chest whenever someone struck up a mention of you in between sentences. It wasn’t normal, something he definitely shouldn’t be feeling for someone like you. He sensed it creeping over his shoulder within the first weeks of school as winter approached. It evoked fear and swirled his emotions into a denial, refusing to put a label on the gnawing torture, choosing to stay oblivious to it all.

His two friends whose parents knew his talked him into going out to the small village of Hogsmeade on a random Saturday morning. It was the weekend before the special event which caused the entirety of Hogwarts to go a tad crazy. So it was no wonder the place was jammed, when he and his peers busted through the wooden door leading to one of the most popular pubs, as it too was only a week before everyone would depart home for the winter break.

Satoru’s gaze briefly glided over the space as he and his friends immediately went in to order at the main desk. As they waited for their order, he leaned against the bar with his elbows while chatting up his friends as well as greeting everybody whose face resigned a hint of recognition. At one point his eyes caught yours on accident, you quickly looked away into the remains of the butter-beer you were sipping on and the gesture didn’t go unnoticed by him.

You weren’t alone, you and the three other girls whose names were short-lived in his memory sat in the very corner of the busy place. His gaze stayed firm in your direction, pondering if you would give in and look his direction one more time. He opened his mouth about to point you out teasingly to his friends, a grin forming in the corner of his lips but the words died quickly on his tongue as the alluring presence suddenly seemed to radiate off you, the one he couldn’t cipher out.

He bit down onto his tongue, his lips sealed to keep your presence a secret from his company, deciding to leave you alone for once. Then a small soft huff identical to a smile painted his expression. He felt a nudge in his side then which forced him tear his gaze away from you, the hint of a smile dissolving.

Just this time, he thought to himself as they walked away from the bar with their order. Sitting down at one of the tables on the other side of the packed place, not daring to let his orbs wander towards you again.

Your heart drummed against your ribs, afraid he would come crashing down your little circle. A flash of relief pierced through you as the ball of white fur disappeared somewhere out of your eyesight.

The actual ball itself arrived along with the end of the week, an ending closing up yet another chapter of the school year. The Great Hall took an unusual shape during the Yule Ball. Adorned with shimmering icicles and twinkling fairy lights hanging from the ceiling. The hall was transformed into a winter wonderland, complete with elegantly draped banners and a magnificent ice sculpture centerpiece. Trees were nestled at the end of the long room, draped in snowflakes and Christmas decorations. The long tables were lavishly set with festive treats, while the magical atmosphere beamed with floating candles that illuminated the joyous celebration. And despite the cold outlook of the space, it brought nothing but warmth into the hearts of all present.

The celestial eyed wizard chose a tailored suit featuring a sleek silhouette which radiated elegance, making it perfect for a grand ball such as that. He planned on wearing something less fancy as he did not care much for the occasion, however, he was convinced by his date to switch up his original idea. The rich navy colour enhanced his features while the finely stitched details and classic lapels ensured a polished look, serving his high rank.

He was dragged by his date into the hall earlier than he would’ve liked, being one of the very first ones to appear. Satoru Gojo used that time to converse with his friends rather than the date he tagged along with him. She was in the same year as the both of you, sharing his house and more importantly belonging to a pureblood family. She was someone his parents would approve of, maybe that’s why he chose to go with her. Not that it was of any significant, he didn’t plan on keeping her around for long. Other than that, she was beautiful. Shiny jet-black hair, crystalline eyes. Slender and tall figure.

The ball was about to be marked as started by the headmaster any moment and his grin widened as he figured you were too embarrassed to show up without your imaginary date in the end. Sense of victory coursed through his veins, yet it was quick to deflate when a group of people hurried through the decorated wooden door hanging open at last second. Seven figures making their way inside with quick steps. His eyes first registered the pair of twins rushing in with their partners at the front of all the other people, then it was Arabella whom he noticed lingering behind them. He pointed you out the last as you were hidden by your friendly gathering, on purpose almost. He felt as it were July again, that one particular evening in which the weather was a bit too unbearable, and he saw you living your silly life in the streets of the capital city. Satoru remembered it vividly, you walking down the alley with your father.

Wait. He counted seven people.

He focused his sight properly, only then noticing your arm was interlocked with another. He did not appreciate how his chest battled a new unfamiliar tightening. His trance was altered by the sudden stillness of movements, everyone turning to face the headmaster. So he did the same.

The headmaster welcomed each student, wishing all a pleasant evening and nice holidays. Satoru didn’t listen, he couldn’t give a damn about a supposedly heartfelt speech which probably remained the same for centuries. A sense of urgency embodied him, eyes peaking into your direction. Capturing your beautifully dressed presence as well as the presence of your date. Of course he knew who it was. A face he saw pretty often while up in the air on his broomstick, a face he hadn’t felt like acknowledging too much. Till now.

The night went two opposite directions for you.

You were ecstatic as you couldn’t picture the night being any more perfect. Surrounded by friends, enveloped in arms of somebody for whose attention you longer for. And for the first time in eternity, your rival’s presence did not tickle you insufferably against your will.

You stood by the ridiculously stretched out tables in your dress while nearly tearing up at the headmaster’s speech. Your dress was crafted from ethereal blue tulle, set with a cascade of silver sequins that danced like stars in the night sky against the fabric. Each sequin caught the light in a different angle, charming up a touch of awe to your presence. The delicate layers of tulle added a whimsical silhouette to your frame, perfect for twirling under the soft candlelit glow. The dress too featured a fitted bodice that accentuated your waist, while the flowing skirts still allowed you to move gracefully without any trouble. Your neck was decorated with silver jewels borrowed from your mother, crafted with perfection in the human world.

The first stop of the night was a feast where you had multiple options to chose from. It took up at least an hour and a half, the hall filled with laughter and pure carefree demeanour as tunes of violin echoed through the wintery hall. The seven of you remained seated long after you finished gobbling up dinner. You filled your time together with chatter, getting to know each other. Especially you and your date. You worried at first that your conversations would be awkward and shallow, yet it reflected in the opposite way, catching you by a surprise. The flow of the conversation was smooth with no unnecessary pauses nor fake laughter. It felt natural and you could sense your heart melting into the shape of his palm.

The dance floor soon filled with couples. You gracefully accepted when your date offered you a dance with a mere charming hand gesture. You picked up your skirts, allowing him to guide you to the dance floor. Your insides nearly exploded from bliss as your hands collided together, his grip securing your upper hip in a formal manner along with your hand landing gently on his broad shoulder. You stood close to the other, bodies couple of inches apart. The world around you two was put to a pause, your eyes glued to each other and God, your cheeks started to hurt from how much you were smiling at that point.

And for the first time you were grateful to your father who was the one to teach you those basic steps of waltz, saving you from embarrassment.

Couple of meters away from you was Satoru, swaying his body in familiar steps of waltz in synchrony with his date. His hand lazily draped over her hip as his gaze nearly shamelessly wandered, flickering towards you each time an opportunity opened. The organ granting him vision glided over your frame, capturing the way your limbs moved — casting an illuminating strings of dazzling sparks, the sequins sewn to the fabric of your dress to praise for that.

You danced till your feet felt sore and your throat dry. You excused yourself then and headed towards the table with the non alcoholic punch, filling your own glass with the red-ish liquid.

“Got a spare one?” the voice of your friend Arabella called out from behind your back. You instantly handed her a cup you had just filled with a hint of smile, nodding your head for her to take it. And when she did with a sliver of hesitation, you filled up another for yourself.

You both sipped at the punch while standing by the side of the dance floor, sugary taste lingering in your mouth.

“You should ask her for a dance, she’s all alone now,” you spoke as you shot your glance towards the girl on the opposite side of the dance floor which was packed with people to the brim. Then you hazily turned to your left where Arabella was standing beside you.

“I don’t know, Y/N, it doesn’t seem like a good idea,” she replied nervously, shaking her head and fiddling with the glass in her hands clumsily. She barely looked up from the ground, refusing to meet your understanding gaze. You could only smile at her attempts to hide her frustration.

“You’ll never know if you won’t try, Ara,” you leaned in closer to her, gently placing a hand on her upper back, your voice dropping an octave causing to sound more like whisper due to the vocal music blasting.

Her body remained still, taking small shaky breaths.

“Go!” you encouraged her one more time, squeezing her flesh lightly to send her off. To your upmost surprise she barged into the pack of bodies, pushing to the other side with fierceness you rarely saw in her. As a good friend you watched over her, it was hard to map out the situation as people dance, blocking your vision of her. Your heart pumped in your chest, praying she wouldn’t be let down.

And you could relax seconds later when the dance floor was awarded with one more pair. You felt giddy for the success of your friend, sending her thumbs up as well as nodding your head proudly in approval.

Meanwhile Satoru and his group of misfits sneaked outside the Great hall to the courtyard right outside the main entrance. The cold immediately kissing his cheeks, causing them to flush pink. He and his group of friends, including his date, leaned against the stone railings and used the pillars as a cover in case some authority decided to check the outside as well. One of his friends revealed a bottle of alcohol hidden safely under the wing of his jacket. So they began passing it down between one another, the chilly feeling in his bones soon replaced with warmth rushing down his throat and spiking straight into his system. Couple of mindless mouthfuls later and he was done for.

He stumbled back inside when you were still finishing up your glass of punch, eyes steadily checking up on your friend. Unfortunately for you, the table with the punch lingered near the entrance so it wasn’t hard for him to depict you from the rest.

“Honestly? Thought you knew better than to go after someone like him,” he mumbled with sheepishness etched into his features, his usual straight posture slightly slumped and lips smudged with pink lipgloss. And it became obvious very quickly that he was under the influence, the sight of him sickened you more than usual.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked rather confused, taking a step away from him as his breath carried an essence of the substance.

“You know exactly what I mean,” the virtue himself slurred the words out slowly, looking disheveled which you never expected him to be since he looked after his imagine quite well till now.

Satoru Gojo might have not acknowledged your date much before-hand, however, he had a box ticked when it came to the guy. He was the same as him. In a sense he couldn’t put to words at that precise moment and it scared him, knowing you trusted him.

“You’re insufferable,” you hummed with a light shaking of your head, crossing your arms on your chest as you gripped your glass tighter, overcoming need to splash the sweet nectar in his perfect face swallowing you.

“You can’t let me have night for myself, can you?” the sound of your voice jolted him back to reality regardless of how unpleasant your tone pointed at him sounded.

“Just looking out for you, sweetheart,” Satoru chuckled, flashing his boyish features. The sugarcoated nickname didn’t escape your senses and neither did the colour pink painting his cheeks, the alcohol to blame this time.

He made you feel utterly stupid.

“I have things to do, so excuse me,” you breathed out heavily after a pause hung between you for an awkwardly long time as his behaviour put you at loss for words.

“Surprised someone even went out with ya,” he admits as if it were the most obvious thing while scanning your eyes. And you wished it didn’t mean anything to you, you didn’t want his words carrying meaning. Yet, it cracked your heart a little as he spoke the words into the open.

It was not anger nor irritation which bubbled in your stomach, it was dejection.

“Go to hell, Gojo,” you uttered the words bitterly before disappearing into the dance floor, leaving him to fed for himself. And once again, Satoru overcame his inner battle of emotions causing what he did best.

Malice. The only way he knew, only one he learnt.

The short-lived interaction caused the joy of the event to be plagued, leaving its unforgettable mark behind. You continued to sway your hips to the music, you laughed again and again at the stupid jokes your date cracked to cheer up your gloomy mood, you patiently listened to Arabella’s rambling about her conversation with the girl she had her eyes set on for quite some time. And in spite of that, nothing could make the strange heaviness disappear from nestling in your chest, his intrigues stealing part of the magic. Ruining the night’s sweetness.

Perhaps it would ease your mind to know the rest of the night went even worse for the popular prodigy. He went on ignoring his date, paying attention to his friends and their rather pretentious attempts at embarrassing themselves. And when he turned to face the girl beside him about to ask her if she wanted to get out of there, she was nowhere to be seen.

Leaving him to his drunken bereft and reeling.

On the other hand, you ended the night on the same note you started it on as you soon enough found yourself preoccupied with presence of your friends as well as your date.

By the end of the ball, glitter was sprawled on the floor as you sat at one of the tables, accompanied by your friends. Arabella was lying down on the table, cheek pressed against the wood while her mouth remained slightly parted as it was well past midnight, the winter break starting. She was dozing off and you couldn’t help but admire the fleeting moment. Forgotten pair of shoes thrown under the table. Last couples dancing to the slowly dying instrumental music. The chatter getting more hushed and careful with most of the people already gone.

You yearned for the ability to freeze time so you could drink the moment into your memory. Those moments. Our lives are made up of a series of moments. If one is lucky enough, they’ll get hundreds, even thousands of them. Small moments. Moments when you’re doing something so mundane you aren’t realising you’re in a moment. There are also big moments, such as this one. Some are life changing moments, we have less of those than we are aware of. And precisely those will be in your mind for awfully long time.

Keep them all safe, you heard your mother’s voice ringing in your ears and you could simply smile.

Because this was one of those moment.

credits for dividers: [@enchanthings-a @cafekitsune]

[aventurineswife]

Hii! It's the same Anon who asked the sibling like Reader with the Astral Express! Could I request another one, but with Reader welcoming Sunday with open arms? Thanks!

- 🌱

A Place to Belong

Summary: Sunday, a new member of the Astral Express, finds himself unsure about his place among the crew. You welcome him with open arms, offering kindness and reassurance as he begins his journey of healing and self-discovery. Through heartfelt conversations and genuine connection, Sunday starts to see the Express not just as a means of redemption but as a home and family.

Tags: Sunday x Reader, Platonic, Found Family, Comfort and Healing, Emotional Introspection, Light Humor, Fluff with a Hint of Melancholy.

Warnings: Mentions of past mistakes and guilt, Subtle references to emotional trauma, Themes of redemption and self-acceptance.

The Astral Express hummed softly as it floated through the endless expanse of stars. You stood by the observation window, gazing at the universe outside, yet your thoughts lingered elsewhere. Himeko had announced earlier that a new member would be joining the crew today—someone named Sunday. From her tone, it was clear he carried a past as intricate as the galaxies you traversed.

You couldn’t help but feel a pang of excitement. Welcoming new members to the Express had always been your forte. Something about offering a safe space to someone starting anew warmed your heart, and you hoped today would be no different.

The sound of measured footsteps broke your reverie. You turned, and there he was.

Sunday stood with an ethereal grace that could only belong to a Halovian. His hair shimmered under the soft lights of the cabin, and his golden halo, marked with eye-like symbols, floated behind his head like a quiet sentinel. His eyes, sharp yet melancholic, scanned the room before landing on you. A faint flutter of his feathered wings—adorned with golden studs—betrayed his hesitance.

You smiled warmly and stepped forward. "You must be Sunday. Welcome aboard the Astral Express. I’m [Name]."

For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze distant as though weighing the significance of your words. Then, with a small nod, he replied, “Thank you. It’s...a pleasure to be here.” His voice was gentle, airy, yet carried an undercurrent of weariness, like a lullaby sung by someone too tired to sleep.

You tilted your head, reading between the lines of his composed demeanor. “It’s okay to feel a bit out of place at first,” you offered. “Everyone here has their own story, their own baggage. You don’t have to shoulder everything alone anymore.”

His wings shifted slightly, a flicker of something—surprise, perhaps?—crossing his face. “You’re kind,” he said softly, his halo shimmering faintly as though reflecting his emotions.

“Kindness is free, you know,” you teased, though your tone was lighthearted. “Let me show you around. I think you’ll find the Express is more than just a train. It’s a home.”

He hesitated for a heartbeat before nodding. “Lead the way.”

As you guided Sunday through the train, pointing out everything from the archives to the observation car, you made sure to keep the conversation easy and casual. He listened intently, occasionally offering a quiet comment or question. Still, his responses were measured, as though he were testing the waters of trust.

When you finally reached the lounge, you plopped onto one of the plush sofas and gestured for him to do the same. “So,” you said, leaning forward, “what made you decide to join the Express?”

Sunday’s wings folded neatly behind him as he sat, his eyes lowering. “I’ve...been searching for something,” he began slowly, his voice tinged with an almost imperceptible sorrow. “Redemption, perhaps. A way to reconcile the choices I’ve made with the person I wish to become.”

You listened without interruption, sensing the weight of his words. When he paused, you spoke, your tone gentle but firm. “I think the fact that you’re here means you’ve already taken the first step. Nobody on this train is perfect. We’re all just trying to do our best, one day at a time.”

Sunday looked at you, his expression softening. “Do you believe that even the most flawed among us deserve a second chance?”

“I don’t just believe it—I live by it,” you replied earnestly. “And you’re no exception, Sunday. Whatever you’ve been through, whatever mistakes you’ve made, you’re here now. That counts for something.”

His halo flickered faintly, and for the first time since meeting him, a faint smile touched his lips. “You remind me of someone I used to know,” he murmured.

“Hopefully someone you liked?” you joked, leaning back with a grin.

Sunday chuckled softly, the sound light yet laced with a bittersweet undertone. “Yes,” he said simply. “Someone I liked very much.”

The hours passed in easy conversation, your words weaving a tapestry of welcome and understanding. By the time the train dipped into a calm pocket of starlight, Sunday’s guarded demeanor had relaxed ever so slightly.

“Thank you, [Name],” he said as you walked him to his quarters. “For...making this easier than I expected. I didn’t realize how much I needed that.”

You smiled, giving him a playful nudge. “That’s what siblings are for, right? You’re part of the family now, Sunday. And family looks out for each other.”

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, the melancholia in them seemed to lift. “Family,” he repeated softly, as though testing the word. “I think I’d like that.”

As he stepped into his room and the door closed behind him, you felt a sense of fulfillment. Sunday might have been searching for redemption, but here on the Astral Express, he had found something just as important: a place to belong.

[voidreynolds]

beautiful nightmare | bob reynolds

[ and the void, and sentry] *part two of a very clear something

summary: a month after the events of the void, bob starts remembering everything. the others started treating him differently, avoiding him, treating him like a time bomb about to explode and destroy the world again. you were the only one who didn’t avoid him, refusing to push him away, not letting him push you away; still keeping him close to you.

content warnings: 18+: significant dark, heavy themes but no smut. slightly toxic relationship, angst, dark themes, mental health struggles, very heavy bpd representation, self harm mentions and implied, implied abuse, sexual themes, violence, ptsd, trauma, panic attacks, degrading (not in that way) reliving trauma, mention of death, panic attack, nightmares, choking (not in that way), void. (thats it, just void as a warning) ….fluff! (i promise)

**i apologize in advance: this is mostly not happy. this was supposed to be two parts but now it will be three because i still haven’t even gotten to the main prompt and plot i had for this…

bob was muttering slightly in his sleep, shifting around, thrashing around under the sheets. you yelped slightly as a foot kicked out, making contact with your calf, then again when his arm flailed, coughing as it slapped against your throat. bob jolted slightly as you made a choking sound. you rubbed your throat, sitting up slightly, trying to silently get air back into your lungs. bob jerked around, his breath inextricably becoming quick and shallow. you massaged your neck, tears blurring your eyes slightly, “bob-“ you coughed again, climbing back over to bob, shaking him gently. “bob–“ you shook him more frantically as he began hyperventilating. “bob! bob!” you were getting more i worried as he didn’t wake up. he was sometimes a deep sleeper, but you had to pull him out of his nightmare.

“robert. hey. hey… bob… bob. baby… hey-“ he inhaled sharply, eyes snapping open, pupils blown wide. he was soaked in sweat, breaths rapid and uneven. he was looking around the room frantically, fists gripping the sheets tightly. “bob.” he was staring at the wall; same expression, same rapid breathing. you shifted again, climbing behind him. you wrapped your arms around him, squeezing tightly. he tensed when your fingers tucked under his shirt. his breath shook slightly, a sniffle, almost like he was crying. you buried your face into neck, ignoring the sweat on his skin and his sticky curls against your cheeks. bob relaxed finally, sinking into your touch. “hey,” his breathing calmed as you kept your arms around him, whispering in a soft voice against his skin. he hiccuped slightly. another sniffle. “baby.. are you…” he turned before you could finish the question, collapsing into your lap and hugging your waist. he buried his face against your stomach. he was shaking slightly, eyes squeezed shut tightly. “tell me about it..?” bob shook his head against you, taking deep breaths as he tried to ground himself. you started playing with his hair and he sank into you even more, “you know it helps to talk to me about it. you can’t keep it in…” the lights flickered above your head and you tensed slightly. “you…” bob’s voice shook. the lights flickered again, the nightstand vibrating beside you. “you died.” the voice was deeper, haunted, raspy…dark. you took in a sharp breath. bob was fighting for control. “bob, stay with me.” his breathing grew rapid again. “bob...” your voice was a warning; it shook slightly, failing to hide your fear. the lights flickered once more, then dimmed fully. “no.” the voice gave you chills. the room dropped several degrees. the only light was from the stars that blinked in from the window. and the glowing eyes that now stared at you, inches from your face.

“shit—“ it came out before you could stop it. you didn’t move, not wanting to let it know you were terrified. “you can’t hide your fear from me.” you sucked in a breath, heart racing. “i can sense your heart racing. i can… feel it.” his hand grabbed your shirt, fisting the fabric as he pulled you against him. “so….fragile. so…” he stroked your face, and a puddle of blood flashed in your mind. “no…” it came out as a whimper, not wanting to go back to that day again. “so broken.” you faught the tears filling your eyes; that was exactly what it wanted. “stop.” it hummed in disapproval, tilting his head slightly. “pathetic little speck, really. you think you can help him? you let your sister die.” “no… stop.” your voice had lost it’s fight; tears stinging as they ran down your cheeks. “you couldn’t save anyone. why do you think you can help him at all? you are just as useless and screwed up as he is.” “please stop…” you felt a tightness in your chest, your head throbbed as you forced yourself to keep resisting. “beg.” “i won’t.” another memory slammed into your mind. you were pinned to the ground. “stop-! stop…” you felt nausea rise in your stomach, twisting, blurring your vision.

“beg.”

“why are you doing this..?” you knew you couldn’t fight him much longer. you were crying, knees feeling weak as you trembled slightly, backed up against the headboard. “because he deserves it.” he. it was using you to hurt bob. “you’ll be relieved to know that instead of showing him real memories- and every shameful thing he’s done, i’m showing him many ways that you could die.” “no—“ it tilted it’s head again, “the nightmare i gave him was almost enough to break him. but not quite… i think soon, however, he’ll break completely and give me full control again.” full control… bob was still in there somewhere, maybe trying to fight back again. you felt your chest tighten, “let him go.” “i told you-“ it grabbed your throat, lifting you up, pinning you against the wall, “to beg.” you gasped, choking as you desperately tried to get air. “you’re doing this for fun–“ your vision swam, darkness edging around your eyes. it growled, a slight content hum as you figured him out. “endearing, really. how you’re willing to offer yourself instead of him.” you hadn’t even finished the thought. “take me instead. i’ll let you in. i’ll relive whatever… horror you find the most amusing.” another growl. you still had not given him what he wanted. you closed your eyes, fists clenched, taking in a deep breath. “please. take me instead. just leave him alone… i’m begging you. please just let him go.” it growled again; hungry, animalistic, satisfied.

the room fell silent. when you opened your eyes again, you weren’t alone. you had braced yourself for the red room. or the hotel. or your sister’s desecrated grave. or her lifeless, strangled body. it was bob. he was young- probably not even a teenager yet. he was crying, curled up tightly within himself. his face and arms was bloody and already bruising. you closed your eyes shut, turning your head away. “no… not this. please not this.” a hand grabbed your chin roughly, forcing you to look at the beaten and broken boy again. “i don’t— i can’t help him!“ you choked out a sob, gasping for a breath that wasn’t cut short. “i can’t help him…” “no one can. no one did.” he yanked your face up to look at him. you were back in a new place. a dirty hotel room. wrappers littered the floor, a few needles scattered on the table. “oh my god-“ you were shaking your head, tears falling more rapidly. you tried to look away, you tried fighting his grip on you. he just squeezed your jaw, snapping your head back to the unconscious form on the couch. you squeezed your eyes shut, feeling the burning in your throat as you swallowed the salty tears that had run down face. “open your eyes!” you did so, beginning to sob. “look at us! you can’t help him!” it had said us. “you promised to stop this. you— please stop hurting him. please just—“ you felt heavy, exhausted; almost completely broken… the scene changed again. empty plastic bags in a bathroom, blood pooling on the floor, a pale, skinny wrist lazily wrapped before he had passed out. you felt the ripping, searing pain, as you let out a scream you could hear. your vision went dark just as you felt arms wrapping around you, catching you. holding you tightly.

it was him… bob.

“no no no no no no- hey- hey—“

the room faded, the echo of your screams faded.

“look at me, baby. stay with me- stay with me, angel-“

everything faded into black.

you woke up in your bed with a start. you were shaking slightly, your head throbbing. there was a coldness settled around you, causing you to shiver. you pulled the blankets up to your chin, closing your eyes tightly. bucky was sat at the end of your bed, eyeing you darkly. his brows were furrowed, eyes wide in concern. “what happened?” you shook your head, tears threatening to spill out once again. “what happened?” he repeated it, more commanding. “where’s bob?” bucky narrowed his eyes slightly, “it was my turn to take wa— to look after you.” you opened your eyes, attention snapping to bucky. “where is bob?” “he’s… in his room.” the expression that passed over his face had you jumping to your feet. “don’t– maybe just stay away from for a while…” “that is the worst thing for him.” you nearly sprinted as you headed to his room. “bob.. are you okay?” the door was locked, silence on the other side of the door. “open the door.” silence. a sniffle. “robert renolds, open this door right now.” there was a slight gasp from the other side of the door, shuffling, the door unlocked. you pushed the door open before he could. his eyes were bloodshot. his shoulders relaxed when he saw you. “you weren’t there when i woke up. i was hoping that my favorite person would be there with me. instead, i woke up to a bucky interrogation.” bob just stared at the floor, chest rising and falling unevenly. you closed the door behind you and reached to pull bob into a hug. his eyes widened and he backed away from you, “don’t touch me!” you flinched, pulling your hand back in subconscious reaction. “don’t… don’t- stay away from me… i- i don’t want to hurt you.” your heart dropped, chest constricting. you took a step towards him, slowly, “bob…” he just shook his head, eyes filling with tears. “i hurt you… i- he hurt you.” his eyes flickered slightly, “he hurt you. and i couldn’t stop him. i couldn’t- i couldn’t do anything to help you. i- i could only watch. watch as he… showed you everything… and as he choked you and.. said- said those things-“ he squeezed his shut, tears running down his cheeks. “i’m so sorry, i-“ his eyes opened, widening, as your fingers stroked his cheek. he stumbled backwards, terrified. “bob stop. please stop.” he shook his head, “i saw… i- please just stay away from me. i can’t hurt you again. i can’t. i would rather die than hurt you, please i—“ “no. robert, no. stop talking like that right now. i will not hear you talk about— not after—“ you exhaled slightly, voice shaking as the tears threatened to spill. your fingers trailed up just behind his ears, “look at me.” he didn’t flinch at your touch this time, he didn’t pull away from you, but he didn’t look at you. “look at me, bob.”

bloodshot eyes met yours. he looked broken, shattered, completely unlike the bob that had first nestled himself into you, burying himself against your chest, managing to sink right into your heart. “i am not afraid of you. and i am not leaving you alone right now.” bob took a shaky breath. he had grabbed onto your waist, tightly, holding onto you like you were all that held him together. “i’m so sorry- i didn’t- i never wanted anyone to see that, i- i never wanted you to see that- any of that- i tried burying those memories, never letting them out- and- you of all people. i’m sorry. i never wanted you to- i’m a lot better now. i’m- i’m not that person, i- i’m better. i will be better… i- i won’t ever be him again.” you thought, at first that he meant the void. or maybe the drugs… but then you followed his eyes, to a bloodstained sleeve. your heart dropped, began racing. “what did you do….” it came out as a broken whisper. “you—“ you couldn’t breathe as you forced yourself to stay standing. he couldn’t look at you. he refused. eyes squeezed shut against the rushing tears. there was a blood stain on the bathroom floor that you needed to ignore. he stumbled behind you as you lead him in by the arm. bob was sobbing, no longer able to hold himself together. he kept his head down as you pulled his shirt off. he was ashamed. embarrassed. you wrapped a wet, hot towel around his wrist, holding it tightly. keeping pressure on it, but not wanting to hurt him more.

you couldn’t even speak to him. what would you say? that you were sorry? you hated that he blamed himself for the other one’s actions. that he couldn’t always beat his demons? that despite the powers and the physical embodiment of depression and dark thoughts, he was still human. that no matter how dark it got for him he would always have you; and that he should never assume that he wouldn’t. that you felt broken and helpless and useless to help him? that you were so angry at him for doing this to himself that you were shaking? “i love you.” was what eventually came out of your mouth. he looked up at you with wide eyes, expression softening slightly. you had finished cleaning him up and wrapped his wrist. “you shouldn’t.” his voice was barely loud enough to hear, shattered, just like him right now, “i don’t deserve it. i don’t deserve you…”

“i don’t care. i don’t care if you think you deserve this.” you motioned to the freshly wrapped gauze, “i don’t care if you think you deserve to die alone. or die young. i don’t care about any of it. i will never see you the way you see yourself. and i will never leave you alone with those thoughts.” bob finally let himself collapse into you. he let himself sob into your shoulder, loudly, ugly, raw. he knew you. he knew you always meant what you said and how you hated lying. and he knew you had meant that you loved him. “i’m sorry- i’m so sorry-“ you just held him tighter, letting your bodies sink to the floor. he cried into you until he ran out of tears. out of breath. you kissed his head, stroked his hair, lowered your head to whisper in his ear. “i love you so much. i love you so much…” you repeated it until it sunk in and bob let himself believe it. finally, he looked up at you, eyes puffy, bloodshot, exhausted. “it wasn’t your fault.” bob nodded once, but he still didn’t fully let himself believe it, “i love you.” you kissed him so gently that it pained physically hurt, “i love you so much. and i don’t think i deserve you but i promise you, i will do everything it takes, even if it lasts my entire life, to deserve you. and to feel like i finally do.”

well shit.

now you were crying again. “please don’t change yourself too much. i know exactly what i sighed up for, and i don’t plan on backing out.”

bob nestled himself against you again, pulling you closer until you were in his lap. he just clung to you. his breathing eased, his heart slowed. he pushed the hair from your face and you kissed his wrists. he tensed, eyes softening further. you placed light kisses up his bare arms, covering every single scar of his past with something gentle and full of love. bob had closed his eyes, relaxed, taking deep breaths, “please don’t go anywhere.” you weren’t sure if he met right now, tonight, or forever. either way… “i’m not.”

you woke tangled in sheets, bob’s arm draped around you, heavy and secure. safe. you rolled to face him. you opened your eyes and bit back a gasp. his eyes were open, glowing gold. “good morning, my beautiful girl.” sentry. “good morning…..” this was much preferable to the other one. he smiled softly as he pulled you against him with soft, passionate kisses. you preferred this greatly over the other one. and yet… “are you feeling okay?” he hummed against your lips, starting to trail down your neck. “i’m amazing, sweetheart.” “o-okayyyy- good.. that’s good…” somehow this felt wrong. it felt like taking advantage. “are you feeling alright?” you nodded slightly, shifting away from his lips just slightly, “i’m- i’m..yeah?” he stopped, shifting to look at you. “you’re worried about him. he’s fine. he’s…happy. he still has control.” you exhaled slightly in relief; you forgot he could read your thoughts. “he’s happy. with you. thinks he’ll never deserve you.” oh don’t even start. “and you?” “i think you should be lucky to have us.” you rolled your eyes slightly. bob could come back anytime, now… “but you’re good for him. he could do much worse.” oh. well good. thanks….. he smirked slightly, almost in amusement, “you’re welcome.”

that damn mind reading…

bob did not returned all day. sentry had followed you around all day and made simple tasks impossible. if you weren’t giving him enough attention- or your full attention- he would pick you up and throw you over his shoulder, sure, then, you were paying attention. the others were tired of him long before you were. they couldn’t make jokes about you without earning a threat. they could barely have a full conversation with you before sentry was glaring at them, feeling jealous. for someone so powerful and full of himself, he sure didn’t act like it. you were trying to make lunch- for you and him- and he appeared at your side asking who the other sandwich was for. “you, obviously. can’t let my boyfriend starve…” he hummed slightly, kissing your shoulder, “i appreciate it.” sentry never fully said thank you, but he almost came close when it was directed at you.

sentry was…charming– in a twisted, egotistical way. he was dizzying, really. throwing you over his shoulder and picking you up as if you weighed nothing. the way he gently touched you as if he wasn’t capable of breaking the whole world. the way he would kiss you, lifting you both off the ground slightly, holding you like you might break apart if he didnt.

you were making dinner. john was helping, stirring the home made sauce you had made, while you sprinkled the freshly baked, freshly oiled bread with garlic and italian seasonings. “i used to always cook for my wife. every night.” you watched him, taking in his nostalgic expression, “that’s sweet…” “her favorite was my chicken parmesan. and saturday my morning waffles.” his smile slipped, a sadness reflecting behind his eyes. you didn’t know what to say to him. you had never lost anyone you loved like that– the person you intended to spend the rest of your life with. you couldn’t imagine it, really, losing bob because of your own actions. “well… if you want i can tell yelena and she’ll demand you make us waffles every saturday.” john laughed lightly at that, knowing yelena would likely force him. he shook his head, eyes returning to the pan, “some traditions, i think… are made to be broken.” you looked at him sadly, “i’m sorry.” you squeezed his hand gently, offering him a sad smile.

behind you, a glass shattered. john had stepped away from you, eyes widening. you didn’t need to turn around to know why. you closed your eyes, exhaled slowly, preparing yourself to deal with the egotistical superhuman standing directly behind you. “yes?” you turned around, eyebrows lifted slightly, trying very hard not to sound irritated. “i don’t want you talking to him.” behind you, john rolled his eyes. “oh? is that so?” your voice was sarcastic, “are you jealous, sentry?” he looked at you coolly, eyes flashing black for just a moment. you didn’t flinch, not wanting to tempt the other one out by showing fear. “i am not jealous.” you smirked slightly, “oh, yes, i believe you. it’s just that you’re acting like it, is all.” he eyed you in annoyance, crossing his arms. “i do not get jealous of insignificant humans.” “harsh…” john muttered, returning to the stove in silence. “no, i get that. it’s just you somehow made yourself about two inches taller, your fists are clenched so tightly that your knuckles are white and your jaw is so tight i’m surprised you haven’t broken any teeth.” “are you tired of me?” you huffed slightly, “no… i’m not. i just—“ could use a break from this particular side of your boyfriend. “are you…tense? or stressed?” he nestled into your neck, arms wrapping around you. “no! i’m not… i mean- i- yes, i am. but… not- not you… i- it’s- you aren’t-“ he yielded the kisses running up your neck. john was very interested in the garlic bread now, eyeing it as if it was about to tell him all the mysteries of the entire world. you would have laughed under any other circumstance.

“do i make you nervous?”

“slightly.”

“are you scared of me?”

“no…”

only of the other one.

sentry exhaled, turning you to face him. he tilted his head slightly, thinking, eyes darting slightly as he processed, “you miss him.” “yes.” you looked away from him. “it has only been twelve hours.” “then, i guess it takes less than that for me to miss him.”

sentry moved towards you and was suddenly pressed against your chest. your stomach flipped, your heart skipped a few beats and you hated yourself for it. another smirk, “don’t feel bad. it’s still…him.” you held your breath as he traced your jawline, leaning in. “i’m still him.”

“you aren’t him.” he still looked like bob, just a few inches taller. he still talked like bob and felt like bob. you felt your knees grow weak as he kissed his way up to your lips. you felt guilty. it was still dizzying, confusing. it was off… it felt wrong. he kissed like bob…almost. but sentry didn’t tangle his fingers in your hair, or tilt his head to the left- just slightly, the way bob always did. he didn’t kiss you desperately and messily, like you were the oxygen he lived on. you took a step back, gasping slightly. sentry almost looked hurt- or maybe it was bob. you nearly stumbled over as you turned away and briskly started walking.

sentry trailed behind you as you headed for your room, “why don’t you treat me like him?” you sighed as you pulled one of bob’s shirts out of the closet. he cleared his throat, “why do you treat us differently?” you pulled your shirt off, ignoring how he was watching your every move, “because you aren’t him.” “i… i am part of him. the…opposite of the other one.” you felt dizzy. sentry was- technically- bob. but it felt wrong. you lifted your arms slightly, pulling bob’s shirt over your head. sentry grabbed your arms, hands sliding up to your wrists, pinning your wrists to the wall above your head. all the air left your lungs as your back hit the wall. “look at me…” his voice was gentle, “you know me.” you shook your head only slightly, holding your breath as he leaned in. his eyes were still gold, he still didn’t tilt his head when he kissed you. “why are you fighting this so hard?” “i— you…” “i still love you. just like he does.” you closed your eyes as he tantalizingly trailed kisses from your jaw to your collarbone. he pushed the shirt aside; it still hung uselessly around your neck, not getting the chance to put it on fully. “stop…” you don’t think you meant it. he smirked against your skin, “i’ll stop if you can say that and mean it.” you cursed quietly, “let him go… if he’s still in control, stop teasing me.” another smirk, burying his face in your neck. he exhaled just against your ear, “please… mean it.” “i… can’t.” maybe he was bob. a different version of him. but after last night you didn’t care. you had to make sure he was alright. you had to make sure this wasn’t a small part of him that wasn’t completely right in the head yet.

“the other two never say please, you know…” the voice was softer, slightly amused. your hands slid down the wall a few inches, fingers climbing down your arms, up your neck, tangling in your hair. his head tilted slightly to the left, before pulling you in by the back of your head. his lips found yours, crashing into you like a storm. “it’s you.” you exhaled, opening your eyes to meet the same blue ones you always got lost in. “it’s me.” bob kissed you again, fingers playing gloriously with your hair. he only pulled away when he was out of breath and breathing heavily. “sorry about him… he’s got a bit of an ego thing…” you laughed lightly, rolling your eyes, “please never leave me alone with him all day, ever again.” bob smirked, “never… i hate sharing you.”

bob sat on the bed, holding your pillow against his chest, watching as you finished pulling his shirt on and found a pair of his sweatpants. he was looking at you starry eyed, as if it was the first time seeing you undress before. “could we…maybe just eat in here?” he was still eyeing you, eyes hungry but smiling shyly. “i suppose that could be arranged…” you smiled playfully, climbing onto the bed behind him. you wrapped your arms around him and rested your head on his shoulder, “i missed you.” he took a deep breath, never getting used to the way you held him like he was the most important thing in the world. “i’m sorry… i don’t know what happened… i remember kissing you and…..” his eyes dropped to his wrist, “and then falling asleep…” you frowned, “are you okay? after….?” you didn’t even want to say it. he nodded once, stiffly, “i’m…” he stopped, shoulders tensing, taking a deep breath, “i’m…better.. i… i’m sorry for—“ “don’t.” you wrapped your arms around him tighter and rubbed his chest. you could feel his heart pounding under your palm. “we don’t have to talk about it.” you would rather not remembered it at all. “i’m sorry. i never wanted–“ you shook your head and shushed him gently, “stop, baby… it wasn’t your fault.” bob exhaled shakily and nodded once.

“do you want to eat? i made pasta. john helped…” he tilted his head to look at you, eyes looking hopeful, “mac and cheese?” you smiled to yourself, “i can make mac and cheese for you tomorrow? i didn’t think sentry deserved it. he probably wouldn’t have thought it was good enough for him.” bob laughed softly, “that’s guy’s a jerk. i kind of hate him…” you kissed his hair once before standing, “that guy is part of you. i could never hate him.” he looked at you shyly, “do you need help carrying anything?” you shrugged, “i’ll be okay. but the others might be glad to know you’re back. they were kind of scarce all day.” bob’s mouth twitched into a smile, “i should probably apologize to walker…” you held back a laugh, “one of the only times you stood up to him and it wasn’t even needed.”

bob grabbed the bottom of your shirt and trailed behind you, now feeling embarrassed at how the other part of him had acted. “do you think they’ll be mad?” “no, bob.. no one got hurt and they know you’re still learning to control..them.” he sighed, hiding behind you just slightly as you entered the kitchen. “we were beginning to wonder if the gold one had finally convinced you to–“ walker laughed as he looked up from his plate and noticed bob. “oh hey, bob, glad to have you back.” bob blushed slightly, “hey guys…” the table lit up almost instantly and you felt your heart swell. everyone here loved him and clearly missed his daily ramblings and random facts. bob smiled slightly, “do you still want to eat in our room?” he shook his head, taking the seat between you and yelena. bucky and walker served everyone, complimenting you multiple times on how good it was- and how great it smelled. you turned slightly red, not liking being the center of attention, “walker helped…” it came out quietly, trying to push the attention off you. “i stirred the sauce and put olive oil on the bread…” bob was looking over at you with pink cheeks and an adoring expression. he would never tell you, out of fear of being glared at, but you were utterly adorable when you were shy and embarrassed.

alexei had cleared his plate before bucky had even sat down. “more?” he looked up at bucky eagerly. bucky stared at him, blinking once, monotone expression. “dad…” yelena scolded, leaning across the table, “is something wrong with your legs? and your manners?” she lowered her voice slightly at this but you heard it. you bit back an amused smile, watching as alexei’s eyes widened slightly. he wiped the pasta sauce off his mouth- with his hand- and then- unnecessarily- bowed slightly to you. “apologies. it was very good.” ava coughed quietly, failing to hide her laughter. there were no leftovers, and this may have been the first family dinner that hadn’t involved something burning, a stupid argument, stupid dad jokes, or someone getting punched. finally, your dysfunctional group of housemates were beginning to act like a family. “this was so good,” yelena kissed your cheek lightly as she set her plate in the sink. she eyed you cautiously, searching your face, looking over you with a scrutinizing expression, “we are going for ice cream, does anyone want anything?” bob’s head snapped up, looking anxious at first. he really didn’t like not being with you. ever. but especially at night, especially if you were walking around in the city. “i- um… i’ll have… uh-“ he couldn’t remember what kind of ice cream was his favorite, “just- just surprise me…” he ducked his head, focused on the half eaten empty in front of him.

“are you going to finish that?” alexei pointed to his plate and bob slid it towards him with a shake of his head. alexei dove into it, yelling as he chewed, “blue moon for me!” yelena rolled her eyes, shaking her head slightly at his lack of manners and inside voice. bucky looked at you both, eyeing you suspiciously, “i’ll come with you.” he was the overprotective older brother, always. he didn’t trust the city at night and he certainly didn’t trust the people in it. “ava will come!” yelena gave him a reassuring smile, but bucky looked doubtful. he narrowed his eyes slightly, looking to you, the same expression yelena had given you.

you expected bucky to say something about how exhausted you looked, how you looked thinner and more pale. he was thinking all those things, but instead all he said was, “rocky road.” ava looked up from her phone like a startled deer, “i- i will?” yelena gave her a look and she jumped to her feet, “i will, yes. obviously… for- for ice cream.” walker looked at her with a concerned and confused expression, “can i have mint?”

“you don’t have to ask, john. you are full grown man, you’re allowed to have ice cream this late.” john looked awkward now, embarrassed, not quite meaning it like he was asking permission. you almost laughed until you saw your boyfriend’s sulking, defeated posture. “well, if ava doesn’t want to go—“ “no.” yelena cut you off as she stuffed a taser into her jacket pocket, “ava does.” ava really didn’t…

“bob?” you eyed him as ava went to grab a jacket and yelena waited by the elevator. “you okay?” bob nodded, trying to give you a reassuring smile, “i’m fine- i’ll be fine- i’ll do the dishes…” bucky eyed you carefully, turning his attention to bob, “i’ll watch him…” he said it quietly so only you heard it. bucky was familiar with bob’s up and downs. and he knew how dangerous they could be. you gave him a grateful smile and joined yelena and ava in the elevator. the elevator dinged and as soon as the door closed, yelena turned to you. she had grabbed a bag of chips since leaving the kitchen, “okay, talk to me.” “tal— i- what?” ava looked at her, crossing her arms, now understanding this was some sort of intervention. “don’t play dumb.” she stuck another chip in her mouth, “you look look like hell. have you been sleeping at all?” ouch. you couldn’t say she wasn’t honest. “i… i’ve been sleeping fine.” ava looked at you now, “no, she’s right. you look completely exhaused. have you lost weight?” you sighed, eyes on the closed elevator doors like it was their fault, “thank you for noticing.” you deadpanned it, not at all wanting to be talking about this.

yelena turned and punched the stop button on the elevator. you groaned as it jolted to a stop; she was giving you no choice. “did something happen? do you need help?” “i— no, yelena. i’m fine. i appreciate it, really, but i’ve got it…” ava scanned your face, eyes narrowing slightly. she knew you too well, as much as you hated to admit it, “is it bob?” you tensed as she said his name and cursed yourself for it. yelena’s eyes snapped up and she took a step towards you. “did something happen? did he do something? are you okay?” you exhaled deeply, wanting to cry. “he didn’t do anything… i just—“ yelena cut you off, “you spread yourself too thin.” you looked at her with blurred vision, “if you don’t put yourself first you will have absolutely nothing left.”

“i’m fine.” you said it with a final emphasis, tone getting sharper and more insistent. “i know you love him, but-“ “no, ava… there’s no but.” she looked at you sadly, “i know you love him. but. you can’t take care of him if you completely run yourself to the ground. bob would hate himself if he knew what you were doing-“ ava held a finger up as you opened your mouth to argue, “i am not saying break up with him. i am not saying to push him away. i’m just saying..be cautious. you’re giving him everything but it’s costing you.” you couldn’t completely argue, but you also knew you couldn’t stop. “when was the last time you slept?” yelena let the elevator move again; now her tone was soft and full of concern. “i… i slept last night.” they both raised an eyebrow at you, “and you went to bed at a healthy time?” “you just asked if i slept.” yelena glared at you: it was a scolding expression that reminded you of your sister. “i…” they were both looking at you with concern, like they were worried about you, like they really cared.

you closed your eyes again tightly, “there was an incident.” yelena held her breath, eyes growing wider. “he…. kind of lost control. the..other one.. got out.” ava gasped slightly, trying to cover it with her hand, “are you okay?” “i’m- yes.. mostly. bob pulled himself out of it, but—“ “you saw your sister.” yelena sounded far away. she knew what it felt like, to lose your sister. she was thankful she hadn’t watched it happen. or caused it… “not exactly… i saw flashes, but-“ you fought the tears that were starting to fall, “they weren’t my memories.” ava paused, “what do you mean they weren’t your memories?” yelena leaned in, expression dark, eager, anxious. “they were his.” they both inhaled sharply, their anxious expression turned to sorrow. “they felt worse than mine. maybe because it was bob, but…” you shook your head, “the void used bob to get to me. he used me to punish himself…” “punish himself? i don’t see the void doing anything to-“ you shook your head, now failing completely to hold back the tears, “not the void. bob…”

the elevator doors opened but no one moved. “bob blamed himself… he blamed himself for hurting me and- showing me… he- he locked himself in our room, and… by the time i got him to open the door, he had—“ yelena pulled you into a hug, squeezing you tightly. you didn’t have to finish. “why didn’t you tell us?” ava squeezed your hand. “i didn’t- i don’t want you to treat him differently. it wasn’t his fault.” your voice was pleading, “he- he can’t always control it. he can’t always force them down… he didn’t mean to.” ava and yelena looked at each other, they were obviously worried but they also understood. “he needs me. i don’t care if it drains me completely. i don’t want to lose him… i can’t. he’s… he’s everything to me…” yelena sighed, “it wasn’t his fault. but he could still kill you. the other one…” you shook your head, “he wouldn’t. he’s never-“ you we’re going to say the other one had never put a hand on you, but it wasn’t true. “he wouldn’t. bob won’t ever lose control like that. not if it’s me…” he couldn’t. he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if…

they both put an arm around you as they helped you out of the elevator. you were shaking slightly now, trying to get force yourself to stop crying. “he’s not a monster.” you had almost whispered it, “he’s trying so hard. to be better… to…” you finally looked up, finally getting the tears to ease, “please don’t treat him differently. he didn’t want me to find out. he…” they both just nodded, eyeing you sadly.

the elevator dinged and bob looked up eagerly as the three of you stepped into the common room. each of you had your arms full of ice cream tubs. the others had expected individual cups or cones and looked at you in disbelief. “they had a sale.” she set the tubs down on the table, trying not to disrupt the very serious game of monopoly going on. “who is winning?” you plopped down on the couch beside bob and wrapped your arms around him. “not me.” bucky glared at the board, sulking slightly. “i think your boyfriend cheats.” walker pouted, digging into his tub of ice cream, clearly not carrying if anyone else wanted mint. you smirked slightly, looking down at bob proudly. he just shrugged, innocent smile on his lips. you kissed him quickly, smiling against his lips. yelena gave you both a sad glance, but neither of you noticed. “i got us strawberry. and cookie dough. it’s my favorite too…” bob smiled at you, not recalling a single time in his life when anyone had ever remembered any small, insignificant detail about him. but you had. you remembered his favorite ice cream flavors, even when he couldn’t. and you had brought him both of them, not just one. “i love you.” he whispered it against your ear as he buried himself against your neck. you kissed his head as he opened the cookie dough tub, smiling against his hair. earlier’s conversation had been forgotten. the horrors of the past few days shoved down deep to just enjoy this moment. a quiet moment with him, surrounded by the others, eating out of ice cream tubs by the spoonful, watching walker and bucky argue over monopoly. bob had completely forgotten about the game as he nestled himself against you. two spoons stuck out of the strawberry ice cream and everything was perfect.

*******

a/n: and yall thought i wouldnt let bob have a happy ending. i don’t think i could physically do that to him. this part 2 of a series, but you dont have to read the first one to understand what’s going on! (please read the first one im obsessed) there will be a part 3!

[kcthelazyartist]

Fiddauthor may be canon, let’s discuss

At first glance this relationship appears to be completely fanon, but when you dig into it there's actually a lot more to Stanford and Fiddleford’s relationship than meets the eye.

This is a compilation of evidence [And slight analysis] so if I have missed anything or if anything is wrong, please let me know.

Warning: Long post ahead

Setting

-As @ratsbanes mentions during Stanford and Fiddleford’s college years the aids crisis was going on, during this time there was a lot of misinformation and fear mongering as it was falsely thought that only queer men could be affected. This event is very significant in queer history and needs to be considered when looking at their relationship.

-Fiddleford came from a hog farm in Tennessee, a deeply religious state, and as he is told to be superstitious, crossing himself when walking over graves, it can be assumed he too is religious

Religions in the same circle as Christianity tend to hold homophobic views as was common during this time

This creates religious guilt for queer people

-Queer politics were becoming a hot topic and most of society was homophobic during this period, there is a chance it was still illegal to be queer whilst they were in college, depending on where they were

This led to a lot of violence against queer people and a very real fear of being outed as it could have dire consequences

There was even programs in the military dedicated to having ‘gay spies’ to act queer and attract gay men in the military so they could be punished or discharged

There was also the Vietnam war going on, causing political unrest and many protests, america being very unstable during this period

-Lavender marriages [Marriages between heterosexuals and homosexuals, often to conceal the latters sexuality] were still common

-Putting this altogether into Fiddleford’s character it could create a very real feeling of religious guilt and fear of being outed that could of led to him entering a lavender marriage instead of staying with Stanford. Fiddleford would have had to worry about violence against himself and his family’s view of him, which he would likely worry about as he has shown signs of anxiety [But this may just be because of trauma]

It appears Fiddleford and his wife got married quickly when he left college which makes it all the more suspicious, whilst it could be they were high school sweethearts or an out of wedlock situation, it is more likely it's his fear of being outed that led to such a quick decision. [I will talk for about him and Emma-May later]

-Stanford was also in a position not to pursue anything as it can be assumed Filbrick was not the best father due to him throwing a 17-year old Stanley onto the street with almost nothing, leaving him to the wolves after refusing to hear his side of the story, and not coming to Stanley’s funeral. Filbrick instead views Stanford as something to make him money with his talents which is why he's so angry at Stanley for ruining their chances.

This would put stress on Stanford as to not disappoint his father and be the perfect child and it can be assumed that Flibrick was homophobic as many were back then.

Deep bond

-They are close enough Stanford has a measuring system for Fiddleford’s restless legs, knee bounce per second, AKA KBPS

-Stanford knows Fiddleford’s favourite can of beans, and stocks them in the bunker

-Stanford calls Fiddleford his ‘friend’, ‘assistant’, ‘partner’, and ‘buddy’, putting him on the same level as himself, not putting him down until Bill manipulates him.

-Fiddleford could tell that something was wrong with Stanford, even the slightest movement when meditating clued him in as shown in one of the flashbacks.

This itself is further evidence of their bond as Stanford trusts him enough to let him into the worship room and meditates around him, which leaves Ford vulnerable to attacks

Even parallel Fiddleford knows this isn't his own, though that can be explained through an age difference.

-Fiddleford loves his banjos, having multiple collections of them such as the one in the Gideon Bot blueprint, but he uses them as a weapon to protect others, willing to break his most prized possession to help others. He does this twice for Stanford, once during Weirdmageddon and another time to save him directly from Krampus.

During this Krampus attack Fidds had just gotten back when he saved Stanford who was about to basically be murdered, all whilst Bill was nowhere to be found

-Fiddleford only really violates Stanford’s boundaries and trust after the memory gun and neglect of his mental health have come into the picture, he does this when he steals the book to create a thesis to try and help Ford, and when he used the memory gun on him [More on this later]

-Alex Hirsch refers to them as the kind of friends with the same kind of interests and humour

-After 30 years away there is a thought shown on the mind reading machine that just says ‘I’m sorry Fiddleford’, completely unprompted

-The ‘Sorry’ photo in general

-When they first met Ford saved Fiddleford from dropping out due to embarrassment

He stayed up 9 hours with a stranger to help him prove a theory

-Ford takes notice of Fiddleford’s reaction to the cubics cube and takes joy in messing with him, knowing he wont get angry at him

-Both recognize each other at weirdmageddon despite how long they have spent apart [Ford may have seen him in Dipper’s part of the journal, but Fidds, with brain damage, had no reason to recognize him]

-Despite disliking Fiddleford’s tobacco chewing habit Ford allows him to continue with it

-Fiddleford can read Stanley, who has similar mannerisms to Ford, like a book

This is after he has lost his memories, such as when he calls out Stan’s suspicious laughter

-When Fiddleford first arrives at Fords house he mentions being ‘overcome with emotion’ and is overjoyed to see him, going out of his way to buy him banjo strings and microchips

Despite having Bill he is very lonely and is very happy to see Fiddleford again, saying ‘the past few days have been the most energising I’ve had since I first came to this town!’

-Ford originally doesn't tell Fiddleford of Bill because he doesn't want Fiddleford to think he's insane or badly of him, as he knows his friend is superstitious

-Ford teaches Fiddleford to meditate to help with his anxiety

-Fiddleford chastises Ford for staying up too late and not getting enough sleep, to which Stanford is comfortable enough with him to make a retort

-Ford appears to look for Fiddleford after coming to his senses and is immediately remorseful

-Ford keeps comparing parallel Fiddleford to his own, showing how much he misses him

Obsessions

-Ford has an obsession with Bill and Work, worshipping both like gods

Despite this he takes time from work or Bill to spend with Fiddleford instead;

After the gremloblin incident Ford takes Fiddleford to a fair, he throws a christmas party for Fiddleford and when the shapeshifter attacks and ties up Fiddleford he immediately shuts all work he was doing with the shapeshifter down despite his obsession of learning about creatures [This could be because he nearly got his hands on the journals but he appears to have tried to get them before and this event was the catalyst]

-Fiddleford appears to be obsessed with Stanford and later the memory gun due to it

Fiddleford leaves his family very quickly to join someone he hasn't seen in over 6 years, which is the first sign, then he stays after being traumatised and put in near death situations.

This devotion is made obvious when he stays to help with the portal even after his thesis and ideas have been blown off and his safety ignored, only leaving after seeing the horrors beyond the portal. This leads into the memory gun.

Fiddleford creates this as a way to cope and be able to stay alongside Stanford and help him, because he starts using the memory gun instead of leaving this toxic situation after seeing the gremloblin he becomes addicted

The memory gun is symbolism for addiction and self-harm when it comes to Fiddleford, he is aware it might be doing damage later on but he cant stop using it, its implied he even used it after noticing he wasn't wearing a piece of clothing right, which may have been a side effect of the memory gun.

Unlike Stanford Fiddleford does not have anyone to help him realise how obsessed he is or stop him, so he only continues to spiral, making his anxiety and self-harm worse [His hair pulling is also self-harm, though less obvious]

His obsession with Stanford is what led to this sadly.

His obsessions lead to him stealing the book to create a thesis to try and help Ford, and using the memory gun on Stanford [He uses it on him for both unknown reasons and to stop him from remembering construction workers, as well as maybe witnessing him in the red cape using the gun on himself or others. Even then you have to remember Fiddleford had been using it on himself and was not in the right state of mind due to Ford’s neglect, as Fiddleford was repeatedly shown to be kind and have a big heart but as his mental state declined so did his morals] This is sad as it shows that Fiddleford knows its bad but is already showing signs of addiction when he first makes it.

This ultimately ends up with him breaking his own mind to a point where it scares and hurts BILL CIPHER, hurts him in a way he doesnt think is hilarious

Bill Cipher

-Both Bill and Fiddleford are obsessed with Stanford, though they go about it differently

Bill’s obsession destroys Stanford, Stanford’s obsession destroys Fiddleford and Fiddleford’s obsession destroys himself

Bill manipulates and guilt trips Ford into getting what he wants, often using flattery or a twisted form of it, feeding into Fords insecurities

Meanwhile at first Fiddleford is just doing whatever he can to help Stanford, only hurting him after the gremloblin incident that destroys his psyche

-Before Bill came along Ford admired Fiddleford for his ‘brilliant mind’, heart and trustworthiness, but Bill manipulated him into thinking lesser of those qualities of his, even then during the portal incident he calls Fiddleford ‘buddy’.

-Bill repeatedly tries to get rid of anything Fiddleford gets Ford

-Bill and Fiddleford have some similarities

For Stanford’s birthday Bill possessed a bunch of rats and used them to spell out his name [This is interesting due to both Ford and Bill having a tendency to mix up both love and fear, Ford not reacting properly to monsters when he should fear them but instead being fascinated], he then insists on taking Ford out for a drink, when Ford was not the most willing to [Contrasting to him willingly and even suggesting getting drunk with Fiddleford on Christmas after he saved him, drinking eggnog, despite not celebrating Christmas]

Meanwhile Fiddleford handmakes two gifts for Christmas for Ford, despite knowing Ford doesn't celebrate, which makes Ford very happy and makes him want to spend time with Fiddleford [Did Bill have this gift giving tradition beforehand or did he see a memory or dream of Fiddleford’s gift giving tendencies and copy it like he did with Ford’s love language of experiences? Or are they just that similar?]

Both are obsessed with Stanford; Bill using manipulation, flattery and guilt tripping to get what he wants from him, feeding into Ford’s insecurities and ego. Meanwhile Fiddleford is devoted to helping Stanford achieve his goals instead of his own like Bill is. Even when he uses the memory gun it's to help Stanford so he can continue working and so the construction workers can help the portal be built quicker.

Emma-May

-Emma-May and Fiddleford’s relationship appears to already be rocky when Ford calls him

Fiddleford is seen working out of the cluttered garage, instead of a building, this might show he isn't making much money which could cause strain as she would need to work more to help provide for her son

He is isolated from her in the garage and is seen playing his banjo in the garage instead of with his family around, he also appears to have made himself at home in the garage instead of inside his house

This could be seen as a mancave, which was often used by men who didn't love their wives and ‘needed time away from them’, this could be explained through Fiddleford just being neurodivergent though as he shows signs of being on the spectrum- and not every man with a mancave dislikes their wives

She was also rather quick to get divorced for the time when her husband is away getting money for them.

-There is also signs he might not have any romantic interest in Emma-May or women in general, and if he does it is far less than the feelings he has towards Stanford

He rather quickly leaves his wife to go after Stanford

He makes Stanford TWO Christmas gifts [One of which required 5 prototypes], but forgot to even buy her one [This could be because of the memory gun but as its not mentioned that he forgot to get his son anything it can be assumed he remembered his- and we know he loves Tate]

He makes a continued effort to get his son [and somewhat Stanford] back, the gobblewonker is implied to not be the only way he has tried to get Tate back as Tate seems very done with him, and Stanford and him reconnect as he easily forgives him despite everything. Yet he only seems to have tried to get his wife back once with the pterodactyl, the same amount of effort he gave his friend when he didn't come to his retirement party. In the end he isn't even shown trying to reconnect with her even in a friend or co-parent way after he’s regained his sanity.

The robot and raccoon wife can be explained through the same reason; Heteronormativity. In this context it could be seen as Fiddleford wanting to have a nuclear family and be ‘normal’ [AKA, not queer] or feeling pressured to, which might be why he married and had a child so young, seemingly right out of college. Raccoon wife and the robot could be seen as him trying to be ‘normal’ and disliking that its been taken from him, trying to get some semblance of his old life back.

Love language

-Someone on tumblr pointed out both Ford and Fiddleford’s love languages [I cannot find their post…]

-Ford’s love language is experiences

He invited Fiddleford to help him with portal in the first place

After the gremloblin incident Ford takes Fiddleford to a fair

The duo go hiking together to the spaceship

And the biggest one is the Christmas incident, he wants to spend time with Fiddleford after he gave him gifts but is unable to at the time and Bill tries to cheer him up with another experience… Only for Ford to be attacked by Krampus and saved by Fiddleford, he then decorates the portal room for a holiday he doesn't even celebrate and builds snowmen that resemble each other with him.

-Fiddleford’s love language is gift giving

He gives him a homemade snow globe [Which Ford accidentally breaks thanks to Bill]

He handmakes six-fingered gloves that required 5 prototypes [They later give Ford comfort]

He buys him a squash that looks like a face because it reminds him of Ford [Of which Ford wrote an entire page about before throwing out]

He gifts him an axolotl because it reminded him of his sideburns [Bill later manipulates him into getting rid of it after a lot of struggle from Ford]

Downright Suspicious

-When Fiddleford is called by Stanford he very quickly leaves his wife and son behind to travel to Gravity Falls and live alone with him in the woods without anyone living nearby for miles, somewhere nobody can see them work… Or interact

-Fiddleford designed the bunker with only one bed, one small bed for him and Ford to share

Several people have mentioned that they would have to be practically on top of eachother to fit on said bed

Fiddleford would not be aware that Stanford doesn't sleep, meaning they were planning on sleeping in the same bed together. This is furthered by the supplies for years into the future and having both of their belongings littered throughout the space, such as the shmez dispenser.

Stanford in the journal mentions losing Fiddleford’s shmez dispenser, this implies either he was moving stuff around or they were sharing it. And Fiddleford does not like people messing with his stuff, as shown with the cubics cube.

-In journal 3 at the end when Ford goes to see Fiddleford they sit by a furnace and Fiddleford plays on his banjo, Ford says he can practically see ‘the age lift off his face’.

A common thing in romance stories is thinking back on when the duo was younger together, this mimics that plot device.

-Ford draws Fiddleford more than once in journal 3

He usually only draws people once in the journal, but Fiddleford and his family get drawn more than once. This may mean he considers him as close as family

He also draws him from behind, obscuring his face as if Fiddleford doesnt know he is drawing him or if he feels guilty about doing so [Another common romance plot; drawing your crush without them knowing]

-Ford says Fiddleford has one of the biggest hearts he's ever seen, and says he used to hold him so dear

-Bill hates polyamory and calls Fiddleford a ‘third wheel’

Despite the Ford’s knowing each other longer

-Ford lets Fiddleford hug him during weirdmageddon and reciprocates despite disliking touch and only really being shown giving side hugs

Whether this is because he isnt used to Fiddleford full on hugging him or wasn't expecting to be forgiven and trusted so easily is up to debate, as the position leaves the back vulnerable to attack, showing how much Fiddleford trusts him.

They also shown in the ‘sorry’ photo in a side hug, hanging onto each other

-When Fiddleford brings up marriage Ford immediately shifts to him being thankful that Fiddleford is helping him.

-They stargazed together, one again a common romantic plot point

-In journal three there is a quote from when talking about the bunker's security system, ‘Sometimes I think how fortunate I am to be friends with F… because if this room is any indication, it would be terrifying to be his enemy’. This format is suspicious as the wording can make it seem joking, or make it seem like he is making an excuse for thinking this- and why would he feel weird for thinking this if there wasn't some sort of romantic undertones between them.

-In a livestream [‘Alex & Dana Charity Draw-A-Thon’ on TheMysteryofGF on youtube, at 45:48] When asked whether McGucket loves Ford, Alex says yes before expanding on that and calling them friends

At first I thought this was a way to get around Disney’s censors but later he confirms the deputy’s relationship

Story Importance

-Fiddleford is the only reason why Bill was able to be defeated

It took Ford around 30 years to build something able to destroy Bill, and it was a parallel Fiddleford that got him the final component to finish it, just looking at the weapon and knowing what it needed. Then the weapon that actually killed him was the memory gun, something that took Fiddleford under a year to create. [Maybe even in a couple of days whilst he wasn't in his right mind due to the gremloblin]

This combined with him and Ford's bond means Fiddleford is a real threat to Bill, as he keeps Ford grounded in reality and is smart enough to know something is wrong about what they are doing with the portal before anything happens, he even warns Ford, which makes him even more of a threat.

Bill attempts to manipulate Ford into distancing himself and thinking lowly of Fiddleford, and it works, for a period of time. It really shows how strong their bond is because while he is angry at Fiddleford leaving the event planted the seeds of doubt in his brain. Instead of continuing to trust Bill when he starts hearing things after years of being manipulated [Bill would even injure him! And Ford did not react like a person not being abused typically would in that situation], he realises Fiddleford was right and confronts Bill who likely realised that he could no longer manipulate him, as if he thought he could continue he would have, it would have been easier to reach his goal that way.

Fiddleford leaving is what caused Stanford to unravel as Fiddleford was the only one grounding him.

Stanford brushing off Fiddleford’s thesis and fears was the turning point as the ring the witch gave him turned black after this altercation

-Stanford has presumably been carrying the guilt of how he treated fiddleford for 30 years, this likely contributed to Stanford pushing others away and acting how he did towards his brother and family after leaving the portal, as he didn't have that someone that helped him trust others anymore, he's been alone for 30 years.

-Fiddleford was Ford’s first ever real friend outside his family

When he met Fiddleford he helped prove his theory and they finished it together and put both their names on it, this is important to the story as the reason Ford doesn't accept his thesis is because he is paranoid of somebody else stealing his theory. [Parallel Fiddleford and Ford even share a company together]

Furthering the previous point Ford was considering telling Fiddleford of his muse before finding out Fiddleford had created a thesis for him, a thesis where Fiddleford only credited Ford and based it off his work. Ford instead of taking this as Fiddleford wanting to help instead took it the wrong way due to his paranoia

Fiddleford didn't even notice Ford’s polydactyl when they first met and seems completely unbothered by it, basically brushing over it. Bill on the other hand makes a big deal of it, basically saying its why he can become one of Bill’s ‘freaks’, something he was called as a child.

Bill acts as if he is the only one to understand Ford and as if he is Ford’s first and only friend to manipulate him, despite Fiddleford understanding him so well he can tell something is wrong from the smallest movement when Mabel couldn't tell something was wrong with Dipper. 

It takes Bill a long time to drive the duo apart and change Ford’s views of Fiddleford into ‘he wouldnt understand’ as he knows Fiddleford could ruin his plans [Bill had been with Ford since the 2nd journal and had time to manipulate him before Fiddleford arrived, even with this considered his view of his friend is still positive once he sees him again. He may say he has no choice but to ask for help before seeing Fiddleford, yet he is very very happy upon Fiddleford arriving- this hints that Bill has already started manipulating his views]

Ford wants to be famous and Bill feeds into his ego on this, knowing Ford wants to prove himself. Fiddleford can't seem to understand this as he already sees Ford as normal, but he wants him to be happy, which is why he helps because if money makes him happy so be it. Fiddleford does not question it and reserves judgement.

-Thank you to @jellied-beans in the comments for pointing out something I missed! That being without Fiddleford they would not have been able to get in and rescue Ford and all the other civilians.

Jellied-beans points out that Stan did not want to go through with the plan to rescue Ford, but it was Fiddleford who took the lead despite only recently regaining and reliving the trauma Ford had put him through, and even after he and Ford's last interaction was cruel.

Fiddleford is also the only reason the Shack-A-Tron became a thing, as it was his engineering and planning that saw it become a reality. Without him it would have taken much longer to rescue Ford and everyone else

This situation also goes to prove Fiddleford does in fact have a big heart and is empathetic as he not only rescues the man whos hurt him and easily forgives him, but Stan mentions that he led a bunch refugees to the shack with him.

End note; I attempted to keep in any points I have found and tried not to leave any information out, as well as leaving in anything nuanced [Such as the Christmas gift situation maybe being caused by the memory gun]. I find this important as I’ve seen people arguing against the ship and calling it generally toxic, whilst leaving out crucial details such as Bill's manipulation, as well as people calling Fiddleford a bad person due to the whole memory gun thing and completely ignoring why he did it.

[As a side note Fiddauthor definitely toxic during the Bill era, but overall it's not, and unlike Billford they are able to mend their relationship as its built on understanding and genuine feelings, as shown by the parallel world where they were able to trust each other and repair their relationship]

I have not read the Book of Bill yet so this might be updated later, any BoB content on this is just what I have seen circulating around.

[malvoile]

Me and the Devil ; iii

ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴘʜᴀɴᴛᴏᴍ ʙʟᴀᴅᴇ ʙᴜʀɪᴇᴅ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʀɪʙꜱ. ᴘᴀᴜʟ ʜᴀꜱ ʙᴇɢᴜɴ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀʀʙᴏʀ ᴏᴅᴅ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ.

word count: 14.4k warnings: canon-typical threats, violence - serious bodily harm. graphic injury, blood, light smut, allusions ish to oral (f receiving), fingering, light choking, biting, very very brief dubcon (feyd warning tbh i should just call it this), unprotected PiV, fantasies, fair pulling. food sharing & mentions of hunger, discussion of alcohol, religious/cultural trauma, familiar trauma. freaky dreams, foreshadowing. fluff and some angst too - and a fair amount of politics that i made up lol notes: hiiii guys <3 a long chapter here, there's no good way to cut it up hehe - also i am sorry i didn't edit this after rewriting it so im sorry abt any typos. feedback very much appreciated! previous series masterlist

Concerns Rise Over the Destabilization of Sabberon

In the wake of the unseating of House Bourbon and the resulting power vacuum on the House’s formerly fiefed planet Sabberon, concerns are mounting over potential destabilization within the planet's region. Situated in a crucial sector of the galactic trade route, Sabberon's turmoil could have far-reaching implications, not only for orbital stability, but for the economic prosperity of the Landsraad's main trade economy.

With no governing body to maintain order, rising insurgent groups throughout the planet threaten to plunge Sabberon into chaos. The potential for conflict and upheaval remains a significant concern for the wider galactic community – yet as of today, there has been no comment by the Emperor. 

This all comes to head a month before the Imperium's Annual Referendum, wherein new negotiations on Space Trade routes will be drawn, along with the final Arraignment of the House Bourbon. 

- Collected Galactic News report sent to Duke Leto Atreides, 10191. Caladan. 

Somewhere high upon the northern continent of the planet Sabberon, there is a trail that leads through the forest.

Past the Castle Bourbon, it winds up the slope of a mountaintop – in the short springtime, when the snow thaws and the glaciers spill their icy veins through the woods and ravines, the ground grows spongy with wild grass. 

It is soft below your feet now. 

The highest range of mountains tower in the distance; they dominate your sight, caps bald with such reflected sharpness that you have to squint against the rays. It is warmer in these elevations, and though the path you walk now is thawed and overgrown with alpine flora, those peaks on the horizon never lose their ice – nor the bursting jeweled-veins they hide deep within.

The sun is shy and springlike; it glows upon the skin revealed beneath your dress and glistens off dripping pine needles swaying to the ground in the breeze. Bare feet; cold, toes stained with earthy soil, and the warmth of a weight tugged within your grasped hand. 

Trees rustle and whisper around you as you pass slowly, a breath echoed in the woods – branches smack against your bare arms as you near the secluded clearing ahead. It is small, though venerated; embraced by tall trees, laden with chiffon ribbons of green. Laid within your vision beneath the sinking shade is a pyre lit with candles, in offering and loomed only by the Pine which grows so high that it is swallowed by the breath of clouds high above. 

The breath that falls from your lips is one of peace. 

The sheet laid before the safety of the Pine is welcoming – you lie upon it, strewn with the breeze and the song of birds through the trees; overhead, the sky streaks pink and orange. 

An arm brushes your own – a body lies beside you, and as your eyes flutter shut, you feel the touch trail slowly up the expanse of your side, curling around your arm to soothe the goosebumps which arise. 

A pair of lips find your own, and though you see merely darkness and glimpses of glistening sky high above, the heat consumes you: Slowly and kindly.

A sigh against plush lips, hands searching for the heat of your husband, a soft breath of a chuckle against your cheek. He is bare chested; and his skin burns when he presses against your yearning palms, desiring, willing, hungry. 

His own fingers trace the trail of goosebumps up your thigh and under the hem of the dress; pleasure follows in his wake as your head tilts back, a long-dormant yearning awakening at the sound of his breaths. And in the small noises you emit, a smile presses to your throat, a small hum of satisfaction from your husband above you. Though the sun is warm and orange upon your eyelids, you do not open them - far too caught in the warmth of your husband’s touch. 

A grasp of the plush of your thigh – a soft thing, though intent in their own right; and you turn to receive his waiting body, a line of warmth upon your own as his touch teases over your heat. A long gasp when a warm palm finds your aching desire and teases you, light as the wind in your hair and the birds chirping in the woods.

Your lips find his once more, breath hot as his fingers press, agonizingly slow, into you; a sigh that slips towards a moan in the uptick in singing birds, the rustle of wind through whistling leaves as he hums into your mouth. 

Tingling with anticipation, with desire, you clutch him – and muscles lithe and warm strain underneath your nails, his touch sliding to press against you once more, slowly moving into a rhythm that brings a gasp lodged into your throat. 

A phantom tickle graces across your forehead – hair, though you’re unsure if it’s yours or his – and though he leans forward and grasps the sheet beside your head, his other hand continues its ministrations, stirring arousal from the deepest pits of your being.

In the throes of passion, you throw your head back once more, inhaling deeply in an attempt to conceal any possible hitch in control; though instead of the fresh forest, instead of your husband – you choke on the suddenly tinny air that seems to leak from the sky, which presses into your lungs even as you rock in pleasure.  

A hazy thought meanders through your lapsed consciousness – your husband smells different here, upon the ground of the Sacred Pine; not like the fresh scent of sea-salt soaps and wooded forests; though the the metallic scent washes away as lips trail down your throat, nipping at your heady skin when your head falls back onto the white sheet.

Following the soft moan you let out is a shush from his lips, gentle as the breeze through the needles of the trees; Ecstasy dances through you, lighting a fire of desire that has your legs squirming to close as your husband presses them back open with the palm of his hand.

His presence is warm, eager; and consuming. 

Though his hands push, bunching your dress over your hips; your eyes flutter to glance at the Pine, standing tall above you. From upside-down, it sways rather curiously, licks of heat igniting from high in the branches – and the sky is streaked in a bizarre breath, a strike of unease in your gut that is swallowed by the dip of light below ridged peaks in the distance. 

Though even in the evening light, it seems as though the branches of the Pine are ablaze; and before you move to sit up, perhaps observe closer, your husband’s wanting lips slot against yours once more. 

You melt into the sheet below; a warmth pressed eagerly against your own heat strikes a match within you, your eyes rolling back in pleasure before shutting in bliss. The moan that slips from your lips rings warbled in the clearing, as though fallen through a lake – and your husband nips at your kiss-bitten lips slowly. 

The ridges of his spine tense as your hands slide along – and the length presses against your aching core, his lips grazing your cheek. 

Wind whistles through the trees, ashy and blown. In the quiet of the forest, you whisper softly and your voice is nearly swallowed by faint screams.

“I love you.” 

Barely a breath of words against his lips – and his hands tug your hair gently, exposing your neck to his wanting teeth once more. The Pine above sways again, belying a breath of orange and a scream of heat – but you blink and soon teeth are biting sharply, pain striking you through your spine. 

Chuckles into the open air around you, curling in your mind as a hand slides down your side; though your words were no such thing of humour, your gaze flutters shut and lips press on in search of the more sensitive areas of your neck. 

The chill breeze flutters over your bare skin, goosebumps cascading over every curve of you; though the more your husband bites down, the stronger the foreign smell grows – and in a grunt of discomfort, you shove his mouth away from your throat.

His warmth leaves you, and in an instant, his voice curls into your mind and seeps dread through you. 

“I know, pet.”

A whisper - cold and sinister; you have less than a moment to shift, to scramble away from the huffing chuckle from the shadows of your vision, before it happens. 

A sharp pain punctures through you. 

Blood curdling – the scream you let out tears through the woods, sending a murder of crows to the sky with screams of their own; and your eyes fly open to find your husband’s eyes– 

Though it is not Paul at all.  

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen smiles cruelly, watching with a hunger in his eyes as he presses;  The pain between your ribs is unbearable, and your hand flies in a choked gasp to cover his own, feeling the sickeningly familiar hilt protruding from you.

In terror, you look down:

A sickeningly pale hand grips your own nameday knife, the exposed part of its blade glinting in the dim light of the ceremonial candles; a lick of flames which were moments ago above you, around you, within you. 

You are struck with paralyzing fear – and Feyd-Rautha’s breath is hot against you as he slowly leans down, lips cold; you feel the hilt twist just as his lips press to your forehead. 

Blood seeps a slow march; over your body, it soaks into the sheet below you, tainting the ritual in crimson – and you remain in your expiring breaths, a small glowing ember carried to the hearth of forgotten gods; lied and lying, taking and taken. 

“You're mine.” And his hand turns the blade deeper, glinting as you scream. “My little wife.” 

Rays of sunlight pierce your vision when you jolt to life. 

A haunt of touch still upon your ribs; and a face hovering before you, staring deep into your racing heartbeat. And so in your delirious panic, you lash out – a fight to get the body off of your own, your fist swings wildly in your blind haze. 

Though a palm of defense catches the brunt of your offense, and you are effectively jerked aside as a gasp floats into the still dust of the room. For a moment as your heart pounds, you consider how many moves it'd take to disarm your attacker – but when you blink yourself into focus, your stomach drops. 

Hestia, cheeks red as she breathes, her round eyes wide; her grip is firm, gentle around your closed fist, but her brows are knit with worry.

"My lady," Her voice is airy, eyes searching your panicked gaze, “You were only dreaming.”

It is ragged, the gasps you take – and you blink in rapid attempt to dispel the lingering tendrils of nightmare that still cling to your consciousness. Dread finds you; regret clasping your ribs in a deadly embrace.

 “Void above,” You whisper, eyes pricking in regret, “I-I'm sorry,” you stammer, the weight of your actions crashing down upon you as you realize what you've done. "Are you okay? Hestia, I didn't mean to–”

Your hand is squeezed gently within her own. “It's alright,” she says, “You were frightened. I woke you while you slept. Anyone would react the same way.”

It is a lie wrapped in a gauzy layer of kindness; and guilt gnaws within you, a lump in your throat. 

“I wouldn't hurt you.”

Though your tone is less than a whisper into the morning beams of light, Hestia's visage remains unwavering and calm. “I know you wouldn’t,” She promises, “And you didn't. I'm just glad you're alright.” 

You are struck with relief at her words and you allow yourself a moment of breath as she takes a step away from your heaving chest to draw further the curtains across the way. The bruises and marks from your old life took several days to fade after your arrival on Caladan; though she, nor the other maids, ever said a thing, let alone stared too long when you’d slipped a tunic over the jagged scar across your ribs each morning– nor when they offered the makeup in the tone of your skin to cover the odd-shaped marks upon your neck of fading teeth – nor when they helped you pull the mourning veil over your face. 

You’ve grown quite fond of them all. Particularly Hestia, in her tenderness and willful amiability; it occurs to you slowly as you watch her gather your clothing that you never found this kind of humanity on Giedi Prime. 

And even after you and Hestia finish your breakfast, she doesn't ask about the dream; And you don't tell her. 

It is certainly not the first of these dreams you've had – such a place has haunted you nearly every night since you begun dreaming again in the wake of the poisonous sun; Those mountains, the hills, the pathway to the open clearing: Each night, it calls to you, singing a song you cannot hear. 

But never, not until now, has there been a man with you. 

Never has Paul, nor Feyd-Rautha, found you in those dreams.

A sharp pain still clings to your breaths – and still lingers that phantom blade, stuck through your ribs; haunted in the shadows by the cold stare of the man you were once promised to forever. 

A haunting thing, to near such a pleasant dream – only to be ripped from it by the ghost of shadows; and you reel anyways in shame from the beginning of the dream – fading at the tips of your fingers, such a warm and hungry thing it’d started out as… 

Paul, your mind reminds you as you swallow the unease in your stomach, it was Paul who was with you in the beginning.

An odd ritual it’d been – one that felt faint yet familiar, as though some ghost long dead had whispered such things to you in your sleep; and you shake off the dusty robes of the past in search of the present, a more tangible and decidedly less salacious thing. 

Dressing is a solemn affair this morning. 

It is slow that you drape yourself in the fineries of a life far left behind; cloth made from the veins of plants alpine and far away – they smell of the ocean now, and you watch the pines in the distant western forest bristle in the breeze. It is not until Hestia brings forth the gifted necklace that you hesitate. 

It glints in the morning rays – precious stone carving the hawk and sigil, a soft thing, but cut sharp with the cerulean green valleys and ridges of the jewel; and though Hestia is slow as a hunter to a startled doe, you still stiffen when he moves to lace it around your neck. 

She's not unused to this; it's been half a week since it was given to you, and each day you have bared your teeth as she clasps it around your neck – though still, beneath the veil, holding the skin above your heart captive, you wear it. 

She is beside you, now, and it is not hard for her to tell where your mind’s gone.

“You said he apologized?” She asks it tentatively, as though you might slit her throat at the mere mention of Paul; though instead you merely huff a humourless laugh. “He did,” You affirm, “Though only after I told his parents.” 

Your agony is received; you sigh once more, “I acted like a child. Perhaps I was in the right, but nevertheless–” You glance out towards the glinting forest and moors beyond, clenching your jaw at the memory of Paul’s sharp eyes and accusatory tongue. “He must hate me more now.” 

The necklace is clasped over your clavicle, and you can feel the incredulous look Hestia sends you; though you merely press your lips, admiring the pendant against your skin in the morning light of the mirror. It does well suit you, much to your chagrin; a fine piece as ever to hold above your head. 

Power always seems so beautiful in the morning light. 

She says your name gently, whispering into the empty bedroom, “He gifted you a family heirloom – look at it! It must be older than the two of us combined.” 

And her irreproachability is as charming as it is unnatural – it is still an adjustment, to take in her joyous nature, the curve of a smile so genuine and spirited. It is still an adjustment, then, to see people so human and to try to return some semblance of that humanity in gratitude; and though she is lighthearted, it does not quell your distress. 

Your teeth worry into your bottom lip as you hum gently, shrugging, though you wish to simply melt into the girlish giddiness that leaks from her and infects the corner of your smile.

 “It's not so simple”

Your eyes cast down, where your bare feet stand against the floor – and for a blink, beneath them lies wild grass, a white sheet; a seep of crimson leaks through the pristine fabric and you snap away, taking a step back and staring skittishly at Hestia. “I think he’d prefer for me to remember who now holds my reins.” 

And if anything, it is a relief to be able to speak so candidly with someone; a trust, knowing it will not leak from your lips through her own and into the ear of the Duke – or his son.  

“Or, it's his way of trying to welcome you into House Atreides?” She suggests with a lifted brow, and the indignant part of you bristles as she continues, “He does not mean ill will, I promise. He's... slow to trust.”

You turn, figure shrouded in the morning light’s beams through your large windows. Your brow lifts, your tone teasing; A foreign thing – one that, out of rusty exercise, delivers more accusatory than intended. “You seem to know Lord Paul quite well, Hestia.” 

And, as expected, she flushes red; you hide your smirk in the palm of your hand as she shakes her head, eager to dispel any perceived accusations. 

 “N-nothing like that, my lady –" And it is rather frantically she rushes to assure you, "My mother is Lady Jessica’s in-waiting,” She explains quickly, fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of your blouse, “And Paul is only a few years older than I - and though I am just a worker, he and I were reared very close.”

You’d figured as such; though she speaks highly of him, there indeed has been no inkling of affection held more than anything platonic in her musings. Though, if there had been, perhaps a part of you could not blame her; for visions of a youthful teen, curly hair and a sharp laugh, green eyes that swim with light and pool with the gentle fountain of dutiful intelligence. Perhaps he is someone you do not know; that odd feeling, that light when you know only a stranger’s shadow – just as you might be to him; his green ghost that haunts these halls. 

You nod gently with a smile that grows in Hestia’s melting embarrassment – and she notices not a few moments after you crack. 

A smile blossoms and it brings warmth into your sullen heart. “You tease me,” She observes with a small grin of her own. 

You laugh only quietly, shaking your head, “I apologize, I couldn’t help it.” You admit, pacing away from the window to gather the garment from her arms.

“So you’ve known Paul for your whole life?” You wonder, unable to bite back the intrigue which laps at the shores of your mind. 

And then comes a sweet kind of existence, one which lives in the early hours between the sun’s rising and the castle’s; Hestia nods, setting to work on your sheets, straightening them as you begin to dress yourself. “I've got no siblings of my own,” She muses lightly, “Though I imagine he is exactly what a brother should be.”

A memory is sharp in the bruise of your heart, and you blink back the vision of the boy falling to the sand, fingers grasping a blade too large for his palm. The numb ache crawls in an eclipse of your pleasant mood and you fight it with a blink.

There is a chip in the boudoir beside you; it glistens against the waxy shine of the sun. Hestia’s warmth, that song of unburdened amity, lulls the dull ache of your heart into a placant thrum. 

“– Kind, thoughtful. He entertains the most foolish subjects and also the most serious –” A pause and a rustle, as if she’s turned to glance at you – you do not return the stare, mind too lost in the Paul that Hestia knows; the Paul you have yet to meet. 

“And, if you’d believe it…” She says it almost conspiratorially, arriving to button the back of your tunic, as you turn from her, listening quietly, “he can be quite funny sometimes."

Funny. You send her a look; this time there is no fooling – she laughs gently at your doubt and nods, “Believe it or don’t,” she muses, “He is good. He will warm up to you.” 

And though she says it in good nature, there is a dejection which leaks into your heart, which pools around the memories of sharp tongue and mistrusting eyes – of a short apology and a pendant wrapped around your throat, binding your wrists. 

 Instead you force a smile, hoping it appears more brilliant than you feel.

She is a sweet girl – a girl not familiar with the burden of family, of how it falls at your feet in a slump of black and pale and gray and death – and so you imagine her as a young girl, hand-in-hand with a young Paul, skipping down hallways and whispering conspiratorial through the doors of the worker’s quarters. 

A melancholia visits you quite suddenly, and your eyes drift to the cobwebs of silk which spin small patterns across the high beams of your ceiling. 

“I always seemed to fight with my siblings.” Your voice is a whisper in a breath; what a distant dream it is now, those nights curled together by the grand hearth, the days running through ornate halls, learning to hunt in the woods. Bows pulled from hair and tied into your own – a hand smaller than yours tugging you into an icy lake – screaming, crying, the thud of young limbs hitting another. Anger, that ferocious thing that is only so well known by that of your own kin; A hard thing it is to remember, when their faces have begun to slip away. 

“I had four of them,” You offer to her – and though she knows just as well as each person within the Imperium knows now of your family and their end, you feel the comfort of choice; the warmth of choosing to reveal such information about your family to a lended ear. Your brows knit – there is a nest of brown twigs and dried mud just below your window. “And we would scream, and hit, and fight, – all the time, when we were young.” A gaggle of young chickadees vie for the worm in their mother’s mouth within the small nest, and you watch on with burning eyelids. Your breath is solemn, and your fingers trace over the healing scars upon your palm. “But they were my favorite people in this entire universe.” 

It is still in the somber moment, though you break your shell with a cleared throat, tearing your eyes from the soft burgeoning feathers of the chicklets in the nest. And after a deep inhale, you smile wistfully, clearing your throat as you slide on the hand jewelry she offers to you; Hestia doesn't say anything, and you're grateful for it. 

She lingers beside you as you slide rings over healed knuckles. Your voice comes once more, and it is stronger. “Family, blood or bond, is a precious thing,” you decide, turning to slip on your shoes and tie your trousers. “I am quite glad you and your mother have found it.” 

And though there lingers some despondent hesitation, Hestia nods in agreement, her own wistful smile playing on her lips. “Indeed, my lady.”

Your hair catches the rays of sun in the mirror before you – tainted with the leaking green of your veil, you place the ferronnière above it; and you are beautiful in this light, yes – beautiful, but miserable. A dog with a collar for the Atreides leash. 

Your gaze leaves yourself to find Hestia watching with a small smile. 

An offer of her arm and a small nod brings forth a balm to the stinging hesitance of leaving your room. 

“Now, let's get you to this War Council.” 

Paul’s sigh is sharp in the empty room. 

An aseptic scent pierces his nostrils, contaminating his brain – distracting him. The castle becomes very sterile, deep in the more secluded chambers; here, where he breathes and feels the world breathe too, the air has a chill to it – sharp with some kind of disinfectant.

“Concentrate, Paul.” 

His mother’s voice is low, though soothing. “Project your will.”

But he can’t bring himself to look up – his mother stands just a few paces away, her eyes boring into him; Focus. He needs to focus.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he hums gently, a twitch of focus in the crook of his neck; but then, flames flicker up the sides of his vision – a large tree, smoke leaking from somewhere above where it pierces through the clouds. His name, sighed gentle as the breeze through the trees, trickling into his mind; hands, threading through the curls at the nape of his neck. His nostrils flare as he shakes his head, letting out a small groan of irritation. Focus.

Within him, an energy builds; something comes, and he knows he must not lose it – but as he begins to speak, a strange sense of trepidation washes over his mind; a nagging suspicion of unease, some dripping chill down the bumps of his spine. He falters in his words for a moment, confidence waning as doubts creep through the cracks in the shadows.

It's silent for a moment, before she sighs from across the room. 

“You’re distracted this morning, Paul.”

He bites back a sharp I know – and instead sighs, a sagging weight in his shoulders as he pushes his hair back with the heel of a palm. “I didn’t sleep well.” He excuses, pacing towards the water pitcher; his mother follows, reaching for the glass he offers. She hums, sipping on the water as he stares into the reflection of his own. 

“Dreams?” 

She reads him so well. 

Paul wills his spine not to tense at her words. With a half a breath, Paul takes another sip of his water – a purchase of time, perhaps. There is a giving degree to which he understands the Bene Gesserit’s plans, and how perhaps he might fall into them; this alone is cause for hesitation. Those years ago – almost two, now – the searing, bone-gnawing pain of that box; the whispers around closed doors, the breath that plumed when the Reverend Mother told his own lady mother that there were two candidates. 

Two candidates – for what, he still doesn't know – and yet Paul may one day be one of them. It is an instinct, perhaps some method of survival written into his very DNA; he accepts the churning sick in his stomach at the thought of what his onslaught of dreams mean. 

“Yes,” he acquiesces – any possible lie he could have thought to fabricate would have been sheared by the blades of her mind, anyway – and he turns to her, guarded but concerned. She is his mother, after all. 

“I've been having dreams,” his voice is slow to regain traction – there is a small scuff on the floor and he traces it with his toe. “Vivid dreams…” He murmurs, chewing upon the skin of his lip, “of Sabberon.” 

And perhaps to an untrained eye, there would be no change; But Paul's eyes are indeed quite trained. 

A flicker of concern passes through her and it serves nothing but to feed the pit of anxiety that grows in Paul’s stomach.

“Sabberon?” She echoes with a wary tilt of the head, “And what do you see in these dreams?” 

The hesitation comes once more, although the memory is still fresh in his mind: For in the beginning, it is that spongy earth, toes imbued with dirt. Soft whispers of his name from voices he cannot see, a caress of the wind in his hair, the glistening mountain peaks that glitter like jewels in the distance, the ribbons tied to trunks and candles lit unyielding even when the sky falls. 

And then there is you; a soft thing, an inevitable one – with the soft skin of your thighs trembling in the wake of his wanting lips. There’s the sigh, hitched and breathy, as his hands hold your hips to the pristine sheet below you; the bunching of a dress, the glint of a blade's silvered and black hilt almost golden in the reddening sun. 

Your gown, thin and blowing in the breeze, the same color as the veil which still hides your face from his wanting gaze; even in the dying light, the streaks of orange and pink in the sky, snow falling weightless from dark clouds above. That fabric, woven from the skin of alpine hemp which grows in clusters around your planet – bunching by your hips, your chest tremoring in the flickering light of ceremonial candles; breath, warm and willing upon his neck – palms teasing and eager alike, crawling in descent towards his own waistband. A soft moan, the smell of ash – 

Paul is drawn back from the glimpses of skin and the flashes of metal, the smell of smoke; he swallows thickly, staring at his mother with the glance of a lamb before the jaws of a wolf – though he shifts, clearing his throat, and the veil lifts. 

“I always…” He chooses carefully the truths he can forgive, “I always see a white blanket on the ground. Above, there’s a… the Great Pine of Sabberon. Visions of…” His brows furrow, swallowing the thick of concern, “of knives, and streaks through the sky; I think they’re… missiles. And we’re there together…she and I.” 

Barely a blink from his mother as she murmurs, “Lady Bourbon?” 

He barely nods, blinking away visions of shining hands and whispers threading through pine needles in the wind. 

“I don’t know why it’s always the same dream,” He pleads to his mother – tell me it’s fine – and though his voice is barely audible, he cannot shake the calling for him, that odd feeling that something importing awaits him on Sabberon. “Maybe I've been reading about Sabberon too much,” He half-shrugs. 

And it is a relief to admit it finally to someone – since your arrival, perhaps even in the days leading up to it, he’s unsure; but his dreams have ebbed and flowed in the brook of consciousness, always floating back to that place. Always there, and now, with you – and after the lessons the other day, he is sure: it's Sabberon. 

He dreams of it burning; he sees it up in flames, and sometimes, you with it. 

His mother does little to quell the concern that brims in his gaze – though she sets down her glass and kisses his brow. “Be cautious with your dreams, Paul,” She chides, “Listen to them, learn from them.”

Her gaze brings no such comfort to him as he watches her gaze flick from the cliffs through the casement and back to him. 

“Dreams are messages from the deep.”

Though it is only late morning, the Strategy Council finds you quite weary.

You sit, toying with your fingers as you drown in a sea of House Atreides; and once again, the only solace in the room is your blade, laid in front of you on the table for all to see. Certainly a warning, this time. 

Nearly everybody you've met of importance during your sojourn is in attendance – the table is large and long, so much so that you know you will have to project your voice to be heard by the dredges of your periphery; and around you sit war masters, strategists, women and men with intense stares and the symbol of house Atreides upon their clothing. 

It is a fight, after Duke Leto sets a brief introduction, to not sound too sharp nor calculating; your gaze skitters over the listeners as you speak, their eyes interested, respectful – it is a shock to your body as you trail off, aware of the respect that brims in the quiet of the room. 

But worse still is the fight to stifle your yawn as the Duke reviews intelligence reports; Gritting your teeth, you sit up straighter – through no hitch of boredom but instead the dreadful absence of rest, now is perhaps the worst time for your body to punish your mind for your lack of sleep.

And beside the Duke this time rests a chilling gaze, one you’ve yet to meet in such a scenario – Paul rests with a straight spine and a stare hooked upon the pendant hanging from your neck, and you fight not to stir with the heat of the green boring through your veil. 

Until now, there's lived a cold silence between the two of you that has not been broken since it befell; that night when you were gifted the necklace – and besides the stiff apology he issued you the morning after, assuring you he was out of line for treating you with disrespect in his father’s study that morning ��� all that’s grown between you and your betrothed are cordial nods or a tight-lipped smile from him in passing, whenever a house member is around. Nothing more would dare be said between you, lest you pull a blade to his throat. 

If you'd been less indulged in your studies and training – or perhaps he, less prideful – maybe it would not have gone on this long; a stalemate as stubborn as its proprietors. 

But seeing as you've barely been in the same room once since that dreadful dinner several days ago, it's no different. You aren’t to be wed until the end of this year, but you know sometime soon, you will have to learn to live with him. 

Paul does not notice your attention on him for some time as the strategy council rolls on; He is seemingly in his own world, gazing intently at the necklace in a way that gives you a rush of unease – and you, drawn into the world of dreamlike memory: Of hands smooth against skin, of soft breath upon your cheek, of curls tickling your forehead. 

But it’s as if a shock hits him – and suddenly, a green stare finds your own; and though it is near impossible to discern your face unless mere inches away, Paul never fails to find your eyes behind the veil. 

In his stare, your mind convulses; brought forth unbidden and unsolicited, you see them: Curls that kiss your forehead, lips plush and pressed to your neck – a hand snaking up the bareness of your thigh. 

You swallow thickly, shifting in your seat; you’ve grown quite used to the demons which sleep in your mind – of Feyd-Rautha’s shadows curling to grasp your mind when your eyes shut – yet this strange thing, this new thing? 

Now, you're flushing each time you catch your husband-to-be's eyes – like some innocent girl, lovestruck and awake to be put in a corner; catching those very same eyes which regard you as a pawn on the chessboard of his House, no less.

And yes – there is not a part of you so vain as to lie and say Paul is not extremely attractive. A creature made of dark curls, sharp angles, plush lips, that cooled, smooth voice; anybody worth their wits could see his allure –  but even just this innocent observation rings forth a violent urge of resistance. An urge, to rip off the necklace; to scream at him, at the Imperium –  I am not yours to keep.

Though, before you can do much of anything, his gaze is gone from you; Paul breaks the turmoil in your mind with a simple turn of his head. 

Begrudgingly, you try to do the same. 

Though it yields nothing but more trouble: Your eyelids droop as you fight to stare at the Duke, who speaks in what you can only perceive as background noise as your mind soldiers on against your own will.

“Lady Bourbon?”

And with that, your eyes snap up, heart suddenly beating hard under the alarmingly paternal gaze of Duke Leto; In fact, through the silence, you observe that every eye is on you expectantly, including Paul’s. 

It is with ignorance of the concerned look etched upon his countenance that you snap out of your reverie, embarrassment flooding you; Paul's green eyes bore into you even when you turn to address the Duke. 

“Apologies, Duke Leto,” you clear your throat, willing your cheeks to stop flushing from the attention, “I've been having trouble sleeping lately. I've been having some…” You reluctantly admit the burdens of your mind, “…odd dreams. They've been keeping me awake at night.” 

After a beat, you stir, “Could you please repeat yourself?” You wonder with a flushed face and twisting fingers – but there is a quick glance sent from Lady Jessica to her son and your attention is stolen. 

Paul’s own gaze meets his mothers and then casts suddenly downwards, as if deep within his own mind; and it is clear – whatever she delivers within her gaze, he is clearly avoiding – though there is little pause from the rest of the council, and you soon forget the look shared between mother and son. 

From down the table, Thufir Hawat denotes a remedy in the form of an elixir you can take before sleep that should help you; the Duke orders a worker to have it brought to your quarters this evening, and in the expiring embarrassment of your slip-up, your mind rocks from its pulling descent to slumber.

You’re painfully alert after this, and when you are finally called upon to share your thoughts, it is by Gurney Halleck: “My lady, you’ve before mentioned certain endeavors during your time on Giedi Prime.” 

You nod and he takes the affirmation with a nod of his own, “What do you know of their Spice exploits?” 

And eyes once again fall to you from across the room; in a ticking of your jaw, you wish once more to rid yourself of the cursed veil that constricts your vision. Your spine straightens at the question and you choose your words quite carefully. “I do not know much of their spice harvesting,” you begin, “and it must be said that what I know is mostly second-hand; I learned most of what I know through the na-baron Feyd-Rautha.” 

A murmur from the end of the table, one you are quick to squash with a withering look behind the veil: “He is vicious,” You affirm, folding your hands, “but he has his own weaknesses, ones which the other Harkonnens lack.” And though the implications of your words settle in unease around the room – the Lady Jessica’s head turns to you just slightly – you do not drop the Duke’s stare. “I might remind you all that Spice is not their only source of power.”

And in the wash of a renewed power – eyes are hooked upon your cloaked figure, on how the words drip from a mouth so concealed. “They have large petroleum reserves – from refineries around the planet, stored in the bowels of Barony; I've seen them, they're never-ending."

This makes the duke shift in his seat; likewise, Paul's brows furrow in thought. 

Your voice is a beam through a forested canopy of pine and spruce, bursting forth into the sterile room; A perk of interest that bristles through the icy surface of a sleeping scape. “It is true, I was not an agent for my family; though from what I’ve been able to piece together, my family was recording Harkonnen reserves, and monitoring their activity with the Spacing Guild.” Your voice hangs, words heavy with implication. You swallow down the worry that gnaws in you before you continue. “Not just for spice, but petroleum. I was none the wiser until after they were caught.” You spare a glance to Paul, meeting his stare with your own. “–But of course, who is to believe me?” 

Paul’s gaze is promptly cast away, written with some flash of guilt; and you continue once more. “I assumed it is is why the Great Houses likely allowed for me to be brought to Caladan – in hopes that I know something of my family’s findings.”

Your eyes fall to Duke Leto. “Am I right, my Lord?” You wonder; the room is quiet as your words are absorbed, a rainbow of faces all varying degrees of surprise. 

Duke Leto is an honest man. “Yes,” he affirms, “It is one of the reasons I believe the Landraad passed the ordinance for your betrothal to be transitioned.” 

The knowledge does not do much to ease your worry – indeed, just some figure of strategy in a game above your head. 

His words are not unkind, though: “We've been concerned with any acts of retaliation to our house after this ruling, and though it hasn't come yet, we need to be prepared. We must know what you know, my lady.”  

You press your fingers along the blade before you as you nod. “When the betrothal was annulled, they were distraught,” you admit with an open air, catching the guarded surprise of several glances. It is mirthful, the small smirk that sneaks onto your lips as you take in their expressions. “Not for some attachment to me, mind you,” You ease them, “Feyd-Rautha was the worst of them when it came to the dissolution of our engagement – but the truth is…” you offer a half-shrug, shaking your head in some bitter mirth. “Harkonnens don’t like when their toys are taken away from them.” 

It is just as uncomfortable as ever; Paul’s stare is focused down, upon the grain of wood below your fingers, and you do not flinch at the set in his jaw. In the silence, you push forward, “Thufir has been tutoring me on local economics,” You nod to the man down the table, “I understand that the majority of the trading exports from Caladan are agriculture – fine wine and rice?” 

Paul’s voice comes from the depths. “Yes,” he confirms; and you nod, the chain of your headdress chiming slightly as you hold his stare. You wet your lips, “The Baron could easily flood the galactic market with cheap petroleum, garnering almost no externalities for himself.” You tilt your head, “An influx of cheap fuel like that could disrupt the transportation networks – the market for space transport and exportation would be saturated by the Harkonnens within days.” 

Sparse glances of thought and furrowed brows across the table – and after a moment, you hear the thought that has lingered in your mind since the moment you saw the refineries’ stock at Barony. 

“An action like this would highly disrupt our direct trade access from this system to most others without use of the Spacing Guild.” Thufir adds – the Duke still looks at you, urging you to continue. You do.

“What I fear,” You crack your knuckles gently, knee bouncing just slightly under the table, “Is the vacuum that’s been left on Sabberon. There is no governing body now that my family has been eliminated.” It is a blunt, unemotional statement, and you move past it before the ghosts which linger in the corners of your heart come out of the shadows. “If Harkonnen boots hit the ground there, they could rather easily take control of the planet's resources and exports. Their battalions could easily squash the insurgent groups in the North and South.” 

A nod, a sparse murmur – and then, a woman a few seats down from you leans forward to catch your gaze. “Sabberon's industries are commercial fishing, fir, logging.”

Hardly much to worry about, you know – and you turn, nodding. “Yes, they are – but I more mean the glacial deposits within our mountain ranges.” You purse your lips, a secret kept in the confines of Castle Bourbon tilting from your lips. “The highest ranges contain precious minerals and ores whose compounds are quite valuable for industrial applications. It’s how we industrialized so quick in the Turning Age.” You wish to avoid any history lessons – but it is important; and you clear your throat as you set down the pneumatic tubes you'd prepared before the council. 

“I've documented, to the best of my ability, everything that I remember here. Feyd-Rautha knows about the deposits on Sabberon; I believe it is fair to assume the Baron does, too.” 

It is in the lull of the moment, heavy and steeping with thought, that his face comes to you – and a sickly hand around your neck, a black smile: You're mine to keep. There's plenty of life left for you to serve.  

In a blink, you’re back to the grain of the table, tracing along it with your nail. Paul leans forward, brows furrowed. “If the region of Sabberon is destabilized – controlled by Harkonnens or in civil conflict – we could lose almost all of our exports. It’s a crucial line of trade in the system for us.” He echoes your concern, “Giving them access to the resources is dangerous enough, but a near-monopoly on petroleum, Spice, and the Space Trade Route?” 

There is a spark of intrigue at the sharp point of his intelligence – but nonetheless, you merely nod in agreement, pushing away any such girlish thoughts in sacrifice of the matter at hand. 

Gurney Halleck’s voice cuts through your observation of Paul’s hair against the light: “We need to consider this carefully. If the Harkonnens make a move to Sabberon, we must be ready to respond. But acting first could have larger consequences.”  

Duke Leto nods; with a glance to the War Master and back to the others. “Halleck's right. The Referendum is soon – the Landsraad will be redrawing the Trade negotiations then,” His gaze flickers to you, “–and your arraignment is set for the same congress. It seems the best option is to wait.” 

Dread fills you; stuck between a rock and a hard place, you’re left with nothing to do but wait – wait for the impending trade drawings, for the impending arraignment. You’re no fool – the arraignment might leave you with no inheritance, no claim to Sabberon. Your gut coils in anxiety, and it is not soothed by the urgent sense that curbs the meeting: plans are drawn out to set more strategy meetings before the Referendum; you are requested to attend them. 

Fear clubs up the ridges of your spine with each nod you give to passersby – and a panic pulls your eyelids to droop, your brain aching for rest. 

By the time you return to your chambers, you are much too exhausted to seek lunch. 

Instead, you are asleep within minutes. 

Your name calls to you. 

A hum in response as you thread your fingers through locks of curls; in the distance, birds sing. The sun drags streaks flying across the sky in its descent, and flakes flutter gently around you – though it smells not of snowfall. A bonfire crackles somewhere, you can smell the heady cedar embers, see the flames in your blinks.  

Your hair is tugged; in a huff of laughter, you tug the tresses laced between your own fingers – but in another surprising jolt, you’re tugged again and you gasp, catching the flicker in green eyes. “That hurt,” Your floating voice chides, though there is no malice – your words are faint and dancing around the falling flakes – a warm palm grasps your jaw to tilt your head up. 

“I'm very sorry,” he does not even trying to cover the lie, smiling against the dying sun. “Let me ease the pain,” He whispers, gentle and teasing against your jaw. A faint chuckle when he nips down your exposed neck and you breathe out; His hands are quite daring, slipping your dress over your head until you're bare against the sheet, blinking up warmly at the forest. The breeze of springtime is chill and disarming against your flesh; birds sing. His fingers trace you slowly. 

And there is nothing but arousal snaking through you as he sinks lower, lips painting a path back up your thighs, nipping gently at your soft skin; A swat to the top of his head, and a short noise of protest from him in response as you bite back a smile.

“Paul,” you whisper, and it disappears through the trees as if off to find some other world. He hums in a teasing lilt, vibrations rippling from his lips to your warm skin, sending a cascade of goosebumps through you. 

“Come back to me,” you whisper – and he listens, though he usually doesn't; His lips are replaced by his hips and soon, after a small roll, a gentle moan leaks from your lips. It is still slightly cold in the death of spring, but his skin is warm; His lips are warm. 

“I'm here, aren't I?" His eyes are upon yours, and your stomach flutters, “I'm always here.”  

And when he slides into you slowly, his lashes tangle in a kiss of deep brown – and your head tilts back against the sheet, his hand hitting the trunk of the Pine above your head, grasping with a thud; a long whimper is swallowed by his lips, consumed by his warmth, by the deep sensation that sends your back to arch.

And any semblance of chivalry dissipates as Paul begins to move; A palm gliding up from your hip, sliding over your breasts, pinching a pert nipple before rising – and you with a clutch upon his shoulders, grasping the warm skin and revelling in the sweet relief of pleasure. Fingers glide over your heaving chest as hips slide into your own – you’re pushed down against the earthy floor in ecstasy, and his grasp finds it suddenly–

A finger traces over the emblem clasped around your throat: A hawk, cerulean and shining, over your sweat-sheened, thundering chest. 

And before any such disdain can leak from lips so wanting of affection, he’s pulling with a startling force – the necklace breaks under Paul’s grasp and falls apart, stones and pearls rolling over your bare chest and pooling onto the sheet below you.

And it’s a thing of pleasure, the way your hand snakes to press his grasp to your thundering heart; the pendant is thrown far behind you as Paul’s desperation leaks through. 

A groan from his lips as his hand squeezes over your neck just lightly, your own grasping it in a shocking pleasure – it is unlike any sensation you’ve yet experienced, and soon pours his breaths and groans like a river of desire broken for you. A whispered phrase, over and over, spilling from your lips and his alike – lulling you into a state of euphoria as his body rocks with yours, breathing to the earth and feeling it breathe back. 

Hands grasp skin tight and desperate – your nails find the line of his smooth back, clutching to the lithe muscles that move with his hips; and he, tracing each curve of your face and neck with his lips, gasping as the flakes that fall around you begin to burn as embers. Smoke lingers somewhere far off; though you are with your husband and you cling to him, whispering that same phrase over, and over – a jolted gasp of pleasure – and once more; over, and over, and over – 

“I'm yours.” 

Something rouses you from sleep, much quicker this time, and you wake with a start.  

Broad daylight streams through your chamber windows when your eyes open, your heart thundering as you shift on the sheets; A blurry form comes into view, fluffing the untouched pillow beside you on the bed. You do not strike this time, instead swarmed with shame and embarrassment in the wake of such tangible dreams. 

“Bad dream again?” Hestia she sets down a fresh set of clothing; you swallow and wince at your dry throat, heart thudding. Bad dream... You can feel your face flood with embarrassment – you'd rather be caught dead than admit what you'd just dreamt, so instead you push your hair from your face, fanning your cheeks. 

“Yes.” You croak, accepting the glass of water she offers you, “I did not mean to fall asleep.”

The sheets are warm and your spine is lined with sweat; you slide out of your bed with the elegance of a newborn mare, eyes flicking around. 

The sky is sunny, not a single rain cloud; and your chambers are heavy, tight. 

“I need some fresh air.” 

Paul’s shadow dances across the wild grass as the midday sun follows his steps. 

The breeze is much more permanent down by the shore; he brushes stray curls from his eyes, tracing the shoreline below with a lingering absence; It's only a few hours until he should be back in the strategy chambers with his father, helping draw plans for the upcoming Referendum – but the castle has grown stuffy and sterile at the same time, and his stomach growls in hunger. He needs some fresh air. 

Though the sea mists his cheeks, his mind is stuck high above him, spinning in the memory of the Strategy Council meeting. Paul would be struck dead a liar if he were to say you were not one of the most intelligent women he’s met; and after this morning, there is truly nothing much else he has been able to think of – and despite himself, the growing bud of admiration sprouts within his mind, even despite your predisposition to violence and solitude.

Paul almost feels foolish for how blinded he was – if war is really on the horizon, he supposes it’s very lucky that House Atreides took you in; If not for your capabilities and sharp intellect, then for your claim to Sabberon, for your connections with the Ginaz and their Swordsmen; for your intimate knowledge of Harkonnen power. 

It’s now as important as ever that Paul ensures you remain on the Atreides’ side, should this war come – a burden to hold you should you somehow wish to return to the black embrace of Giedi Prime, but one he will have to keep. Because you are too valuable to his House to let you go over trivial things; Politics is all two way streets; you will help them with your insights and they will protect you. And with this, perhaps, comes the truth – that Paul has begun to learn of you, of the you that shines through any small cracks in the armor. 

And over the meadow he walks, he sees that lush green forest again; a woodpecker against bark, your hands sliding into his own as you lean him back against the trunk of a tree – the smell of smoke, an explosion on the horizon; laughter swallowed by the wind, lips pressed to parted lips.

Paul sighs harshly. 

He's not sure if it was the correct decision to tell his mother about these dreams, instead of his father; skepticism is a biting friend as his feet trudge over the cliff and down, closer to the beach. 

Paul loves his mother, but he is indeed not naive to the manipulative nature of the Bene Gesserit; in some dreadful way, he wonders once more which silent partners in the Imperium influenced the decision for the Houses to order his betrothal to you. 

A small whisper in the back of his mind, that sickly voice of the Reverend Mother those years ago: Two candidates... Paul may one day be one of them–

The skittering of a rabbit through the grass calls his attention to the path, his jaw clenched tight. 

The wind is swallowed by the structure under which he ducks; It is a small alcove – one of many below the cliffs which hold a cluster of tidepools, small and large. And this particular one catches his eye, just on the left – a soft smile grows upon weary lips. 

When he was younger, he often played in these very alcoves with the few other children his age in the castle; swimming, playing hide-and-seek, sparring with wooden daggers. 

His feet take him into the alcove without any hesitation – the rock grows slick with seawater and the scent of the brackish pools; it isn't until he's into the shade that he sees the figure seated among the pools.

You wear the same clothing you'd donned at the Strategy Council, your feet bare and dipped into the shallow waters. 

For a moment, he considers turning back to his path towards the beach; but your back grows rigid as you turn to him, and he’s struck with a breath of beauty blowing in the breeze of your veil. 

A thick silence; a silence lived between you, lodged like an unwanted burden – it has been some time since you were last alone. A memory of his shaking hands, the bite in your words as you’d clasped that pendant to your chest - of that sheer veil, of your glistening gaze across the table. 

It is time to leave such hesitancy behind; and so with a tentative swallow, Paul takes a few steps closer.

“I hadn't expected to find you here,” An honest and neutral observation. 

Somewhere beyond that gauzy veil, you stare back at him; and your fingers twitch towards the blade upon your hip before curling once more into a soft fist, cradled in a palm. “Nor I you,” you reply coolly – and in the uneasy silence, Paul sacrifices his pride and endures the agony of discontent. 

He does not ask if you mind if he joins you – he knows that you would; so instead he sits gently, leaving a wide berth of space between you. 

And while you bristle at his arrival, stiffening as he sits across from you and drops the bag from his back beside him, he cannot bring himself to blame you.

It is a peculiar posture you give; a cradling of your hand as you watch the ripples in the tide pool that he slowly dips his feet into – it is soon that he recognizes the gives of pain from your figure. And that very agony it is almost palpable in your silence as he looks down at where you rub the skin of your hand, swollen and red. 

“I assume you met the crabs.”

And the headdress of metal jewelry that adorns the crown of your forehead chimes when you turn to watch him, surprise laced into your posture. 

“I did.” 

Your affirmation is punctuated by an unfurling of your palm, revealing blistered, irritated skin; He winces more for your own sake than in true surprise before letting his eyes roam gently over the near landscape – moss grows in clumps throughout the rocky pools, though he searches for that short, stalky root which grows just outside the reach of the water.

And after spotting one beside you, he reaches; you flinch, though he pays no mind to the hitch in your breath as he gives the stalk a quick tug – and the plant is ripped out, roots and all. 

He hands you the root of the stalk, gesturing for you to take it: “You can use this plant.”

And in your evergreen poise, you grasp the root hesitantly, as if sensing a trap. It dangles limp from your grasp, earthy as the gems upon your jewelry – and you return to your statued posture, watching him, faceless and green as the moss around you. 

He nods after a moment of awkward breath, gesturing to the stalk. “Chew it.” 

You do nothing but breathe at him for a moment – and perhaps if he could see your eyes, he’s sure he would find disbelief; Skepticism. And perhaps if it were any other time, any other person, he’d laugh at the silent incredulity that leaks between you. 

He shifts, feet circling in the pool of water. “It soothes the itch and the pain. You chew it, and spit it onto your palm.” Patience is lost when you do not respond – and perhaps out of the growing blush on his cheeks in your refusal to act, he sighs sharply, “It's not poisonous.”

I'm not trying to kill you, he almost says; but something in him stops the words before they leave his mouth and he instead tilts his head in a short mock of your own.

And he swears in the breeze carries a huff from beneath that gauzy fabric – and then the root disappears rather awkwardly under your veil.

In the glinting light of the cave, he can just nearly make the shape of your lips, hear the small snap of the stalk between your teeth. And in the quiet lap of waves against the shore in the distance, Paul watches expectantly – from years of habit, he is used to the milky taste; but he remembers how unpleasant it can be the first time. 

And those eyes catch his own, some phantom force from behind shades of green – slowly, you spit it out onto your palm, as if questioning if you were doing it right. Paul’s face feels suddenly warm – a trail of saliva falls from lips glistening in the spare ray of sun, alight with a forested green and the milky blood of the root. It is a harsh reminder of the dream he'd woken up from this very morning; and with a sudden sense of panic – as if you might somehow reach into his mind and see such salacious thoughts – he forces the visions away.

The waves lap idly against his feet; you rub the mixture into your palm quietly.

“How did you know to do that?” 

Your voice is curious, and the fingers not matted with the root-paste press against the spongy moss beside your pants. You’re a vision of that first day, when you’d whispered words of interest at the very plant nor beneath your touch; a vision of green and poise, of stoic quiet and twitching fingers. Despite himself, Paul’s lips curl up in a small grin. 

Squinting against the sunshine, the beach in the distance is a warbly thing, foamed and bubbled by the current – and his left shoulder shrugs. “I played here when I was young. I got pinched a lot.” 

You don't necessarily laugh, but there’s an exhalation from your nose that curves his own lips; and when, after a few more minutes, you reach to rinse your hand in the pool before you, the angry skin has returned to its glowing health. 

Waves crash quietly within the cove and Paul warily watches one of the bluecrabs meander across a rock beside you – just when he parts his lips to warn you, your fingers move away, head tracking its path across and towards the smaller pool behind you. 

And in the moment of silence, he hears the unmistakable rumble of your stomach.  

“Are you hungry?” He asks suddenly, clearing his throat; Your hand has taken to drawing idle circles in the tidepool, and you hardly cease the hypnotizing movements as you shrug with a small nod. “I slept through lunch today.” 

A moment of hesitation before he looks over his shoulder at you – unassuming, running your nails across the patch of bare skin awarded by the cuffing of your trouser legs; and slowly, from the bag beside him, he pulls out the food that he'd taken from the kitchen.

Apples, crackers, some imported cheese; sparkling juice from the vineyards south of Cala City, and a foil filled with bits of chocolate.

But through his focus on unwrapping the pack, your voice cracks into the cove, incredulous – almost amused. “This was all for you?” 

Paul bristles defensively, giving you a wide glance, cheeks warm. “I was hungry,” He defends; and with a hard blink, he’s brought back to the week previous, when all that he saw when you were around was red – anger, trepidation, mistrust. 

And though thoughts whirl in his mind quicker than he can catch – of you, your family, your time on Giedi Prime – he finds himself mildly pleased with the stalemate that has come about; a hand reached across an abyss, and a hesitant grasp in return.  

Your voice is light when you speak again. “If I can confess,” your head trails down sheepishly – Paul’s attention follows you. “The veils have never made it easy to enjoy a long supper. They tangle in my hair no matter how it's styled, anyways.” 

And despite himself, he huffs a short laugh; was that a hint of a joke, from you? 

It is not so abnormal, veils – he has known many women in his life to wear them – but never in a custom such as yours; to not remove it in front of anybody for months and months of mourning –  He cannot fathom how bizarre a change it must be, even if it is how you were raised. 

So when your hands raise, he does not expect them to go towards the hem of the fabric.

And he does not expect you to slide it from the crown of your head. 

It is sharply that he whips his head away; in a skipped heartbeat, the glimpse of your hair unfettered by the green gauze haunts his mind – what in the hell are you doing? 

Paul’s heart thunders against his chest, though he cannot find any words to string into a meaningful sentence – he watches a bluecrab crawl into the pool across the way. 

“I don't mean to shock you,” your voice is so very close, now; he swallows down the flutter in his throat at its lilt, “Truth be told, I'm not even sure if I'm supposed to wear these still.” 

Confusion laces through his mind – the rock you sit upon is wetted and dark, clumped with bright emerald moss; and you, as if unknowingly, throw kindle into the fire of nerves in his chest. 

A mirthful tone you bring with your words: “You don't have to look away, you know. I'm still the same beast as before.” 

And he does look, after that. 

Paul cannot help himself: he stares at you – really you – no fabric to cover the slope of your nose, the curve of your chin, the round of your cheeks; the way your brows gather, a canopy above the most expressive eyes he’s ever seen in his life. 

And your hair is loose – let wild and uncovered, swayed gently by the sea breeze; glossy in the glint of sun off the sea in the distance. Paul wonders absently, in some foul derivative of jealousy or hatred, if Feyd-Rautha enjoyed your hair; unique as it surely was on a planet full of hairless beings. 

Paul quickly schools himself – perhaps in another life, he’d be rather ecstatic to see that he has such a beautiful bride-to-be; yet it just serves to wash over another pang in his stomach. Your words of moments ago haunt over his mind as he once more meets your eyes, waiting for him. I'm still the same beast as before.

There is some inevitability to your gaze –  disfavored to him, yes – but perceptive, knowing.

The pull of the tide must be answered by the shore, Dr. Yueh once told him; Perhaps that is true, and perhaps that is why Paul stares at you, the sense of mistrust breaking way to a new sense of dread, of regret. 

You are no beast to me, he should say. But he doesn't; not when he’s unsure if it would be a lie coming from his lips. 

Instead, he can only voice the astonishment in his mind at the sight of your veil held between your hands. “Why did you take it off?” 

You blink; heavens, your lashes are long – they kiss your cheeks against the soft light from the grotto. He swallows thickly, busying himself with the apple and a knife. 

Your voice comes as matter-of-fact as you’d been in the meeting that very morning. “Well, I'm quite hungry.” 

You lean over – your tunic rustles in the movement, and Paul averts his gaze from the glinting necklace upon your chest, the slide of your hair upon the fabric of your back. Slowly, you take to slicing the cheese for you both with your very own blade – and Paul’s confusion has not quelled, but instead grown in the breeze of your nearly casual movements.

It’s as if the veil took with it the cold, calculating dissidence; you sit in front of him a young woman, plain. Pretty, sharp, cunning; but, simpler than that: Hungry. 

A simple thing indeed – one that, as his own stomach rumbles, he knows he relates to. And so he offers you a slice of apple warily, watching you with some lingering shame, as if he's stumbled upon on a shrine long since sacred and wanting. 

“I thought you wore them for nine months,” He states, tilting his head, "The anthropologists in the video said–” 

But you’ve reared to stare at him, blinking in some odd vision of shock: “–Nine months?" You interrupt, voice more animated than he's ever heard; it nearly startles him, the youth in your voice, the life. You nearly bemoan, furrowing your brows as if hoping to recall a long lost memory. “It’s hardly been three weeks and I’ve already begun to fantasize burning them.”

Confusion must paint his expression, for your face changes sheepishly, falling into a solemn line. “Forgive me,” You clear your throat, “It's grown apparent to me as of late that am not well-versed in my own customs.” 

And it is a stony, quick change from your previous cadence; Paul’s brows furrow, though you seem to offer him further elaboration as you take in his countenance. 

“My family did not often uphold many of the old religion's traditions once I got old,” You sigh as you chew on an apple, tilting your head, “I was educated by the Bene Gesserit as my mother wished when I was young - and in many ways, our family adopted their customs in replacement of our heritage culture.”

It is a stone dropped into his stomach at your words, though he lets no emotion betray him – your voice licks with the lilt of trepidation in the mention of the Bene Gesserit; and your eyes, wide and expressive, only pull him in despite the foreboding churn of his stomach. 

This is certainly not what Paul expected – why, then, have you been wearing the veil so devotedly? 

“I have a book,” He says dumbly – and with a cleared throat, he ignores the sudden flush that crawls from the collar of his tunic. “If you– if you want to read more about it.”  

You fix him with a look, and he’s struck by the rawness of your features. “A book?” you echo, and he shifts upon his seat awkwardly.  

“About your family's customs. I j–” he stops himself, combing a stray curl back, “We thought it would be pertinent to know what your courting traditions are, what your customs are. To make you… comfortable,” he reasons gently, guilty that it was not so apparent from the beginning, “If… if we are to marry, it should be honorable. For both of us.”

It's as if his words have seeped into the spongy spin of your mind; your eyes have grown distant as they course over the shoreline across the way, brows settling in a line across the smooth skin of your forehead. Moments pass and the words he left hanging in the air stay; Waves kiss the sand of the cove and Paul toys with the knife in his hands quietly. He’s unsure how he might pull you from those cold depths of your thoughts, and so he sits, watching your lips purse and catch between your pearled teeth gently. 

And after a moment, you come back to him. “Thank you,” You say – and your voice is once again that blank, cold tone – as if a wall had been snapped up suddenly, “I only remember wearing the veils when I was–” You break off for a moment, ripping the skin from a slice of apple. “When my sister died. I wasn’t quite old enough to remember much from it, and… I was eighteen when I left Sabberon. As I got older, our castle was so often full of visitors that we would regularly forgo most customs of my father’s family.” 

It is a melancholy thing when you look back up at him. “If I can be honest, I… suppose I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

Involuntary as it is, Paul cannot help his gaze from darting to the necklace you wear around your neck; and just as quickly he moves to search your visage – looking perhaps for any emotion. He finds none. 

I shall wear it like a dog. 

The breeze catches your hair. Paul’s brows furrow, “The veil wasn’t your choice,” he realizes. Guilt, that drooping, wilting guest, slumps upon the stoop of his heart. 

 And you shrug, glancing at your lap, “True, it’s been a long time since I’ve been able to make choices for myself,” you admit – and it’s an admission far too heavy for the air in the cove, as you swirl your toes in the pool, as his own press to the rock beneath the water, his heart heavy. A hand flickers to the veil that lies with its adorning metal headpiece to your left. “I guess taking it off is one of them.” You clear your throat, nails digging into the earth exposed from where Paul had ripped the root – and your other hand rises, almost as if you endure a sharp pain in your ribs – and you cradle the spot, fingers lingering in a haunting line before falling to the rock below. “Feyd-Rautha would not have let me wear the veil even if I had wanted to. But at least I am making the choice for myself now.” 

And it is a jolting reminder, one of horror – when you had arrived on Caladan, Duncan's arm still bleeding with the result of your fight, Paul had seen a Harkonnen. A dagger wrapped in layers of silk and velvet. 

And perhaps the Caladan air has changed you; but more likely, you have begun to heal yourself – and although you do not look well-rested, there are indeed healing wounds upon your arms; wounds that churn Paul’s stomach, that strike his heart in acrimony, in wrath. A nightmare, you’ve come from – and he knows now that whatever you’ve endured is something that would break many.

Still, you’ve changed in a gradual shift: You are not so fervent or distrusting as you were those first few days – though you remain that ghost haunting the halls, you walk with less wrath, more credence; He knows you speak with your chambermaids freely – you take sparring lessons with Duncan after Paul each day, and tutor in the mornings before he does. Your voice in council this morning: Grown and defrosting, confident; born to take on such a role. 

You sit perched upon the dark rock – the light hits your hair and the slope of your nose, bathing your eyelashes in an ethereal glow. You’re a sharp woman, keen and astute; He watches your straight spine, the slow breaths which grow from a proud chest. 

You will make a good duchess. 

And in a moment, Paul notices – a wide gaze, searching his face; it occurs to him that perhaps this is also the first time you have seen him unobstructed. And so, with an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach, he lets you stare; a secret relish in the silence and its change in demeanor. 

A once excruciating thing, leaking with the sentiment of shared disdain, of mutual mistrust – though now grows a respect, or maybe the roots to it; a slow thing, plotten in frozen soil and hoped to grow despite harsh weathers. 

You finish your half of the apple, and he watches the glint of your necklace as you lean back upon your palms. “Can I…” His voice breaks through as an ocean does a cliff; “Can I ask you something?” 

It is a beautiful collar. I shall wear it like a dog. 

And Paul is so very suddenly tired – fatigued from his lessons, the council, the marriage, the prospect of war with the Harkonnens, of his dreams; his head feels as though it swims, light above the clouds and yet tethered to the ground below.

Your brows dip slightly, as if your hackles rise. “Yes,” you murmur warily, eyes roving over his figure. 

He swallows thickly, willing himself to spit it out. “Do you choose to wear that?” 

He need not gesture to the necklace that hangs around your neck; and you, stilling in the cold wind of truth. When it comes, it is not through words: Your eyes are wide and, if Paul did not know better, they reveal the sting of fear. 

You say nothing, but in time, you shake your head slightly. 

And this does not ease his conscience. 

It is an echo of words bitten through clenched teeth and the onslaught of rain; it is in the weeping willows of that ceremonial dress, in the sliding of shade over your veil that first time he ever met you. 

He’s not sure why he says it, but it comes as a whisper, as wind snuffs out a flame, as fog creeps across the shoreline in the early hours: 

“Threats demand evolution.”

His murmur is swallowed by the breeze in the cove, by the rustle of the veil beside you. 

His words bristle your spine, though you say nothing; and for a long minute, he avoids the burning stare of your gaze against his profile. 

It is only after the food is prepared and spread over the moss between you that you speak; and in the time it takes for Paul to lay out the food, it occurs to Paul that this is the most you and him have spoken without being plagued by tense silences or passive-aggression – or at least without enduring the childish embarrassment of being mediated by his parents as they ask you both questions at the supper table. 

A nail, trimmed and coated in a deep paint, traces the glass bottle that lies half in the bag – the soft clink of your tap brings his gaze from the pools below. “Did you intend on drinking yourself drunk this afternoon?” You wonder – a warmer tone, that inkling of amiability returning so suddenly. 

He hands you a piece of bread and his knife, shaking his head wryly – though the lingering hesitance of unfamiliarity restricts him from jesting in return.  

Having intended to be alone, Paul had not grabbed a glass, let alone two; and so he grasps the bottle by its neck, twisting on the cage atop it to begin to open it. An irritating curl lies across his forehead – and so he flicks his head to jolt it out of the way; your gaze tracks the motion. 

“It's sparkling tea.” 

At his words you hum slowly, glancing at the bottle in his hands.

“That’s a shame.” You muse, hand brushing one of your own strands away, “I've never tried wine.”

Paul's eyes flicker to you in surprise; Had you not been offered wine at supper here? Had you never had it in your youth, as a highborn? 

“Not even when you were young?”

And you shake your head, a wistful smile gracing your lips; your hair is silken, even in the shade – Paul hadn't expected it to be such a shade, but suits you.

“Never,” you confirm, “Where I come from, our preferred drinks are mead or ale, usually served warm. And…” You trail off, shrugging, “On Giedi Prime they favor liquor that is made from anise – you know, the spice?” You inquire, and continue when he nods, “It's much too bitter for my taste,” you continue, your voice tinged with a similar bitterness that you describe, “And even if I did enjoy it, I… tried not to drink there, when I could.” 

Paul looks out to the sea – clouds crawl in an ominous roll towards the shore, the air thick – it’ll rain this evening. 

There is nothing to say; and so, he begins to ease his thumb over the cork, pressure pushing against him. 

“In the South, all that grows are fields and fields of vines,” he explains after the moment passesa dn clouds swallow the sunlight. Dripping sun, wide-reaching hands of vines, drooping with heavy clusters of sweetgrapes in the South. “They make all kinds of fine wine there. Sweet, sparkling, aged.” 

You hum at this, your gaze tracking his own to the sea, tracing the crash of waves against the stark cliffs in the distance. 

Your small lunch passes by in intermediate silence after this: Both you and Paul are insatiably hungry, and in minutes the food is nearly gone – you’re not particularly warm, and neither is he; and it matters not. He is well consumed with his own thoughts to give himself the company you do not provide. 

Though as the sun continues its peak in the sky and you continue to eat quietly – clearly attempting to remain amiable with him – a sense of regret bubbles in his chest. 

“I owe you an apology.” 

And it startles you – his throat is dry, and your jump goes unaddressed, your nails digging into the moss beneath as he refuses to meet your gaze. “I've…” He pushes away the pride that burns at his throat, “I’ve treated you poorly. Acted like a child,” he admits. 

In his peripheral, you turn to him.

His sigh is weary. “I didn't expect for it to happen like this,” and the corner of his mouth lifts mirthlessly – emotionless, as he gazes to the coast. An understatement on his part, and surely yours, too – but it is indeed the truth. 

And perhaps it is not polite to admit to your betrothed that you loathe the idea of marrying them, but he knows the feeling is more than mutual. And he does not blame you for it. 

Paul is admittedly not usually one for so many words with a stranger – but they come forth very easily in the quiet of the cove. “I was… displeased with how this worked out. Shocked. But–” He shakes his head, unwilling to lose his thought, “But that doesn't excuse how I've treated you.”

You don't say anything, but he can feel how tense you've grown – a statue once more in the dying afternoon sunshine. You have every reason to hate the Harkonnens just as much as his family – if not much more; and with a clammy palm, Paul runs his hand over his forehead.

The thunderclouds loom in the horizon; the salt carries thick in the growing wind.

And with the absence of your words – perhaps in a moment of resignation, he says your first name; Never having said it out loud, it comes out as a murmur on his lips, a small hymn that coaxes your gaze to his own. 

 “This path was set for us.” He admits, swallowing thickly, “Though we can–” He turns to watch your eyes, how they swirl with unbridled emotion. “Maybe we can navigate it together.” 

And in the afterbreath of his words, your breathing is heavy with emotion. Paul is not naive enough to believe it is tears, though he averts his gaze all the same. 

“Yeah,” you finally whisper – and though it is dispassionate, withdrawn, it is laced with some small drip of desperation. “Yes.” You mend – though your eyes are far away, tracing the violence in the crashing waves, watching the foamy white caps break in their wake.

“I won't disrespect you again,” he insists, “I swear.”  

You lift your feet from the water, curling them under you as you stir, nodding slowly. “Thank you,” Your eyes are sullen. “But don't make promises you can't keep, Paul.” And though he expected as much, the emptiness of your tone churns his heart and spins his head. “I've had my fill of broken vows.” 

You aren't hostile in your words; instead they are melancholy, a dreary wind whistling through an empty ravine – beneath Paul, another small bluecrab treks across the terrain, rocking in the gentle water tides. 

You’re right – and he's soon filled with the same sense of dread that he's felt after each dream that has haunted him since they began; that same melancholy which envelopes you as you rise, gathering your belongings, preparing to walk back to the castle. 

And Paul walks beside you, little more than a few words escaping either of you as you go; a brush of your shoulder against the crook of his elbow, the hitch of a breath concealed with a glance to the shoreline.

By the time you enter the main gates, fat raindrops have begun to fall on Paul’s face, sticking heavy to his lashes.

You, likewise, shield slightly from the rain, your hair kissed with teardrops from the skies, sliding over your cheeks like the tears you’ll never give. 

The halls are slick with intracked rainfall – workers offer towels, scold him, tease him; and yet they stare, though they try not to – eyes warm his neck, and pierce through the girl who walks at his side. 

But still you walk with your head high, spine straight. Your eyes are guarded, almost insecure at the prying faces who watch your visage as you pass – but even as Paul walks you to your chambers, you don't give in. 

And you don't put the veil back on.

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[iamtheonethinginlifeicancontrol]

I have thoughts on this week's episode of Ranma 1/2 (ep 11)!

I thought that the re-framing that the anime did of Shampoo and Akane's match was very interesting. Choosing to have Akane lob a desk at Ranma and then have him hit in the head by a football (holy head trauma, Batman!) was such an interesting change to make! Ranma being unconscious for a minute or two before running off in search of Akane gave the match more time to occur, built more suspense, and gave Ranma himself more urgency in his search.

The rest of what I have to say contains spoilers (can we say this of a manga series that finished in 1996?) for the end of the manga, under the cut

I'm a die-hard 乱あ shipper and have been since I first read Ranma 1/2, so this episode delighted my little shipper heart. There are some small but significant deviations from the manga that I wanted to expand on, and one particular change that is narratively significant in light of manga canon.

Putting aside the issues of Shampoo's newer fixation on Ranma-as-male as her future husband per Amazonian law and how that impacts the dynamics of our tsundere couple in this ep, I'm choosing to focus on the scenes related to Akane's showdown with Shampoo and the changes that the anime made from the manga (and why I'm living for them).

As mentioned, the decision to knock Ranma unconscious is an interesting change to make, but I'd argue that it works well and was a well thought-out deviation from manga canon. As I said above, it gives the match more time to occur—whether that impacts the duration of time that the Xi Fa Xiang Gao technique takes is yet to be seen. It also builds suspense for the audience, especially in light of the younger generations/newer audience members who may be interacting with Ranma 1/2 for the first time. Most importantly, though, it gives urgency to Ranma's search for Akane that isn't quite there in the manga. Sure, he's worried as he runs after Shampoo and Akane after he gets delayed (by Akane slamming a window in his face lol), but the time that elapses between the two girls going off to fight and Ranma going after them is very short. Maybe 30 seconds, 60 at the very most. I'll include a panel below to illustrate this:

And of course, I'm not arguing that Ranma isn't worried about Akane or fearful that she'll get hurt. But there's a fairly significant difference in how this is portrayed (see below) versus how the anime chose to approach this.

For one thing, the framing is very different. Akane getting injured, while of real concern, is being shown in a humourous way; her facial expressions (like the swirly eyes) and Takahashi-san's characteristic "るーみっくサイン" (rumic sign) are used for comedy, to make it seem like any hurt Akane might incur won't be too serious. Plus, while Ranma does try to diffuse the tension after Akane grabs P-chan from the tray and gets the Kiss of Death for her trouble (lol Shampoo just gives those things out like party favours, doesn't she?), and tries to avert the fight between the two girls, the time that passes doesn't truly allow his concern to sharpen further. As seen above, Ranma's worried-but-determined. He's not flooded with anxiety (or particularly intrusive thoughts imo).

However, the anime chose to allow Ranma to actually lose consciousness at the beginning of the girls' match. We don't (and probably won't) know how long Ranma was actually unconscious, but it certainly was long enough to warrant his frantic search for Akane.

And frantic it is! This man starts running around the entire campus yelling her name, escalating to screeeeaming by the end. Please see below (subs are Akane's name [あかね] and onomatopoeia/sound effects for running and heavy breathing):

But don't worry, guys, he's super laid back, super chill. Jk just in these screenshots alone, he's calling/yelling her name 10 times.

Let's talk quickly about framing here! This is pretty starkly different from how the manga frames these scenes. The colouring is dark, the sky is cloudy, there's no lightheartedness to be seen, and Ranma's frantic and anxious, underscored by the, uh, musical scoring. The anime is treating this as Serious Business, which does make a lot of sense, given that Shampoo chased onna!Ranma all over China trying to kill him, and that experience is what's informing Ranma here. He has an interspersed imagination spot (see below) of Shampoo hitting Akane point blank in the chest with one of her chuí, and we see Akane exclaim in pain, fall to the ground, and remain motionless. He's panicking because he knows how dangerous Shampoo is, and he's afraid for Akane. He doesn't want her to get hurt; he wants to protect her wellbeing, especially because he's seen that she's less concerned with that than he thinks she should be. His insult from the skating arc makes another appearance here: he calls Akane "鈍い女" [nibui onna; slow/dull girl chick], which in his imagination looks like Akane leaving herself completely open for a sternal strike? But his anxiety is informing this mental image, so he's probably imagining a worst-case scenario. I'd hope that his opinion of Akane's capability would be higher, but I digress.

After he stops running about and screams Akane's name in desperation, he quickly hears Ryouga-as-P-chan's voice, he dashes toward the sound, finding Akane unconscious on the ground: fears confirmed!

And here's where, to me, it gets really interesting. We see that Ranma is calling Akane's name and cradling her in his arms; very different to this scene in the manga, where he's on his knees next to her, calling her name and saying, "hey, [untranslatable word that could best be read as] just..." (see below):

And in the anime, this becomes an intentional reference to the end of the Saffron arc in the last volume of the manga (38). Ranma says the same thing in one of the last scenes of that story arc, cradling an unconscious Akane in his arms, calling her name, and begging her, "起きろよ、あかね" (okiro yo, Akane; wake up, Akane], among other things. See below for comparison of the manga (upper left-hand panel, specifically) vs the anime:

And here's episode 11's parallel:

Well, gee, what does Ranma screaming her name while holding her with tears in his eyes remind me of? I'm glad you asked! It's the next panel in the manga!

Spoilers, but really.

I've reached my pic limit on this post, so I can't compare and contrast much more, but I do have more to say on this parallel. Might make another post later, so that I can show more pics for illustration.

Whether I make that follow-up post or not, my immediate thought when I saw this in the episode was both that it was an intentional reference to Jusendō, and that it was intended to be the first of a pair of narrative bookends (i.e. recurring or similar scenes meant to refer & compare to one another within the narrative to illustrate something, whether character growth, story progression, relational changes, etc). If we do get the Full Ranma Series animated (may it please God), this is both foreshadowing and bookending, and I'm delighted by it!

Also, even if we don't get to see the Jusendō arc animated, Yamaguchi Kappei will have had the opportunity to play a version of that iconic scene from the manga and do his best "Akaneeeee!" scream.