#that she tethered her entire self worth to a man who can’t stand to be around her

[spliqi]

one day i will line up my thoughts about comphet higuchi coherently and write a fic that moves mountains

[kkysolo]

Separate / The Cultist

And Maker, the way it rushes through him. This feeling of complete and utter adoration, of peace, of serenity, of love . He’s never thought it possible, never thought his devils would retreat for long enough to allow him to feel something so beautifully strong, so consuming . His head tips down to rest against yours, relief flowing through every cell of him. 

A/N: Chapter Nineteen of The Cultist translated into Kylo’s perspective (with an extra scene as he prepares for the ceremony). For this lovely anon. Thank you so much for this idea, it’s entirely to your credit. I usually write in second person omniscient, and I’m not sure why the last chapter didn’t see much of Kylo’s perspective, if I’m being honest. So, here you are. Also, I was listening to Separate by PVRIS while writing this and may have shed a tear. So it goes. Please heed the ao3 tags. Also, I realise we’ve been a little inundated with The Cultist content recently. We can take a break if it’s a bit overwhelming. 

Pairing: Kylo Ren/Ben Solo/Reader (female) Setting: Modern AU, cult setting. Warnings: For this piece: memories of past suicidal ideations, separation anxiety, panic attacks, violence, emotional anguish and physical abuse (toward Kylo, not reader, and not from reader), arranged marriage, force dyad. Please see the extensive list of warnings for The Cultist over on AO3. 

Available under the cut, and here, on AO3

Kylo Ren has felt panic before.

He’s felt it at night, before he falls asleep. When he’s stuck in that purgatory between a dreamstate and reality - alone with his demons, alone with himself.

He’s felt it in his dreams, when he chases a boy, a friend, Poe. When he screams to him that he’s sorry, so sorry, that he too hates who he has become. He’s felt it when he wakes, coated slick with sweat, heaving vomit all over his cot. 

It’s a feeling he knows well. But he hasn’t felt it in a while. Not since you. 

“You can’t separate us,” he’s deferring the inevitable, this he knows. His anger won’t shield him, it never has. And when Trudgen reaches for him, Kylo retreats. It’s an act of provocation he’ll surely pay for, but they can’t take him from you. It’s the one thing, he now realises, that he’ll resist. The one order he’ll defy. The one command he’ll ignore. Because he has to. Because he can’t leave you. “I’m not leaving her.” 

But Kylo Ren is not as robust as he thinks he is. His armour built of defiance and fury has faltered, and though he sees the Knight’s approach, though he knows they’re speaking, he can’t hear them. He can’t hear anything - just the sound of his breath as it heaves and burns in his throat. It’s caustic, it hurts. The thrum of his heartbeat rackets through his ears, and he can hear the blood rushing through his own veins. He thinks, for a moment, he might be sick, that he might vomit right there in front of them, in front of you. 

His chest heaves again. He feels like he might lose his footing. It’s as though he’s trapped between panes of glass, cornered in a prism that doesn’t quite feel real. But then it shatters. You’re in front of him now, and he’s hauled back to reality with so much force that it startles him. He gulps for air, gasping harshly as you attempt to find his eyes, hidden beneath strands of sweat-dampened hair. 

“Kylo? Can you look at me?”

He meets your gaze instantly, your voice his only tie to any semblance of coherence, to any semblance of calm. The Knight’s move slightly as they watch - the twitch of arms, the tilt of a head - and each movement frightens him. He braces himself each time, expecting to be ripped from you. No, they can’t take him. He needs to feel you, needs to anchor himself to you. 

“C-can I-” “Yes,” you cut him off, and he knows that you’ve heard him, heard the pleas that circle in his mind. “Of course.” 

He grasps for you like he’s never done for anyone, or anything. He’s not even sought a blanket in the dead of winter as quickly as he reaches for you now, his hands connecting with what feels like all of you at once. Arms, shoulders, wrists. He’s never felt so much of you. A hand grabs for yours, and he cradles it to his chest - an intrinsic action that he doesn’t quite understand himself. Something flashes across your mind, then, from yours to his. An infant with a blue blanket, cradled to his tiny face, wrapped around his delicate chest. He doesn’t understand it. Nor does he have the time to question it. Not when you could be ripped from him, or him from you. 

He brings you closer to him, his other hand lays firmly on your back to ensure that you stay. Right there. With him. 

“Y-you can’t take her from me,” he manages shakily through gritted teeth. His breathing hasn’t settled, despite his best efforts to control it. “You can’t.” 

He lifts his head and stares the Knight’s down with a feigned sense of determined revolt. Because he’s faltering. They know it as much as he does. 

“Kylo,” your voice captures his immediate attention, and his eyes connect with yours. “It won’t be for long, I promise.” 

“I don’t want to,” he’s ashamed, incredibly so, of the desperation in his voice. He’s been taught, for so many years, that such whiny behaviour is weak. The actions of a frail man, and not The Chosen One. “I don’t want to be apart.” 

“I know,” you keep your voice low, calm, steady. It soothes him, somewhat. “I don’t want to either, but when you see me again, it’ll be at the ceremony. You’ve been looking forward to that, haven’t you?”

He has. 

“It won’t be for long,” you repeat. “But it will be worth it, won’t it?” 

It will. 

And Maker, the way it rushes through him. This feeling of complete and utter adoration, of peace, of serenity, of love. He’s never thought it possible, never thought his devils would retreat for long enough to allow him to feel something so beautifully strong, so consuming . His head tips down to rest against yours, relief flowing through every cell of him. 

“And you know what?” His eyes flutter open at your words. “You’ll still be with me in here,” you press into his forehead a little firmer. “Even when we’re apart.” 

Relief gushes through him again, simply at the reminder of your connection, of your bond. He pulls your hand further into his chest, squeezing it softly in recognition. But before he can speak, before he can thank you, before he can say a single word, he hears him. 

“Ren,” Cardo. The brute. “Now.”

“Cardo,” Vicrul hisses. “He’s coming.”

“He’s not, he’s still standing there. Useless, as always.” 

Cardo lunges before Kylo has a second to react, ripping you from his grasp. His hands grip tightly around your arms, and as he tosses you to the side, Kylo collides with him.

“Don’t-” He pummels against Cardo as he grapples with him. “Don’t touch her.” “I just did,” he sneers. “What are you gonna do about it, Ren?” 

Despite his thrashes, despite his violent kicks and shoves, Cardo doesn’t relent. And though Kylo knows - as he always has - that he can win this fight, he doesn’t. But unlike before, it’s less out of fear, less out of terror of the consequences of his actions, and more for you. It would ruin him if you feared him again. He brandishes what little self control he has managed to retain, stifling himself as he’s hauled from your bedroom, from his haven. From you.

He’s being hauled to the showers. He knows this, knows the walk like it’s in his muscle memory. He’s not resisting anymore. He lets his feet fall into stride with the Knight’s, keeps his appendages limp as they guide him forward. He’s not sure if it’s giving up, or if it’s simply part of his routine, part of his body’s natural reaction to being guided down these corridors. The fluorescent lights and the green mold tinted hue to the dampened walls have a hypnotic effect, sending him into a state of obedience once more. 

“I’ve already showered,” he mumbles as they shove him inside the cubicle. Kylo’s panic bubbles precariously beneath the surface, his anxious heart still beating faster than it should. 

“Not well, obviously,” Vicrul grunts. “Your hair’s covered in sweat.” 

The other Knight’s have retreated to the sinks, leaving only Vicrul with him. Cardo, though, he stands by the door. Brooding, imposing. Watching. 

“I don’t know how to do it properly,” Kylo murmurs, his voice diminished to a state so quiet he can barely hear it. “How to clean it.” 

Vicrul scrubs at his scalp with force, not paying much attention to how his nails grate through his skin, causing it to bleed. Kylo doesn’t register the pain. 

“She’ll have to teach you, then, won’t she?”

“Teach me?”

“If you let her, I’m sure she will.”

Kylo imagines your hands in his hair, how gentle they’d be in comparison to this. Because you’re always gentle with him, he thinks. Far more so than he thinks he deserves. His panic dissipates with the thought of you, of your touch. Of your good touch. He reaches to you, then. Tentatively pulling at the tethers that bind you. When he feels you, when he feels how you tug back on that string, he breathes a quiet sigh of relief. You’re still here. You’re still with him.

When they force him down into the seat, the one that faces the mirror he so dreads, he’s plagued with memories of emotions he never thought he’d surpass. Memories of hoping the blade would slip, memories of praying that his body would bleed itself dry, right there on the cracked and dirty tile. Now, he hopes it doesn’t. Because he’s not finished here, not yet. Not now that he has you. 

“Here,” Trudgen holds a selection of unfamiliar dark fabrics on a hanger. “Put these on.”

“What are they?”

Kylo reaches out to run a finger across the stiff material. Instantly, he recoils. “I don’t know,” Trudgen grunts. “But you have to wear it. It’s your ceremony outfit.” Kylo winces. “It feels strange.” 

“Just put it on.” 

So, he does. And how it itches at his skin. How it stiffens at the elbows infuriates him, and the complicated nature of the shirt is perhaps the worst of all. He struggles with the buttons. He’s never worn anything with buttons. 

“Do you know how to tie this?” Trudgen holds out a crimson tie to Vicrul. “He obviously doesn’t.”

“No,” Vicrul shakes his head. Ap’lek, Kuruk and Ushar also shake their heads in confusion. “Alright,” Trudgen sighs. “So we don’t do the tie.” “He has to wear the tie,” Ushar hisses. “You’ll get us all in trouble for incompetence.” “What’s the point in doing the tie if it’s just gonna be hanging around his neck?” Trudgen exclaims, flinging the tie at Ushar. “We’re not doing the tie.” “What’s the purpose of it?” Kylo interjects, and Ushar glowers at him. “I don’t know, but you’re supposed to wear it, and we’re supposed to dress you.” “Just leave it,” Vicrul grits. “And stop bickering, we’ll be late.”

Kylo falls silent again as he’s dragged through the corridors toward the throne room. He tugs on your bond again as he walks, and he sighs contentedly when he feels you pull back. Still here. Still with him. 

“Will she be here?” He perks up, looking to Vicrul.

“No,” he grunts. “Not yet, anyway.” “But soon?” “Soon.” 

But soon isn’t soon enough. His panic, his anger rises once again, and he fears the worst - that Snoke has tricked him, that you were simply a ploy to trigger something deep within him, that you’ll be snatched away as quickly as you were gifted to him. The room seems smaller now than ever before, as he feels the walls begin to encroach on him. Brendol sits smugly off to one-side, awaiting Snoke’s arrival. His face, his ruddy, rounded face only infuriates Kylo further. He’s hysterical, now. He roars. 

The Knights are on him in seconds. 

“Stop,” Trudgen hisses. “Stop acting like a child.” 

Kylo thrashes furiously. He’s not sure he ever was a child. 

“Armitage has just left to retrieve her,” Vicrul says calmly. “She’s coming. She’s on her way.” 

Kylo’s chest heaves as he pauses, looking up at Vicrul hopefully. 

“She’s coming?”

“She’s coming.” 

He brings himself down from the ledge he so often seems to be dancing on, the ledge between fury and losing control. 

He lets Vicrul guide him to the centre of the room, where he’s told to wait. Because you’re coming. Because you’re on your way, because he’ll get to see you- The doors swing open, and Kylo feels you before he sees you. 

Feels your presence, one he wishes he could describe in a deft manner. One he wishes he could articulate. But when he turns, when he sees you, he loses all possibility of speech at all. 

Kylo is convinced you’re made of stars. You have to be. The way you glow, the way you shine - ethereal, celestial and durable all at once. Kylo doesn’t know these words, of course. Not yet, anyway. But you teach them to him, and when he looks back on this memory, those are the words he chooses. The words that fit you best. Because when he was a boy, he couldn’t rip himself from the stars. He was pulled to them, could never divert his attention elsewhere. And now, now that you’re coming to a halt right before him, he wonders if the stars could ever compare to you.

He releases the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, shakily composing himself. 

“You’re beautiful,” he breathes, and as he says it, he realises it’s the first time he’s said those words aloud. “Y-you’re so beautiful.”"

"Thank you,” you murmur, and he hopes that you feel it, how his admiration swells further and further each moment he’s around you. “You look great, too,” you smile, and Kylo blushes furiously. No one has ever said such things to him before. “I-I’ve never worn anything like this,” he mumbles, tugging at his cufflinks. “I don’t like it.” You giggle softly, and Kylo’s eyes come alive with the sound. He’ll never tire of it, he’s sure of that.

He barely registers Snoke entering the room, and is only pulled from the moment as he speaks - his tone booming through the mostly empty room. 

“Now,” his gravelly voice rips you from your moment. “Shall we begin?” Kylo has never felt excitement before, and doesn’t quite understand what it is that he’s feeling as the realisation sets in. It’s a ceremony. For you, for both of you. 

“Ren,” Snoke turns to him. “Take her hands.” 

Kylo does, though they’re trembling, and he grips your hands steadily in an attempt to calm you. He feels your anxiety, it shudders right through him, and he can’t stand it. Can’t stand the thought of you being afraid. He does something then, something he hasn’t done before. 

It will be okay.

He hopes you can hear him, hopes that you understand. Hopes that you believe him. 

We will be okay. 

Snoke speaks to regard you, and Kylo feels your irritation, your indignation, when Snoke addresses you by his branded name. Kylo recognises it, empathises with it in a strange sort of way. 

“And Kylo Ren, the Chosen One, the future heir of The First Order and the Earth itself, you’re brought here together by the pull of something cosmic. By the pull of the force. By fate. Forevermore will you be bound - through body, mind and soul. And now, by the power vested in me by the Force, by the Maker, I bind you together in matrimony,” Snoke regards you by that name once again, and Kylo feels a wave of resentment pass from you to him. “Do you accept?” 

The anxiety Kylo feels in his bones now is his, and it threatens to spill over once more, threatens to cause a calamity right here and now. He chews at his lip, and hopes, prays to the Maker that you want him, that you’ll keep him, that you’ll let him stay with you for as long as he’s alive. He’d stitch himself right into your soul, if he could. 

“I do,” you nod, squeezing lightly at his hands. He squeezes back, breathing shakily in relief. 

“Kylo Ren, do you accept?” 

“I do,” he nods vigorously, “I-I do.” 

“Very well,” Snoke grins smugly. 

Kylo knows what comes next. The panic rises again. 

“You may kiss her, Ren.”

Kylo’s brow furrows in frustration. Snoke has been over this with him, has explained to him what to do, but still, he frets. He doesn’t know how. He never once thought that he could touch another person with his mouth - though he craved it upon seeing you unexplainably, he never knew that he really could. 

You don’t have to. 

Your voice echoes through his mind, though your lips don’t move. He breathes out unevenly, swallowing thickly. 

I want to. He does. I don’t know how. 

He feels you squeeze his hands again reassuringly. 

That’s okay. 

Kylo compromises with himself, does what he thinks he can do. Something he craves, and has craved, for longer than he’d care to admit. Because since he first laid eyes on you, crumpled on the floor, it’s all his body could beg him to do. 

He leans down, and he’s aware that his face has never been so close to yours. Close enough to see every minute detail of your skin, every cell that constitutes your being. His eyes fall shut of their own accord, and his lips gently press to the skin of your cheek. It’s soft, so soft, and he leans further into the sensation. His veins feel alight with sparks of you. He never wants to be parted from your skin, from the stardust that ignites you. 

“My bride,” he murmurs against your skin. “My wife.” 

[xillveart]

Runaway Lovers: Eternity

Due to popular demand, I have for you a 2nd part to Runaway Lovers. Be sure to read it first or you may be kinda confused. 

It’s sorter than the first part, but hopefully it’s okay. 

Words:  3070

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Sex (pregnancy sex to be specific), cursing, hand job, lots of naughty talk, very sweet and loving Bakugou

Please blacklist the tag cutesuki-lemons if you do not want to see this content from my blog. I will not be tagging with specific keywords for this type of content.Thank you~

Due to the nature of this post, the characters are 18+

The heat of the sun was not something that Bakugou was exactly unfamiliar with, but after spending years as a servant that worked primarily inside doing low impact work, it was definitely more difficult to get used to than he expected. He did have to admit that the hours spent outside doing basic farming duties was more enjoyable than standing outside of a door for hours on end, unable to even move to scratch his nose. But, it wasn’t just the work that made him feel better. It was more of a feeling of finally being free, to do and live however he wanted. There was the limitation of his lovers comfort, of course, but he found himself more than just content. He was truly, very happy. 

The road to now hadn’t been easy, however. Running away from the palace with his lover in tow had been a dangerous affair, especially with her being so inexperienced about the world beyond the palace walls. She had a vision in her mind, a dream of a cute little cottage at the edge of a forest, with plenty of land for farming and creating a life of self sustainability. Nothing is as easy as a dream, however, and she was very quick to learn that. It took them nearly five months of travel, running from warriors searching for them, and then the process of building their home until they were finally settled. 

Now, nearly a year after they had fled pampered palace life to be together, everything was as perfect as it could be. They had plenty of money, from what they had stolen from her father, and weren’t in any danger of food shortage. Luckily for them, they had found a man wanting to sell his farmland, which had always been fertile. It was in a safe area, near a forest for hunting and even with a lake only half a days horse ride away. It truly seemed like everything had worked out perfectly for them. 

Now, it was nearly reaching midday, the sun was at its highest point and with not a cloud in the sky to disturb it, the heat beat down on Bakugou like a tangible object. With a heavy sigh, Bakugou stabbed his shovel into the ground, taking a moment to use a rag to wipe the sweat from his face and neck. He had already stripped himself of his shirt, finding that it helped keep him cool while he worked to place posts for a new fence. They had come to the decision that having a couple of pigs to breed for food would be a good choice, as would some goats for their milk. He was more than halfway done with the fence, but at this point, it seemed like it would never end. 

He barely noticed the sound of an approaching horse, only becoming aware of its presence when it was paired with his lovers soft voice. 

“The fence is looking really great, Katsuki.” 

Looking behind him, he first glanced over his lovers small bay mare before looking up at the smiling woman that rode her, her face covered with a shadow from her straw hat. Leaving his shovel in the ground, Bakugou took another moment to wipe his face before approaching the horse, shoving the rag into his pocket. “It’s getting there. Out for your ride?” 

“No, not really, I just wanted to come and check on you. It’s so hot today, I was a bit worried.” 

“You can see me from the house, can’t you?” Bakugou ran his hand down the length of the horses neck, before letting his hand rest on his lovers thigh. “You know I worry about you getting on a horse by yourself right now.” He caressed her swollen stomach gently, to which his lover gave a small shake of her head and placed her hand over his. 

“I’m okay, Katsuki. I think I have a few more weeks before I can’t manage to get up on a horse anymore.” 

“I’m not worried about that. What if something spooks her and she throws you or you slip while trying to climb on.” 

“I don’t think anything could spook this horse, she barely moves as it is.” The runaway princess smiled down at him, her cheeks flushing pink from his sweet concern. “Why don’t you come back up to the house with me for a little break?” 

Bakugou nodded, making sure there would be enough room for the two of them before he pulled himself up onto the horse behind his lover, letting her squish herself back against him once they were settled. He was sure to give her plenty of room, but he couldn’t resist the chance to pick on her a bit as the horse began to meander its way back to the house. “You’re getting a little too fat for this.” 

Giggling, she removed her hat, leaning her head back on his shoulder to look up at him. “Am I? And who’s fault is that?” 

“Yours.” Bakugou caressed her chin softy, tilting her head just a bit to place a kiss on her lips. “For being so damn beautiful.” 

She returned his affection, bringing her hat up to place it onto his head, squishing his fluffy blonde locks in an adorable way. “No, it's yours. For making me love you so much. This hat looks good on you.” 

“I’ll have to disagree with you on that. I fucking hate hats.” Still he allowed it to sit where she had placed it, finding that there wasn’t much of a point in removing it. The way she looked at him like he was the cutest thing in the world was worth the uncomfortable feeling of his hair being squished from all directions. 

Since she had hold of the reigns, his hands were free to wander, one holding her hip while the other slid forward to stroke her belly. She had just hit the five month mark of being with child, and getting pregnant had been harder than they had originally figured. There was a time where they worried that one of them might just be infertile, but after the stress of running away and hiding had passed, she became pregnant only a few weeks after moving into their home. They were both over the moon, though Bakugou still couldn’t help but worry. 

Where they had settled, there wasn’t a doctor around for miles. If anything went wrong, he was the only one who would be able to do anything about it, and he was unsure of his ability to do so. At this point, everything had gone smoothly, and he was sure to not let her overwork herself for any reason. She complained about it quite a bit at first, but she was quick to understand his worries and was willing to listen to them. It had doubled the work he had to do, but he never once complained about it. He would do anything for her and their unborn child, and he had proved that every step of the way. 

Reaching the stables, Bakugou hopped off the horse first before helping his lover get down carefully. Once he was sure she was steady on her feet, he removed the hat from his head, plopping it back down onto hers. Knowing they would be taking the horse back out to the field once his little break was over, he simply tethered her to a post, leaving her to graze on the grass around the stables. 

“I’ve got some fresh water ready for you,” the woman beside him spoke softly, beginning to make her way into the house. “And I’ve cut up some fruits and bread. I figured you would be hungry.” 

Bakugou followed her, stopping at the door to remove his filthy shoes as to not bring dirt and dust into the home. “I am. Thanks.” Shutting the door behind him once inside, Bakugou flopped to sit at a wooden table near the kitchen area, chugging down quite a bit of water the instant his eyes landed on the cup. “Damn, that water is good. It’s from the new well?” 

“Mhmm.” His lover nodded as she submerged a rag into a bowl of water, the purpose not quite clear to Bakugou as he began to eat the food that was placed out for him. “It’s really clean and fresh. I still boiled it, of course, and let it cool back down. Now it’s perfect.” 

“It’s great, babe. Thank you.” Bakugou took another moment to drink, watching his lover out of the corner of his eye as she approached with the rag. With a gentle touch, she began to sweep the wet cloth over his skin, cleaning him of grime and cooling him. The droplets of water that ran down his sun soaked skin made him shiver a bit, the warmth of his body only making the water feel colder. 

She worked with a gentle touch, being sure to not miss a single inch of his back. “How’s that?” 

“Just what I needed.” He leaned his head back a bit as she brought the cloth around to run it across his neck, her lips pressing softly against his cheek. She left him only for a moment to clean the rag and get fresh water, before she returned to instead focus on the front of his body. Since he was sitting on a stool, she was able to lean her body against his back, reaching over his shoulder to tenderly clean his toned torso. 

Bakugou wasn’t sure how sensual she had meant this to be, if she had wanted it to be at all, but her hands on him sent the heat in his skin flushing through his entire body. He could feel her breasts pressing against him with every breath, which rolled down along his neck. If he weren't so entranced with what she was doing to him, he would scoop her up and take her to bed that instant. He feared interrupting her, as he was more than just a little curious to see where this would end up going. 

“You know, Katsuki,” She spoke softly, her voice making his skin tingle. “Ever since we’ve gotten out here, I think you’ve gotten a lot stronger. You were always built so beautifully, but it’s way more noticeable now.” 

“Think so?” Bakugou couldn’t resist the smirk that crossed his lips, watching her hand as it slid the cloth along his lower stomach. It was true, he had bulked up more with the constant physical activity, and this was the first time she really mentioned it. “Do you like that, then?” 

“I love it. I… want to touch you all the time. Lately you’ve been so tired, though, I haven’t really had the courage to act on what I want. But today, sitting here all alone, watching you through the window… I just couldn’t keep it to myself.” 

Bakugou chuckled, turning his head a bit to catch her gaze. “You know damn well I’d let you, even if I am exhausted. How long have you been planning this?” 

“Ah, I just got the idea yesterday,” She kissed him softly, abandoning the cloth on his lap in favor of running her hands along his skin instead. “And I know that you would… but what’s the fun if you’re not fully awake?” Her hand slid down his stomach, beginning to lightly palm his hardened member beneath his pants. Just as always, she was blunt and straight to the point. Ever since their first time back at the palace, she had never shown an inch of embarrassment or shyness when it came to her sexual desires for him and he loved that. Sure, he knew how to make her embarrassed and flush when he felt like it, but her eagerness to touch and have him turned him on even more. 

“I can’t say I disagree. Though, I seriously think being pregnant has doubled how much you want to fuck. Just this morning I was barely awake before you were on top of me.” Bakugou allowed her to continue, watching as she unbuttoned his pants. Though, her giggle surprised him, feeling his ears flush as she used the still wet rag on and around his member. “Hey, I’m not that dirty there!” 

“But you are,” she kissed his cheek softly, trailing them down along his neck. “My dirty Katsuki.” Bakugou couldn’t resist a soft hiss as she moved further between his legs, squeezing and caressing his balls as she ‘cleaned’ them. He knew it was just a way for her to tease him, to get him really worked up and just how she liked him to be. As she massaged with one hand, the other came down to hold his member, stroking him slowly but with a firm grip. 

With a choked groan, Bakugou laid his head back a bit, closing his eyes as he soaked in the pleasure. “Holy fuck… Damn it, [Name].” 

“What? Does that feel good, Katsuki?” Her soft and alluring voice along with the pleasure was beginning to make his blood boil with passion. 

“Yes…” 

“What does it make you want to do?” The longer her teasing went on, the more she increased the pleasure for him, until he was nearly unable to sit still. It was frustrating him, his need for pleasure bringing out a boiling rage within him that could only be smothered by digging his cock into her.  

“It makes me want to fuck your goddamn brains out.”  

“Is that what you want? To watch my eyes roll back in my head… to hear me scream and moan your name?” She nibbled at the skin of his neck softly, only making the fire within him hotter. 

He couldn’t take it.

With a simple shifting of his shoulders, he was able to get her to release him, though she did make a small squeak of confusion. Before she could ask or say another word, he pushed the plate of food and empty cup haphazardly out of the way, pulling her around to his front. Still conscious of her pregnant body, he picked her up and sat her down onto the table before kissing her feverishly. As she kissed him, she worked to strip herself of clothing that would be in the way, and since she was just in a light summer dress, there wasn’t much to discard. 

The table was up high enough to where Bakugou could stand and his hips be perfectly aligned with hers. So, tugging her forward, he took no time in sinking his cock into her wet and waiting pussy. A sharp moan broke their kiss as she held onto his shoulders tightly, her legs around his waist as he thrust into her. He couldn’t resist smirking against her lips as she was already completely lost in the pleasure, barely able to keep eye contact with him. “Is this what you wanted, huh? My little cock hungry slut--” He pushed her body down onto the table, pausing his thrusts just for a moment so he could tug the front of her dress apart. Buttons snapping loose and fleeing the scene, her engorged breasts were set free, bouncing with his movements once he began again. 

“Y-Yes, Katsuki! This is what I wanted--” She gripped onto her own breasts, squeezing and teasing her nipples. “It just feels so good!” 

The wooden table beneath them creaked from the abuse, but any sounds were swallowed by her sweet moans before they every reached Bakugou’s ears. She was so flawlessly attractive to him, every expression and movement of her body only fueling the fire within him. He loved to see her like this, to know that he would be the only man to ever make her feel so good. She belonged to him, completely and eternally, and the ring on her left ring finger was what solidified it. His entire life he thought that she was just a dream, that there was nothing in the world that would allow him this close to her. Now, she was his entire reality, his reason for existing and nothing but death could keep him away. 

“A-ah, Katsuki!” She squeaked, her eyes teary with the pleasure. “Please, don’t stop!” Even without her begging, that wasn’t something he would be able to do. He was so close to finishing, and he could feel that she was as well. Increasing the speed of his thrusts, he gripped her neck with one hand, squeezing with just a slight amount of pressure. 

“That’s it… Come on--” Bakugou didn’t stop, not until she gripped onto his arm tightly, her body arching as she came hard, squeezing his cock so fiercely that he couldn't hold himself back. With erratic thrusts and digging himself deeply inside her, he released, filling her with his hot cum. For a moment, he found himself lost in the fuzzy haze of pleasure that came with release, always finding that it felt even more amazing when they finished together. She was still squeezing and pulsing around him, her entire body trembling with the aftermath of such a powerful orgasm. 

Like always, he had to marvel in her beauty, her skin flushed and glowing, eyes sparkling with pleasured tears. And now, as she smiled at him, his heart fluttered violently. Lustful haze evaporating, he carefully leaned over her, moving her hair aside to kiss her softly. She returned the affection, running her fingers through his hair gently and holding him with a tender embrace. Bakugou could have stayed like this forever, connected to his lover and exchanging soft kisses for eternity. 

“I love you, Katsuki.” She spoke softly once their lips parted, softly stroking his cheek. “I’m so happy we did this…” 

“Did what? Fuck on the table?” 

“No,” She giggled, nuzzling her nose against his. “That we decided to run away… and have a family together. I… know it’s been hard to adjust. For both of us… but I feel like we’re finally on the right track.” 

“We are, [Name]. I’ve dreamed of being with you for so long that sometimes things like this don’t even seem… real.” 

“Well it is real, my love.” She kissed him once again, refusing to let him go. “And we have an eternity to be together. I love you so much.” 

“And I love you, [Name]. For eternity.”

[notsiriusatall]

What if I'm Someone I Don't Want Around?

He laughs at the door as it slams, any emotion or scrap of warmth dying inside of him as soon as it had surged forward.

“Don’t know what I expected.” 

Sirius glances at Grim who has now crossed to the door and is pawing at it. They’ll find him in time. He’s got food.

The fraction of a reason he had left has just slammed the door in his face. Sirius doesn’t really see a point in carrying on any longer. 

He should’ve bought a gun, like he’d planned before. But Sirius had chickened out, like always. He wasn’t strong enough to do this, he wasn’t strong enough to finally bring the people who still care about him for some stupid fucking reason some peace.

That changes today. 

He looks at the vodka bottle in his hands, excepting to feel something, anything. Nothing comes beyond the numbness, no fear, no regret, no fleeting memories of Doe, no shame for the way her face had looked, no guilt for having the last time she saw him be this time….a little guilt. Maybe he shouldn’t…

Sirius shakes his head and unscrews the bottle. He takes big, gulping drinks, as much as he can stand at once, choking slightly as the burn slides down his throat. The bottle is gone and he doesn’t even feel drunk, so he opens the freezer and gets to work on a second, downing half of it before he feels the familiar feeling of drunkenness spreading from his brain all the way down to his toes.

Numb. This shouldn’t even hurt.

He takes the empty bottle and knocks it against the kitchen island, barely registering Grim’s noise of concern as the bottom half of it shatters.

The broken jagged edges of the bottle catch the overhead light and sparkle, and Sirius feels himself swallow hard. He takes a deep breath and is surprised his hands are shaking as he raises the sharp end of the bottle to his right wrist.

It’s not going to hurt. It’s just going to be like falling asleep except he doesn’t have to wake back up. It’s going to be over soon, even if it hurts. 

Soon he’ll finally feel nothing. Soon he’ll finally be nothing.

They’ll be safe. It’ll be worth it.

He drags the glass across the delicate skin of his wrist, horizontal first, a test. The red of his own blood is shocking and Sirius takes a breath in, waiting for the pain, the sting of his skin tearing-but nothing comes.

Is he dead already? Is this how it ends? He laughs despite himself. Of course even the ending of his own life wouldn’t go according to plan. He digs the glass in deeper, feeling something close to satisfaction as he makes himself bleed. Sirius isn’t shaking anymore. He knows what he’s doing is right.

That is, until a wet nose pushes against the elbow of his uninjured arm.

Sirius’s eyes find Grimm, who barks softly, and pain shoots through his arm as his vision blurs out. In an instant, he’s realized what he’s done. In an instant, he realizes he’s made a mistake. 

He wants to live. He’s not entirely sure why, and he doesn’t even know if he needs a reason, just that the want to keep breathing is there and stronger than it’s been in months. 

“Grimm-”

Sirius catches himself on the kitchen counter, breathing hard from his nose as the glass bottle falls out of his hand and shatters beneath his feet. He’s able to right himself and vaguely registers his dog barking louder and louder behind him, pressing his body against Sirius’s and whining softly when his good arm absentmindedly touches soft black fur. 

“Help.”

Sirius isn’t sure who he’s speaking too, but saying it out loud seems to motivate his body to cling harder to the counter. He pushes himself down towards the sink and grabs the dish towel Doe had laid out.

Doe. Fuck. If he survives this, she’s going to be even more pissed at him, if that’s possible. And if he dies….

Sirius doesn’t want to die. He wants to be able to tell her loves her again. He wants to mean it even more. 

Sirius wants to hear her say it back. 

He gasps as more pain shoots up his arm when he pushes the dish towel to the open wound. The light blue fabric is quickly muddied by the color of his blood and instinctively, Sirius knows this isn’t enough. There’s only one person who might be speaking to him who can fix this.

Thankfully the phone is right next to the couch on an end table, and as Sirius makes his way towards it, able to stand a little straighter due to the surge of adrenaline, it rings.

It's always been like this between the two of them, ever since they’d made their first blood oath in 6th grade. They’ll think hard about the other and within minutes there will be a phone call, or a random pop in, or they’ll pass each other on the street. James said it was coincidence, self fulfilling prophecy, a bunch of other smart science-y stuff, but Sirius knows better.

Its a magic that the two of them share, something they’ll never fully be able to explain but at the same time, each understand. 

“James-?”

Sirius’s voice doesn’t sound right, even to him. It’s too hoarse, raw. Someone else’s. He hears James hear it too when his best friend breathes in sharply. 

“Siri-are you-what’s wrong?”

“I did-I did something really stupid.” Sirius hears his voice crack and he’s crying before he can stop himself.

“Please come.”

“I’m coming. What’d you do?” 

“I...I’m bleeding, James.”

The phone line crackles, Sirius thinks vaguely that James must be covering the receiver.  

“Okay, okay. Can you-do you have something you can stop the blood with?”

“I-” The room tilts and Sirius sinks to the floor, the digital handset clutched in his grasp-his lifeline.

“I don’t wanna die.”

He whispers like it’s a big secret, cause it honestly is. Saying it old loud makes Sirius’s will to live that much more real, it makes the blood he’s losing all the more dire.

“You’re not gonna die, Sirius. You’re not dying, understand?” James is doing a poor job at hiding his panic and Sirius just nods against the phone.

“I’m coming right now. I’m on my cell, okay? I’m staying with you.”

“I really messed up.” 

“You didn’t, bro. We can fix it. I can patch you right up.”

Sirius shakes his head.

“James, I messed up.” 

He doesn’t just mean hurting himself. He doesn’t even just mean any of the things he’s done in the past twenty four hours. He’s messed up and he has been for months and months-and he doesn’t even know how to fix it. 

“Hey-hey, hey, stay with me, Sirius. You’re okay. You didn’t mess up.” 

“Would you be better without me?”

He hates himself for how childish his voice sounds, how stilted and tired his speech is, for the panic laced even in James’ breath.

“God, Sirius. No. Of course not. Quite the opposite.”

He hears James get into his car and start the engine. 

“I’ve got a towel.”

“A towel?”

“For my wrist. Where I’m…”

Sirius can’t finish his sentence, shame sobering him. For fifteen straight seconds, all he hears on the other end is the sound of James driving.

“You slit your wrists?”

“....just one.”

“I’m taking you to the hospital.”

Panic shoots through him and another surge of adrenaline spikes up.

“You can’t. Please, James. You can’t. I can’t go- they’ll-”

“Hurt you? Sirius.”

James’s voice is tender towards him when it should be angry. Gentleness he doesn’t deserve. Fleetingly Sirius realizes just then that if he makes it through this, he’ll never be able to repay James.

“I can’t-” His voice breaks off into a sob and he feels his breath start to get short. All the things his mother drilled into him for years seep into his brain. Hospitals are only there to take you away from me. 

They just wanna hurt you.

They won’t believe you. No one will believe you. 

Anything they do to you will hurt more than what I do.

If you loved me, it wouldn’t hurt. 

Why can’t you just be good?

You don’t need anyone but me. You won’t need anyone but me. Remember that. 

If you’re hurt it’s your own fault.

It’s your fault.

It’s your fault.

It’s always going to be your fault.

“Sirius! Sirius!” 

He squeezes his eyes shut hard, trying to stay present, trying not to fall backwards, trying not lose himself more than he already has. He presses down on the cut on his arm and cries out in pain, but the sound of himself brings him back. He feels something wet on his elbow again, and when he looks over, Grim is right next to him. Sirius lets out another sob and clutches onto the dog with his good arm, the phone cradled between his shoulder and ear. 

“Sirius!”

James is screaming his name into the phone, almost hysterical. 

“James-no hospital.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“I’m sorry-”

“No, it’s okay. You just scared me, man. It’s okay. I’ll try to make it so you don’t have to go, okay?”

“Okay. Are you here?”

“I am so close, buddy. I am so close.”

Sirius hears the sound of a horn blaring as James accelerates. Grimm whines beside him and Sirius start to pet him.

“Was that Grimmy?” 

“Uh-huh.”

“He keeping you company?” 

Sirius can hear the fear in James’ voice still, but he can tell he’s trying to calm down for his benefit. 

“Yeah. James?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really scared.”

Sirius can’t ever remember saying that out loud. Not to James, not to anyone. He’s thought it more times than he can count, increasingly so since everything fell apart eighteen months ago. But he’s never let himself think about it for more than a second. He didn’t dwell, and he definitely didn’t say it out loud. Sirius had learned very early in life that showing weakness, being afraid, doing anything other than laying there and taking it was a good way to get hurt. But here he was, more hurt than he ever could’ve imagined, and beyond the point of pretending otherwise.

“Me too, Siri. But it’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay. You have to be okay.”

Grimm nudges his arm, gets him to keep petting him, keeps him tethered to the life he’d been so determined to leave. James keeps reassuring him in his ear, and Sirius keeps repeating okay every minute or so, not sure of what’s being said, only registering soft black fur beneath his fingers. Soon, Sirius hears a car screech to a stop outside.

“I’m coming up, Siri. I’m here. Is the door unlocked?”

“...yeah.”

He can feel his pulse in the cut now, but he doesn’t think it’s bleeding as much. Sirius shifts so he’s sitting up more against the wall, clutching Grimm with both arms now, suddenly terrified about what’s going to happen when James walks in.

Normally, Grimm greets visitors at the door, but he doesn’t move, letting out a short warning bark when the knob starts to turn.

“S’okay, boy.” Sirius mumbles, shifting more, realizing as he’s trying he doesn’t have the strength to get up. He closes his eyes and rests his head against the wall, opening them again when he feels a hand cup his face.

“Hey.”

When he looks into James’ dark eyes, filled with concern, Sirius loses what he has left. He releases Grimm and throws himself at his best friend, holding onto James with strength he didn’t know he had. He relaxes as he’s held, sobs stealing his breath as James rubs circles on his back. He’d found him in rough shape a handful of times before, but it’s never been like this.

Sirius hopes it’s never like this again. 

“Let me see your arm.”

It’s only when James speaks that Sirius realizes he’s been crying too. He pulls away, his hand on his uninjured arm still gripping James’ bicep. James gently pulls the towel away and breaths a sigh of relief. 

“Alright, Pads. You didn’t get deep.”

Sirius’s eyes work double time and search James’ expression. 

“What-what does that mean?”

James’ offers him a watery smile.

“You’re gonna be just fine. No hospital.”

Sirius breaks down again, relief flooding him as James readjusts them so Sirius can lean against James properly, his arm around his shoulders keeping Sirius on Earth. Grimm puts his head in his lap.

“I’m not gonna die?”

“You’re not gonna die. Not on my watch.”

They sit there for what could be forever, Sirius quietly crying into James’s chest/armpit, letting years of pain out on the floor of his living room. When he’s done, James lets the silence surround them, reaching over to scratch Grimm behind the ears as Sirius’s breath turns back to normal.

“I have to ask you, Siri.” 

Sirius nods against him, not moving his head up to look at him even though he should.

“I know.”

“How much did you have to drink.”

He lets three heavy seconds pass before he has the guts to answer.

“One and a half.”

“Drinks?”

“Fifths.” 

James sucks in a breath. Sirius wants to cry again, realizing how consistently he’s been letting James down. He pulls away, lifting his head up even though it feels far too heavy.

“I...James. I need help.” His voice cracks but he pushes through.“Please.”

James nods twice, standing and pulling Sirius up with him.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay, I’ll get you help. Let me bandage you up first.”

He drops Sirius off on the couch and disappears into the bathroom. Grim jumps up beside him and whines again. Sirius reaches for him but he touches something else soft first. The blanket Doe had slept with. Without thinking, without caring, he wraps it around himself, wrapped even around his head. He breathes her in, tears streaming down his face again.

He has to see her again. He has to tell her he’s sorry. 

And he will.

He’s asleep before James even finds the first aid kit,he’s completely exhausted. His sleep is mercifully dreamless and for the first time he can remember, Sirius is looking forward to waking up.

[master-sass-blast]

The Sleepover Fic

WELL, THIS ENDED DIFFERENTLY THAN I HAD PLANNED. GOOD LORD.

Summary: You enjoy a sleepover night with the X-Force at the X-Mansion --but partway through you get hit by a wall of depression. Fortunately, Piotr’s there to help you through it.

(Maybekindaprobablydefinitely inspired by the depressive episode I’ve had this week.)

Pairings: Piotr Rasputin x Reader and Nathan Summers x Wade Wilson (sorta).

Rating: T for language and depression.

@marvel-is-perfection

The idea, admittedly, is ridiculous. And that’s why you love it so much.

You’re camped out in the rec room with the rest of the X-Force, perched on the couch next to Piotr in your best set of pajamas --which, admittedly, were just a pair of pants that said ‘bacon makes everything better’ over and over and a random t-shirt. “Okay. So how does this sleepover thing work?”

The rec room’s been completely transformed, floor covered with various sleeping bags, cushions, air mattresses, blankets, and pillows. A pile of snacks covers every inch of the coffee table, along with a few soda bottles.

“Watch and learn, young padawan,” Wade says theatrically, waggling his nonexistent eyebrows for emphasis. As the self-appointed ‘party planner,’ he’d taken it upon himself to make sure that you and Russell checked off another box on the ‘well-rounded experiences’ list. “If you’re good, I might even let you try a little cocaine later.”

“No,” Piotr says automatically, acting as the self-appointed-but-also-kinda-volun-told adult of the night. “Absolutely not.”

“I was kidding, Russia’s Greatest Love Machine. Geez. I don’t share my coke with anyone.”

Yukio giggles while Neena --who’s only staying for a few hours, citing ‘having an actual life to get back to’ for why she’s leaving early--braids her hair. “So, what do you have planned, Wade?”

“Since when does Wade plan anything?” Ellie fires back, deadpan, while she continues beating Russell in Mario Kart.

“Well, I figured we’d hit all the sleepover staples,” Wade chirps. “A little Truth or Dare, some never have I ever, ooh, maybe some Seven Minutes in Heaven--”

“Several of us are minors, douchepool,” Ellie interjects, still deadpan.

“Okay, not that, then. And, when the night starts to wane, we’ll wrap everything up with a massive movie marathon. First person asleep gets pranked!”

“Nyet.”

“Oh, come on, you silver buzzkill! Pranking the first person to fall asleep is a fundamental part of any sleepover!”

“I would allow it if your pranks weren’t so destructive.”

“Okay, name one thing I’ve destroyed in the past twenty-four hours!”

“We’ll be here longer than a night if he does that, dipshit,” Nathan grumbles; he’s also only hanging around for a short period of time, but unlike Neena, his reason for leaving early amounts to ‘not sleeping in the same damn room as Wilson all night.’

Which, admittedly, given Wade’s tendencies to cuddle like an octopus, makes sense.

“Well, I think it sounds like a blast!” you say.

“Thank you!” Wade cheers. “Finally! You think I’d get more respect, considering this is my fucking franchise!”

You can’t help but laugh as Piotr cuts Wade off while Nathan presses his water bottle to his nose, looking endlessly annoyed. New experience or not, tonight was definitely promising to be a fantastic ride.

Truth or dare, as it turns out, is the best game ever to play with Wade Wilson.

First, he thinks of good parameters to keep things from getting boring; case in point, the first rule he establishes is that you can’t pick the same option three times in a row, thus keeping people from sticking to the --arguably safer--truth option for too long.

Second, he actually took the time to write down a bunch of suggestions from a website beforehand, thus preventing the inevitable ‘everyone’s run out of good ideas’ drudge.

Third, he mandates that all dare must be filmed for posterity’s sake. They can be deleted afterwards, but everything has to be caught on camera and reviewed by the group first.

Which is exactly how you find yourself watching a video of Piotr doing a traditional Cossack dance.

“This is amazing,” you giggle as you send the video to your email account.

Piotr simply shakes his head as he sits back down next to you. “If you say so.”

Things get better from there. You get to watch Ellie do a very flat rendition of ‘I’m a Little Teapot’ --which is funnier than it has any right to be--and watch Russell do a solidly decent lip sync to Beyonce’s ‘Single Ladies.’

Funnier still is watching Wade try to bust Neena with truths and dares, only to somehow draw the most benign options from the bowls each time.

“How?” Wade screams when Neena does an effortless set of cartwheels. “I wrote these! There wasn’t even a cartwheel option in there! What sort of fourth wall, author interference bullshit is this?”

“Well, that’s another dare done for me,” Neena says, purposefully cheerful for the sake of pissing off Wade even more. “I guess it’s my turn. Cable --truth or dare?”

Nathan rolls his eyes, mutters something under his breath that is most definitely a string of profanities, and grumbles, “Dare.”

Neena fishes around in the dare bowl before selecting a piece of folded Hello Kitty stationary. “Ask a neighbor if they have a condom you can borrow.”

Ellie lets out a snort. “Do it to Scott. Ask Scott.”

Nathan’s face goes deadly blank --and then his techno-organic eye flares as the corner of his mouth turns up in a vicious grin. “Yeah. Wade, I need your help for this.”

“Hey, you have to ask--”

“I’m asking. I just need you to stand next to me while I do it.”

Ellie practically falls off her air mattress as she cackles. “Fuck yeah. Wait, I’m coming to watch.”

All of you wind up following Nathan to Scott’s room, standing in various positions in the hall while Nathan knocks on the door with his human hand.

(For the record, the look on Scott’s face when Nathan asks him for a condom while Wade waggles his fingers at the bespectacled man is absolutely priceless.)

After that, Truth or Dare is declared ‘done’ on account of the fact that nothing will ever top that moment.

Things detour to a Mario Kart tournament, in which Ellie proves that Neena’s lucky powers have limits.

“This is the best thing ever!” Wade cheers as Neena comes second to Ellie’s first --again. “I take back what I said about you, author! You’re amazing!”

You shoot a confused look at Piotr, and opt to settle back against his side when he shrugs, expression easily confused. “Hey, Wade, you’re good at Mario Kart, right?”

“Well, I don’t want to toot my horn, but my skills in Mario Kart come in second only to my skills at Skee-Ball.”

“Do you think you could beat Ellie?”

Wade’s eyes narrow when Ellie barks out a laugh. “Oh, you think you can win?” He swipes a controller off the coffee table and plops down next to her. “Bring it on, Negasonic Soon-To-Be Loser.”

The match is over sooner than you ever would’ve expected for two reasons.

First: Ellie and Wade decide to jump straight to the hardest option possible --Rainbow Road in Mirror Mode.

Second: No one has the stomach to watch anything on the TV afterwards.

(For the record, Ellie wins, and Wade isn’t happy about it).

Never Have I Ever doesn’t last long, either. Mostly because Wade’s done just about everything anyone can think of, or has had just about everything happen to him.

It does result in some awesome story-telling, though. After a certain point, the game completely tapers off in favor of telling stories entirely. Wade and Neena both have the best, hands down, but Piotr and Yukio come in at a close second thanks to their unique backgrounds and heritages.

You quickly realize, though, that you don’t really have anything worth contributing to the story-time session. There’s nothing from your childhood that’s really worth repeating, and your friends already know everything that’s happened to you here.

Suddenly, you feel completely detached from the room, from your friends, from everything. It’s like someone’s cut the cords keeping you tethered to the world and you’re drifting away from reality.

You get up abruptly, managing a smile and citing some sort of excuse about needing to use the bathroom, and get the fuck out of there.

The bathrooms at Xavier’s, unfortunately, aren’t designed for one person at a time. They’re built like locker room restrooms --albeit much cleaner--with multiple stalls and sinks.

You take the stall furthest from the entry, lock yourself in, tuck your legs up as you sit on the toilet lid, and hope that no one comes looking for you.

You aren’t sure if you want to cry. You can feel the sensation tugging at you --grief, rage, pain--but it seems just as distant as the rec room, numbed by your unwitting ejection from reality.

A larger part of you just wants to disappear for a bit. Slip upstairs, get in bed, hide in the darkness of your room.

They probably wouldn’t even notice I was gone, you think --even your internal voice seems dulled in the face of this sudden shut down. It’s not like I was really contributing anything anyway.

A different part of you doesn’t want to leave your friends, if only because you don’t want to have to explain what’s going on; fuck, you barely even understand it yourself.

That, and they’d probably come looking for you if you did head up to your room, and as much as you love them you just want to vanish right now and get away from the noise that’s always everywhere--

You let your forehead rest against your knees. Fuck. The fuck’s wrong with me?

By the time you manage to uncurl yourself and stand up --and it takes a while if the stiffness in your legs are anything to go by--you’ve made up your mind. I’ll just say I wasn’t feeling well and decided to go to bed if anyone asks tomorrow morning.

You don’t get too far with your plan, though, because Neena and Piotr are waiting for you just outside the bathroom door.

You flinch back, startled. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Neena says with a sunny smile. “I’m heading out for the night. Wanted to make sure I said good-bye.”

The ‘need to disappear’ feeling only gets worse, more grating and jarring, when she wraps her arms around you. Fuck. This is hell. You manage to eek out a ‘good night’ and let out a shaky breath as she walks away.

Because you’re not out of the woods yet. Piotr’s still here, watching you with gentle concern.

He brushes his fingers against your upper arm. “Are you alright, myshka?”

Your brain completely cuts out, leaving you adrift and barely able to stay upright. Talk. Say something, for fuck’s sake!

Instead, you just let out a breath and sag against him.

He kisses the top of your head and wraps his arms around your body. “How about we step outside, just for moment? I think fresh air would do you good.”

You let him steer you towards the front door, moving without thought. You suck in a breath when the cool night air hits you, rattling your brain a little from whatever’s come over you.

Piotr, to his credit, doesn’t leave you. He keeps his arms around you, rubs his hands up and down your back, kisses the top of your head, lets you lean against him like he’s the only thing in the world keeping you upright.

He kinda is, if you think about it.

He stays quiet, though, just letting you suck in breath after breath of fresh night air, letting your press your face against his chest and just breathe.

“You gonna ask me what’s wrong?” You ask after a while, voice a little too sharp, a little too acidic in the face of your unwelcome melancholy.

Piotr just kisses the top of your head. “Do you want me to?”

He’s gentle, not passive aggressive in the least, genuinely giving you an out if you don’t want to talk about it.

I don’t deserve him. “I just wanna disappear. Everything feels... like it’s too much.”

“Did not having happy stories from your childhood upset you?”

Bam. Right on the money. Whoever’s said that Piotr Rasputin is an idiot is dead wrong --blindly optimistic at times, yes, but never stupid.

“The fuck am I even contributing to the group?” You let out a bitter laugh. “Shit, I’m such a downer. Can’t enjoy everyone else’s happiness, can’t contribute my own.”

“Nights like these aren’t about equal contribution,” Piotr murmurs as he kisses your forehead. “And it’s okay to be sad that you don’t have similar tales. Besides, not everyone contributed equally. Cable was mostly silent as well, as was Russell.”

You let out a frustrated huff. “Yeah, but --I just-- Piotr, what’s the point of having me around if I can’t keep up with everyone? What’s the point of me being a part of the X-Force if I can’t contribute outside of fights? We’re supposed to be a team --a family.”

Piotr clasps your upper arms gently as he crouches in front of you so you can see his face in the dim light of the moon and the lights from inside the mansion. “Myshka, family means we take ups with downs. You do not have to be happy all the time --especially if something upsets you. And aside from your many valuable skills --and there are many--we keep you around because we want you with us. You, as you are, is enough.”

Your throat constricts at the thought, and you bury your face in his shoulder in an effort to hide your tears. “I just wanna be good enough.”

“You are,” Piotr croons gently in your ear. His arms wrap around you, shielding you from the chill of the night and bathing you in warmth and love. “You are more than good enough, myshka.”

When you finally come down from your grief --pain, anger, sorrow, everything--who knows how much time later, you find that your brain’s turned back on.

Not all the way. But just a little. Just enough.

You slump against Piotr’s shoulder and chest. “I dunno if I wanna go back to the group. I kinda just wanna go back to bed.”

“Do you think that’s what would be best for you?”

“...I don’t know.”

“Khorosho. That’s fine. How about this: come watch one movie with us. If you still want to go to bed after, you can. If not, you stay with group.”

You let out a shaky sigh and nod. “Okay. That works.”

You almost chicken out as you walk towards the rec room. You can feel everything shutting off again, and you don’t want to suck a night of enjoyment away from the group.

But Piotr’s hand is a comforting, solid presence on yours, a tether to reality that you can’t bear to let go off.

The warm light of the rec room almost seems too bright as you step over the threshold, and you grip Piotr’s hand tighter.

Yukio greets you with a bright, sunny smile and pulls you in for a hug. She doesn’t mention your red eyes or puffy cheeks or the fact that you were gone for so long. “We need someone to break a tie on the first movie choice.”

“Listen, Negasonic-My-Name-Won’t-Age-Well, ‘Monty Python and the Holy Grail’ is a literal, actual classic. It deserves to go first.”

“And ‘Get Out’ is both cutting edge and critically acclaimed. I still don’t see you making any points that actually tilt the argument in your favor.”

“Will someone just make a damn decision?” Nathan growls as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

You manage to smile, buoyed by your friends’ enthusiasm, as everyone looks at you. “‘Get Out’ first. I have a feeling we’ll need Monty Python to cheer us all up after.”

“Go to sleep, lyublyu.”

You blink wearily, the images of ‘Robin Hood: Men in Tights’ blurring before your eyes. You’d made it through the first three movies just fine, but you were barely holding on now. “I don’t wanna fall asleep first. Wade’s gonna prank me.”

Piotr lets out a gentle, quiet laugh and points surreptitiously across the room. “I do not think that will be problem.”

You manage to lift your head and clear your vision long enough to see that Wade’s long since passed out, slumped against an equally dead to the world Nathan. “They so like each other.”

Piotr chuckles and tugs you back down against his chest. “Da. Now rest, moya lyubov’. Everything will be fine.”

You lay your head down and finally let your eyes close.

You wake up on the couch alone, carefully tucked under a quilt and head propped up on a pillow.

It doesn’t take too long to figure out where Piotr went thanks to the sounds and smells coming from the kitchen --and the tone deaf humming; Piotr’s many things, but a naturally gifted singer is not one of them.

You sit up and stretch, rolling your shoulders and neck to work out the stiffness that came from not sleeping a proper bed with a proper pillow.

Nathan and Wade are nowhere to be seen; presumably, they’ve gone back to their rooms --or room if Wade managed to invite himself into Nathan’s bed without getting punched.

Ellie, Yukio, and Russell are still asleep on the floor, cushioned by air mattresses and blankets. Russell’s sprawled out like a starfish, and Ellie and Yukio are holding hands even though they’re sleeping on separate mattresses.

There’s a notification on your phone --a text from Neena.

Neener Wiener: Hope you’re feeling better this morning.

And you...

You are feeling better. Not completely, but a little.

It’s something.

You smile to yourself, just a little, and get up to join your boyfriend in the kitchen.

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, SIDNEY! You’ve been accepted for the role of FORTINBRAS. Admin Jen: From the moment I finished reading about what drew you to Faron, I was immediately sold on your vision of him, Sidney. You encompassed everything that makes him who he is – his greed, his cunning, and most importantly, his ambition – and you explored it so intricately. From the extensive plots, to the intriguing interview, everything came together to form the ruthless, magnetizing image that we were all expecting of Faron. I was completely overtaken with him by the time I finished reading and I can’t wait to see more of him on the dash!. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Sidney Age | 22 Preferred Pronouns | She/her Activity Level | I’m fairly active! I’m usually here when I’m not working or sleeping, and most likely mobile and available to plot. I get to replies within 1-3 days depending on muse and time management! On a numerical scale, I’d say I’m a 6-7/10. Timezone | EST

In Character

Character | Fortinbras / Faron Vasiliev

What drew you to this character?

Any man who’s ever been down on their luck or at the end of their rope knows the name Faron Vasiliev. He is the hammer that falls upon those who think it wise to try and cheat the God of Debt—of Death, to those who dare to run. The streets of St. Petersburg quaked with each step of his leather Gucci loafers, and this is perhaps what draws me into a man such as he. Unapologetic in his hunger, his need to take and take and take, and to offer nothing in return, for selfishness knows no other purpose but to consume. And that is essentially what Faron does, isn’t it? Nothing survives the wake, nor the storm that follows his merciless entrance into a poor man’s life. With his teeth bared and sharpened to a fine point, he’ll drive them right into your flesh without ever giving it a second thought because to him, you aren’t worth more than your weight in gold, and by the time he’s done with you, Faron will have already turned your annihilated bones into glittering diamonds atop his gilded crown. Very little means more to him than power, and it is this desire to which I am so attracted. Dissecting its motives and rendering it defenseless, that’s what I want to do, and what better way to accomplish this than through the hands of a man with his grip now wrapped tightly around Verona’s throat.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character?

AVARICE — Who among us can resist the long legs stemming from the green dress of greed? The color of money, his favorite. Faron considers himself a collector of many things, beautiful people, designer clothes, crisp dollar bills. If he could, he’d build his entire empire out of the stuff, out of the millions he’s made by simply being the smartest man in the room. What he is never lacking in is hunger; he’s rotten with it. Always wanting and needing more— power, more money, more glory. It’s not as if he fails to recognize it oozing from his every step, radiating in waves off of him wherever he goes. His soldiers used to fall silent whenever he entered a room, a certain reverence reserved for the King of St. Petersburg. The man who’d built himself up from nothing, who’d taken every opportunity given to him and turned it into gold. The proof was in the Armani suit he dons and the Jaguar he drives, and that’s just on Thursday. Of this month. Faron is a greedy bastard, no understatement, just truth. And he flaunts the wealth he wholeheartedly believes makes him worthy of doing so all over town, whatever city he decides to put up residence in. He can arrive at sunrise and by sunset the entire people are in the palm of his hand. Such is the way of a man with an endless supply of honey on the tip of his tongue. But upon his arrival to Verona, while flashy and with a flair of dramatics (just because he can), is a splash into a far bigger pond than he’s used to. He’s new money in a city whose wealth goes back not just generations but centuries, legacies just beyond every other wrought iron gate and gilded doorstep, and he a self-made man. I have a feeling the sheer audacity of him will be jarring against the refined tastes and likes of those born and bred in Italy, but Faron has always been a man who never apologizes, and he isn’t about to start anytime soon. They will make room for him whether they like it or not. After all, he was invited. And that was their first mistake. The second will be when they hand over everything they have, he’ll make sure of it.

SUBTERFUGE — Does a lie not sound a hell of a lot like the truth coming from a man with enough conviction? If there is one thing Faron knows how to do it is will falsity into truth. An easy thing to master when you already know how to turn copper into gold, but much harder to slide down the gullet of a superstitious man unless you coax it down. Deceit is a six letter word, etched onto the folds of his heart, and each time blood pumps through, it transforms into something more palpable to the masses. He knows he’s not everyone’s cup of tea; his arrogance alone is enough to garner the fiercest of fists to his jaw, but what he lacks in favorability, he makes up for in promises. In sickly sweet lies on the tip of his golden dagger tongue, dipped in sugar so it doesn’t hurt so much when it slits your throat. Lying is what he does best simply because he only lies when it benefits himself, and when his own prosperity is on the line, one can be guaranteed Faron will deliver. It was so easy when beggars came knocking at his door, hoping for a few grand here, a couple thousand there, just enough to keep them on their feet. Loans he knew they couldn’t possibly payback, which just made the retrieval all the more fun. But now entering Verona, the stakes have never been higher. Though he walks the walk, talks the talk, a man as hollow as he surely has something to lose in a city filled with roots he can’t begin to comprehend. He fancies himself the axe to chop them all down, the blade to sever the ties that bind the city to its masters, if for no other reason than to bring them under his heel once more. I so want to explore the lies with which he’ll surround himself as he ventures out into the city whose streets are already drenched in blood—none of which is his yet. To him, he’s not even shed a drop. An outsider with the goals of a lifetime worshipper of the underbelly’s chaos, but do they see him for what he truly is? A victor. Let them fight amongst themselves as he makes his way into the back alleys and dark corners, like a thief in the night, just watch as he comes for all you hold dear. Venom coats his tongue, disguised as something sweet despite the way it oozes from the corners of his mouth. He froths with hunger. For destruction. For ruination, forreclamation of what he knows to be rightfully his. This entire city and all its contents, and he’s willing to do, say, or kill anything standing in his way.

TREACHERY —Who can you trust when everything you touch turns to gold? There are very few people he considers honest and trustworthy. Calina is one of few, but the rest of the Montagues may as well be strangers to him, all of whom need to prove themselves worthy of the titles they wear with such pride. Soldier. Captain. Emissary—the title he himself wears, but not with pride. Disdain. Hatred and disgust for its unimportance. Bosssounds more like it. Underboss sounds better but still not quite right, and regardless, there’s quite a few standing in his way. All of whom he trusts as far as he can throw them. Faron has never considered himself a paranoid man, always knowing he’s covered his tracks and left nothing to chance. He’s a planner, and if there is no outcome that benefits him, he doesn’t move forward. He came to Verona with a clear vision in sight, but his arrival was less than what he’d hoped for, and there’s much work to do. It takes a village, they say, and while he’s recruited some, (Trinity, his huntress. Grace, his monstress.), he knows he will need more to flock to his aide. Though it seems he fits right into this den of thieves, this city called Verona, filled with just as many liars and twice as many cheats. He’ll make his alliances, shakes as many hands that extend his way, broker any deals that can get him ahead, but what he won’t do is think himself safe in this place. He won’t be safe until every door is torn from its frame and the palace is tossed. Faron won’t rest until he’s gutted everyone who thought him loyal and strung them up as a warning sign to those who dare to think he’s on anyone’s side but his own. I want nothing more than for the Montagues to test his loyalty, to push him. The tether they have on him is long, but oh, so very thin, and he can snap it at any moment he wishes. He could slip a knife between Damiano’s ribs while he sleeps with his mouth hanging open, he could take his life and be gone before the sun even rose, not a soul the wiser. But he doesn’t; why? Because he’s smarter than that, than most who have the same goals as he. Faron knows it’s easier to dismantle from the inside, to grab the bull, as it were, by the balls and squeeze until he bends to your will. The Montague Patriarch saw something in him, perhaps it was potential. Maybe Damiano saw great things in Faron’s future. But if he were a betting man, and he most certainly is, he’d venture that the Italian saw a threat and wanted to extinguish it before it became a threat. Foolish man, doesn’t he know acquisition only stokes a conqueror’s fire?

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Yes.

In Depth

In-Character Interview: What is your favorite place in Verona?

He thinks for a moment, mulls over the few places he’s bothered to venture into. It’s been just under a month since he’d arrived and though he’d like to think he’s already made his mark upon Verona, he still knows very little of its nightlife. “I stayed at the Emelia when I first arrived,” he clears his throat and takes a sip of the bloody mary in his hand, stirring the crimson liquid with the celery stick within the glass. “It was quite nice but,” lips pursed he chooses his words carefully, “not exactly my taste.” A drill sounds in the distance, the murmuring of construction workers floating out onto the balcony. “As you can see I’ve been a bit preoccupied. Construction is a nightmare no matter the country,” he lets out a defeated sigh, leaning forward to set his drink down atop the glass table between him and the woman asking the questions. “I’m rather curious about the, the gambling hall–” brows furrowed he struggles to recall the name he’d heard in passing last weekend, a casino on the tip of the tongue of some hostess as she seated him for dinner, “what’s it called?” Finger tapping against his chin, he looks toward sliding glass door to think, eyes landing on Calina as she reaches for a coffee cup from the rack above the machine. “The Dark Lady,” the thought clicks as soon as his eyes rove over her frame, from head to toe as she stretches, his white button up shirt looking far better on her than it ever looked on him; Faron always did think better when his gaze was trained on her. “Such a shame the Capulets get all the fun.”

What does your typical day look like?

“Well,” he gestures around him, arms outstretched, “a whole lot like this.” A laugh, pearly whites bared as he crosses his legs, arms falling onto the back of the couch where he sits. “Welcome to my new office, temporary of course, but until that racket is finished,” he smacks his tongue against his teeth, frustrating licking up the sides of his throat as he spoke, trying as best he could not to let the loathing he felt for the men still traipsing about his new home choke his words, “I’m here.” The truth was he could do his job from anywhere, as long as he had a strong cell tower nearby and the occasional wifi signal always helped, but most of his career had been built on his voice. On the deals he could make and the money such an arrangement would guarantee. He’s made offers standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon, ruined lives as he smoked a cigar at the base of the Louvre, made millions as he sipped wine on a yacht in Fiji. “As long as I’ve my phone, I can work.”

What has been your biggest mistake thus far?

It caught him off guard, the question. So abrasive, so intrusive. He blinks in surprise and irritably carves at the stubble along his jaw with two fingers. “You ask that often?” he scoffs, “and people answer honestly?” It’s a foreign concept to him, complete transparency, and had he known it was going to be required upon his arrival to this city, he might have given the move a second thought. Faron values his privacy, all his secrets hidden behind a six-foot thick wall of invisible ice, buried away from everyone else. A hilarious notion as he mulls over the few things he doesn’t wish to share, all his mistakes are what he would consider personal failures. Choices he wished he hadn’t made, but did so anyway. Decisions which were the result of his heart rather than his head, rationalized away as a young and dumb kid who hadn’t realized his true purpose yet. But that was for him to know, to accept and move forward from, and her—this interviewer—to never find out.

“I don’t make mistakes,” he says calmly instead. “That would imply I have regrets, and I can assure you, I don’t.” The world is cruel to those who think it is on their side, to those who think they have any favor with such a vixen as she. And so Faron became the one thing its people cannot live without: a King. “Only lessons I’ve learned,” someone to live and die for. A man to fear, and what is fear if not the greatest currency there is? Second to gold, of course.

What has been the most difficult task asked of you?

He’s getting angry now, not enjoying her prying any more than she can be enjoying his scowl, pointed right at her where she sits, eyes narrow and domineering. Faron tries to read her, tries to garner as much information as he can from what little time he’s spent with her. If she has an ulterior motive, he can’t tell. She sits before him, legs crossed with a pen in her hand, small smile painted along her delicate features. A picture of the innocence surely to be lost once he makes this city his home. But what he hates about her question altogether is the assumption of failure once again, as if it is the default and he should be made to explain himself. Faron owes her nothing, no explanation nor the drink in her hand or the seat on which she resides. He had been more than courteous, but she was pushing her luck.

“You mistake me for someone who takes orders.”

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and Montagues?

“Is it a war?” he has to laugh, a hand clutched to his chest, head tossed back if for no other reason than to better let the sun beam down onto his glistening tan skin, all anger and resentment dissipating at the hilarity of her question. He was nothing if not picturesque, even when laughing in the face of a fool. “Enlighten me, please,” his accent is thick as he smoothes out the lapel of his jacket, the perfume of his arrogance wrapping tightly around the girl’s throat but he can’t even be bothered to look in her direction. Instead his vision is drawn outward, toward the city he’s meant to rule. “If it’s a war, then where’s the bloodshed? Are these streets meant to be the battlefield?” He’s musing now, taking pleasure in her squirming, which he can see out of the corner of his eye. “One dead, and you call that a war?” Hand lifted to his face, he wraps a finger around the Versace shades shielding his eyes and slides them down his nose just a bit to get a glance at her, to expose the hue of his irresistible baby blues. “Zolotse, now that’s a good joke,” grin now plastered along his face, he leans forward and removes the sunglasses completely, using them to make his point when he spoke more than anything else. “Your war,” he scoffs, “looks a lot more like peace to me, and peace is a poor man’s game,” he shakes out his wrist dismissively, frustrated now and it’s evident in the way he crosses his legs, then his arms. “Where I’m from we build empires,” his scowl shifts slowly into the ghost of a smile, one reserved for a man who can so clearly see the future and the fortune it holds, “and it’s high time Verona got a taste of royalty, don’t you think?” I’m not here to fight your war, he thinks. He is here to end it.

Extras:

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SMALL HEADCANONS:

— ASTROLOGY: Born January 29th, Faron is a aquarius; a very deep thinker, he’s often planning things, always ten steps ahead of those around him. He’s very intellectual and stimulated by people who are the same, favoring good conversation over most anything else, but he also so values his alone time. To him the world is a place full of possibilities, but his mind will always be his safe space to just be. Perhaps his biggest struggle, though, will be that of feeling trapped or constrained in any way. He wants the world to be his oyster, and if stuck in one place for too long, he will begin to claw his way out and take no prisoners.

  >   Element: Air - the one element found in all others, most notably by keeping a fire burning. He widens lungs, offers room to breathe and represents the personal freedom to do so.   >   Ruler: Saturn - always looking to the past to better prepare for the future, encased in ice which creates a nice barrier between him and everyone else, but above all else he is a master of time and order who expects nothing less from the people he surrounds himself with.   >   Color(s): Black, brown - deep Earthy tones, all scattered throughout his wardrobe save for the ten or so items he has to match with Calina; he strives for simplicity and offers a straightforward approach, surrounding himself with the dark comforting hues of nature.

— STRENGTHS: Progressive, original, independent, poised. — WEAKNESSES: Arrogant, unforgiving, condescending, temperamental, uncompromising. — ALIGNMENT: Chaotic evil, though I sometimes think he can appear within chaotic neutral just as well. He has so many goals, so many plans he wishes to enact, not always for the sake of evil and chaos itself, but for his own personal gain. And while he’d love nothing more than to dismantle a failing system already in place, he also envisions erecting an entirely new one in his own image. If that’s evil, then so be it, but he’ll still be a King on the throne while you curse him from the crowd.

[cant-icle]

:D Thank you for answering my question!!! Okay this prompt might be a little strange and a little spooky. But what if Akira could see ghosts and the phantom thieves were literal phantoms. Akira goes to tokyo and People r cruel. But on first day at Shujin he meets a blonde kid and befriends him. Rumors about the scary transfer happen but now people also say that he goes off into corners n talks to himself.He finds the only living person at shujin who likes him isnt really a living person at all..

He says his name is Ryuji.

No one else can see him; Akira’s barely able to some days,with how translucent and wavery he looks. He stands at the stairway leadingdown to the first floor most days, shoulders against the wall and cold fire inhis eyes until Akira’s out of class. It took him three days to realize thatRyuji, as much as he wears the uniform like everyone around, probably isn’t astudent of Shujin Academy anymore.

Honestly, Akira prefers his company, even more so when Ryujishows him how to break onto the school roof. It’s less breaking than it isRyuji stepping through and fussing with the lock—the perks of being a phantom,Akira guesses. Lunches and afternoons are much more bearable with a secretplace to retreat to and a new friend to talk to.

Ironic, isn’t it, that the only person in this fucking citythat isn’t afraid of him is already dead?

Ryuji’s pretty talkative for a dead boy. He walks with alimp, and sometimes out of the corner of his eye Akira sees splashes of blooddripping down from his temple to stain his shirt. He scowls fiercely when Akiraasks about it, though, and the music Akira has playing from his phone cracklesin time with his voice when he details how Kamoshida Suguru, the gym teacher,crippled him with a blow to the leg and then, when his back was turned, whenRyuji was trying to crawl away, another to the back of his head.

He was never charged; the school passed it off as“justifiable self-defense,” and Ryuji’s been stuck haunting these effin’ hallsever since.

“He treats this place like it’s an effin’ castle and he’sthe goddamn king,” Ryuji tells him seriously, pale and washed-out in thesunlight; he’s so much easier to see indoors, but he likes it out here on theroof with Akira; Akira gets the feeling that Ryuji’s been trapped in thosehallways for longer than he wants to think about.

Sometimes they’re joined by another pair of flickeringshadows, neither ever as clear as Ryuji or as talkative—in fact, he never hearsthe black-haired one speak, and the second blonde only glares when Akira triesto address her. Ryuji tells Akira not to take it to heart—Suzui Shiho is justanother one of Kamoshida’s victims, and Takamaki Ann is tied to her like aguideline—wherever one goes, so does the other, and Shiho is stuck here untileither she’s removed or Kamoshida gets his just desserts.

Akira aches to help them. He watches them shimmer in thelight like an oil streak, watches them pass through walls and doors; if hesquints, he can almost see the moment when they fold through reality to do it.

It’s stupid, but he wonders...

The next time Ryuji passes through a closed door, Akira putshis hand on it and shoves, just lightly. Of course it doesn’t move, but Ryujipokes his head through and laughs at his efforts, making a joking grab for hishand as if to—

it connects

Akira goes straight through, wispy and insubstantial as acloud, and suddenly it’s Shujin thatlooks like an oil slick smeared across the world and Ryuji who looks solid and real and as shocked as Akira.

But then he grins with a smile full of daggers, because thepossibilities here are endless.

They test it out again; another touch from Ryuji has himshivering back onto the physical plane. They can do it three or four timesbefore Akira starts getting nauseous, and while he’s intangible, while he’s aphantom, no one can see him.

He walks through the school in wonder—almost everything ismuted but for a few people, bright and sparkling in his vision; Kawakami-senseiis one, and when he passes by her he catches an uneasy aura around her, full ofgrief and guilt. Kamoshida, on the other hand, feels neither of those things,and flares red and angry in Akira’s sight.

He doesn’t like that. Not at all, not with Ryuji behind himwith blood on his face, not with Suzui behind Takamaki, their eyes blank whitevoids, their mouths gaping snarls. There’s a bright core to Kamoshida a samethrobbing red as his aura, and something in Akira yearns to reach out and touchit.

So he does.

Kamoshida shudders at the touch, shoulders hunching in as helooks around nervously, and something flares bright-hot-angry in Akira’s veins. It’s not right, what he did, what he’sstill doing. It’s not right.

He curls his fingers around that bright hot core , and he yanks.

For an instant he can see two Kamoshidas, one solid and real, one wavering and intangible,and in that moment the three ghosts behind him strike.

Lightning crackles up and down Ryuji’s arms as he leapsforward, his fist impacting straight into the phantom-Kamoshida; Suzui andTakamaki are barely a second behind, Takamaki little more than a pillar offlames, Suzui a form barely held together with wind. They strike withconcentrated force hard enough that the tangible Kamoshida rocks back and away,Akira losing his grip on the core of Kamoshida’s being, and the phantomflickers out of existence.

That’s okay. He knows what to do now.

With Ryuji’s help and Takamaki and Suzui’s encouragement (“Callme Shiho,” Suzui murmurs to him shyly, smiling a little when Akira grins ather) he writes a card, a calling card detailing each and every one of Kamoshida’scrimes and sliding it under his office door.

He signs it, “The Phantom Thief of Hearts.”

As soon as he’s read it Ryuji grabs onto Akira, and Akiragrabs onto the core and lets Ryuji, Shiho, and Takamaki (“Ann!” she says withvicious satisfaction after she lands another blow, “I think at this point wecan go to Ann.”) get to work.

The phantom-Kamoshida is reeling by the time they’re done;the tangible Kamoshida is in tears. They leave it at that, unwilling to makehim a ghost and tie him to the school as well.

There’s an assembly three days after that. Kamoshida confesseshis crimes in front of the entire school, and that afternoon when Akira leaves,Ryuji follows like an untethered balloon grinning wide and wild and free.

  They don’t stop there.

Shiho and Ann bring him rumors of a number of ghostsspiraling endlessly around an old ramshackle house; turns out it’s the abode ofone Madarame Ichiryusai, who (according to the ghosts, who to a one arecomprised of his old students) worked his students to literal death and stoletheir works for his own. The newest ghost, a tall, stick-thin boy whointroduces himself as Kitagawa, tries to make a case for his old sensei, butfaced with Ann, who is literally steaming, and Shiho, hair tossing in an unseenbreeze in her agitation, cuts himself short.

“He killed you,”Akira tells him, not ungently, not without sympathy. “I’m not here to getrevenge on him; I’m here to bring him to justice, for you and everyone else.”

Somehow he gains another ghost tethered to him, and Yusukebrings the north wind with him, an icy, howling gale that freezes the phantom-Madaramewhere he stands when all five Phantoms appear in front of him.

Madarame confesses his guilt on live television, andattributes his change of heart to the Phantom Thieves. Rumors spring up hereand there; eventually, Akira starts seeing more and more ghosts pop up at thecorners of his eyes, though it takes a long time for one to grow bold enough toapproach him on its own.

In his spare time now he flits through the metaphysicalreality with his new friends; the ghosts come to him, and he regains justice ontheir behalf. The rumors of the Phantom Thieves grow, and grow, and grow.

In June he meets the student council president of ShujinAcademy, one Niijima Makoto, who questions him fiercely; since she can’t proveanything, she lets him go, and he thinks nothing more of it until Shiho comesto him, frantic, and tells him that Niijima has gotten in way over her headwith an actual Mafioso.

It turns out that phantoms can do a hell of a number on aroom now; Ryuji shorts out the lights in delight, making them flickerominously, while Shiho flips cups and sends papers scattering everywhere.

It turns out that Akira can pass on his intangibility; hegrabs Niijima’s arm and drags her into the metaphysical with them. It turns outto be a fantastic move, as with her help the six of them bring Kaneshiro to hisknees.

He confesses everything to the police. The name of thePhantoms grow and grow, and this time Akira gains a friend that the rest of theworld can see.

He gains another not a month later; the ghost of one IsshikiWakaba materializes in front of him outside the café one day and all butdemands his help. It’s a bit of a struggle to break into his current guardian’shouse, but well worth it when he lays his hand on Sakura Futaba’s arm and letsher reunite with her mother, at least for a few moments. Isshiki-san had beenmurdered, it turns out, and Futaba had blamed herself and shut herself away inher guilt; this meeting goes a long way towards relieving her of it, enough sothat she shows up in the café later that evening to Sakura-san’s clearsurprise.

Between Futaba and Makoto, between Ryuji and Ann and Shihoand Yusuke, Akira’s days and nights are full; he’s content, if not happy, untilhe comes across a man that sends alarm bells blaring through his skull andmakes Isshiki-san howl in a way that sends chills up his spine.

Shido Masayoshi is surrounded by the ghosts of those he haskilled; Shido Masayoshi is the reason Akira is in Tokyo in the first place, renouncedby his parents and shunted into a city he doesn’t know for a crime he didn’tcommit.

Each and every one of Shido’s ghosts has heard of Akira’scoming. Each and every ghost cannot wait to see him fall.

Akira is so, so eager to oblige them.

[bold]

Grocery Shopping - Ch. 1

Read it on AO3!

Chapter Summary: Evan Hansen can't sleep, and somehow this is cause for many, many problems.

Notes: hi im writing thos boys. first time ever posting a deh fic here we go!!! its sincerely three (eventually).  this chapter is Very kleinsen but i promise sincerely three is coming. (tw for arguments and aggression and panic attacks and stuff. prolly mentions of suicide/self harm in the future, but not in this chapter)

It always felt weird for Evan sit in the grocery store break room and wait for Jared. No one was in the store at 12 A.M. No one worked the night shift but Jared, and Evan knew that, so he'd sneak into the staff break room with the key Jared (very illegally) provided him with in case of emergencies. Emergencies, Evan had decided, could be considered anything causing Evan so much distress that he needed face-to-face consolation.

At 10 P.M., Evan was having trouble falling asleep. At 11 P.M., Evan decided he wasn't going to sleep that night. Within the next half hour, he was pulling a jacket over his pajamas and trudging out to his mom's pathetic excuse for a minivan. If he wasn't going to sleep, he could at least spend the next few hours with his best friend.

The break room felt so eerie with no one but Evan occupying it. Circular, grey tables stood accompanied by their matching chairs, vacant of anyone to fill the seats. Evan watched them carefully, convinced they’d move if he gave them too much leeway. When he was all alone in the break room, Evan felt like he was in a different dimension; one slightly altered, where there was the chance that chairs might move if not kept under surveillance. Maybe he was just sleep-deprived.

“Evan?”

Suddenly, the spell was broken and he was looking up at Jared with saucer-sized eyes. Jared was leaning against the door frame, looking at Evan skeptically. Jared took Evan’s silence as an invitation to keep talking as he strode into the room with a tactfully nonchalant hand in his back pocket. Always casual, disinterested Jared. Never too attached until Evan looked up at him with sleepy puppy-dog eyes. Jared gave him a small, wry smile, but the concern sat heavy between his eyebrows. “Everything okay?”

Evan nodded clumsily, chewing on his bottom lip for a moment before forcing himself to speak. “Couldn’t sleep.” Jared placed a hand on Evan’s shoulder and the tension staking his spine dissolved. He leaned into the comforting weight of Jared’s hand, which was now giving Evan’s shoulder gentle squeezes. “Sorry, I guess it wasn’t really an emergency--”

“Nah, you’re cool,” Jared reassured him with such little thought that Evan thought his heart might burst. It was so easy to be friends with Jared. It was so easy to let his shoulders slump and put his anxiety on pause for a few hours.

Evan’s smile was stiff only due to lack of practice. The motion was genuine, though, and he reluctantly drew away from Jared’s touch so he could stand up. “Cool.”

“C’mon, store’s pretty much deserted. My shift’s over in, like, half an hour anyway."

Evan knew that, but didn’t say anything. It might have been creepy that he knew Jared’s work schedule so well, but he’d rather be a little creepy to himself than a lot creepy to whatever poor soul caught him sitting in the break room for an hour before realizing Jared wasn’t working that night.

His hands twitched. Bad thoughts. Those weren’t allowed in the grocery store. It was a rule Evan set up for himself. No crazy hypotheticals, no panic attacks, no self-deprecation (except in the form of jokes that made Jared’s lips press together to suppress a snort). The stillness of the empty grocery store was the one place Evan allowed himself total peace of mind. No one really came around in the early hours of the morning, despite the store being open 24/7. Not that Evan was complaining. Having the store entirely at Evan and Jared's disposal was strangely exhilarating.

“Don’t you have a job to do?” Evan demanded, quirking an amused eyebrow at how Jared was guiding Evan through the store with seemingly no destination.

Jared cracked his first grin of the night. “Evan Hansen,” he gasped in mock offense. “Do I look like the kind of man who gives in to the clutches of capitalism?”

“No,” Evan admitted. “You look like a twink who works at an Easy Mart and is about to get his ass fired.”

Now Jared was laughing, elbowing Evan in the ribs as affectionately as he could. “Shut up, asshole.” As they rounded the turn from one row of shelves to the next, the pair was met with an abandoned shopping cart, idling at the beginning of an aisle.

“Are you gonna put that awa-- Jared!”

Jared was climbing into the cart. It wobbled dangerously as he struggled to sling his short legs over the side, but once he was in, Jared turned back to Evan with an expectant expression.

There was no way Evan was going to push Jared down the aisle. It was too dangerous! Jared could get hurt, they could knock a whole shelf over! “Absolutely not,” Evan said firmly. Jared’s bottom lip dipped into a pout and he fluttered his eyelashes. Evan crossed his arms like a self-defense mechanism, but he could feel himself already wavering. “N-No way! It’s a terrible idea--”

“Please?” Jared purred, and Evan was done for.

With a huff, Evan uncrossed his arms and placed his hands firmly on the shopping cart’s handle bar. “Fine,” he conceded shortly. “But when you fall out and break your arm, I am so not signing your cast.”

“That’s such a low bl-- OH MY GOD!” In the middle of his sentence, Evan shoved the cart as hard as he could and sent Jared barreling down the aisle. Jared’s instinctive screaming soon dissolved into laughter and for a moment, Evan thought it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

That was until Jared crashed into a self checkout machine and the cart toppled over.

Evan’s mouth filled with apologies as he scrambled over to Jared, who was still grinning. “Oh my God, Jarebear, I’m so sorry, I didn’t expect it to-- I just thought-- Are you okay?”

Jared’s hand found Evan’s bicep, seemingly to steady himself until he gave it a squeeze. “Dude, you’re ripped.”

Unable to tell if it was a compliment or flirting, Evan opted to hide his face against Jared’s shoulder in response to that comment. Jared moved his hand from Evan’s bicep to the back of his neck, fiddling idly with the soft hair there. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Might’ve broke the checkout thing, though.”

Evan giggled into the fabric of Jared’s uniform and, rather than pulling away, nestled closer. He was starting to get sleepy and Jared rhythmically combing his fingers through his hair wasn’t helping. It was only after Jared’s hand stilled did Evan realize someone was in the store with them. Immediately, he sat up, face flushing at the intimate state he and Jared had been caught in.

In the most unfortunate turn of events, the people who caught Jared and Evan’s cuddle session were none other than the Murphy siblings.

“What the fuck are you two doing?” demanded the eldest of the pair, Connor. Evan couldn’t give a specific reason for  why  he hated Connor Murphy so much. He just really, really hated Connor Murphy. He was so stuck up, so rich, so  ungrateful  for everything his parents did for him. He thought he was better than everyone else and still had the nerve to be self-deprecating. It was infuriating.

Unfazed, Jared scooted away from Evan and stood up. “Hello, welcome to Easy Mart. How can I help you?” he deadpanned, clearly not interested in helping either Murphy sibling one bit. Evan followed suit, standing and hauling the shopping cart upright with him.

“I didn’t know you worked here,” Zoe commented lightly, her cheeks flushed a soft pink, as if she’d just caught Evan and Jared having sex.

Jared gestured to his own chest, which bore an Easy Mart vest and matching ‘Hi, my name is: JARED’ pin. “Whatever would give you that idea?”

Evan shifted uncomfortably at Jared's side. "Wh-Why are you guys here?"

Apparently displeased that Evan had opened his mouth, Connor sneered. "What? Are we not allowed to shop here now that you and the missus have decided this is your property?"

"Connor found a cat!" Zoe interjected abruptly. Connor shot her a death glare, but she didn't falter. "A little stray kitten walked up to him while he was outside and we came here to buy it food."

As adorable as it sounded, Evan couldn't allow himself to think about Connor Murphy petting a kitten. "Oh. That's--"

“But, of course, you two have to be here,” Connor interrupted, clearly flustered. “Easy Mart is apparently the only place that lets its employees make out with their boyfriends on the job.” The thought of Jared being his boyfriend sent heat to Evan’s cheeks and a shiver up his spine.

Noticing his discomfort, Zoe surprisingly came to Evan’s rescue. “Shut up, Connor, you work at 7/11.”

Connor scoffed, affronted that his sister would compare him to the likes of Jared Kleinman. “I’m just saving up money so I can get out of our fucking hell house as soon as I graduate.” Zoe made a similarly offended noise and the siblings’ words dissolved into overlapping arguments.

It was uncomfortable to watch. Evan pressed closer to Jared as a means of comfort, who placed a hand on Evan’s bicep again. However, it was a gentler gesture -- one to keep him tethered in place instead of drifting into a more panicked mindset. “Could you guys not air out your dysfunctional family laundry right in front of us, maybe?” Evan whispered to Jared, who rewarded him with a snort.

Evan wondered if the small noise of approval was worth it when Connor’s eyes were suddenly trained on him. The siblings’ argument was forgotten as Connor stalked up to Evan. Though he was only an inch or two taller, Connor seemed to loom menacingly over Evan. “What was that, Hansen?”

All pride abandoned, Evan immediately shrunk into himself. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t-- I was-- You were just--”

“Oh, I was ‘just’? Just what, huh? Was I bothering you? Well, maybe it bothers me when I walk into a grocery store to find you and Kleinman making out on the fucking floor!”

“We weren’t making out!” Evan suddenly exclaimed, the near-screaming height of his voice shutting even Connor up. Unfortunately, Evan didn’t know when to shut up until it was too late. “Friends can be affectionate with each other! Not that you’d know, since you’ve got no friends and you wouldn’t know mutual affection if it hit you over the fucking head!”

Evan clasped a hand over his own mouth, as if he could somehow put the words back inside. Connor was stunned only for a moment before he shoved Evan, sending the latter stumbling backwards. “You don’t know shit about me, Hansen! You think you’re so fucking smart with your little comments, don’t you?”

“Stop--”

“Don’t you?”

“N-No--!”

“Fuck you!”

“Connor, that’s enough,” Jared suddenly intruded, pushing Connor back enough so he could wedge himself between he and Evan. “Get out.”

Connor wavered, debating whether he should keep arguing. He seemed to decide that it wasn’t worth it. “Fuck you guys,” he muttered once more before storming out of the store.

Zoe looked utterly exhausted. “I’m so sorry about--”

“Hey, it’s alright,” Jared assured her quickly. “D’you need me to drive you home?”

Zoe Murphy was the exact opposite of her brother. She had the prettiest smile Evan had ever seen. Her hair was soft and her cheeks were rosy. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and shook her head. “No, no. I should go calm him down… Thanks, though. Really.” She meant it. Evan could tell. “I’ll, um--” she mustered a crooked smile. “I’ll see you guys around.” She turned to leave, but hesitated, sending the boys another glance. "He's trying," she added, almost vacantly. So tired. "He's trying to get better. I'm really sorry about him."

Then she was gone.

Once Zoe left, Evan broke down. So much for his “no panic attacks” rule. Jared’s arms were sturdy around him, and clutching the back of his Easy Mart vest kept Evan from drowning in his own hysteria. Jared shushed Evan whenever he tried to babble out some incoherent apology. A hand was back in Evan’s hair and it made Evan double over into another fit of sobs from the genuineness of the gesture. “I got you,” Jared promised. “I’m right here.”

Evan was so lucky.

Once he was run dry of tears and utterly exhausted, Evan mumbled that he’d like to go home now, please. “Where’s your car?” he asked once they’d shuffled out into the parking lot.

Jared shrugged. “I was gonna take an Uber. C’mon, I’ll drive you home.” So, so lucky. Evan furled his hand into the fabric of Jared’s jacket, which had taken the place of the Easy Mart vest. “Tired?” Jared asked in response to Evan yawning into his hand. His eyebrow was quirked and his smirk was crooked, but it was overwhelmingly comforting.

Evan nodded, jerky and deliberate, much like a toddler. He climbed into the passenger seat while Jared took the wheel. As soon as he was in the comfort of his mother’s minivan, Evan slumped against the door and rested his head against the window. It was so dark outside. Evan peered over at Jared, who was illuminated by the sickly yellow car light.

“What’re you staring at?” Jared’s voice was so sweet. Evan could hardly breathe.

“Nothing.”

Jared shook his head and reached over for Evan’s hand. Evan gave it to him. He couldn’t imagine a scenario where he wouldn’t give Jared his hand.

“You’re such a weirdo.” There was no venom in the statement. It didn’t sting. Jared squeezed Evan’s hand. It was suddenly a lot less dark outside. “Let’s get you home, Ev."

[stilljumpingback]

(via Black Sails Episode 306 - XXIV)

WELL-FORMED THOUGHTS

I spent most of this episode frustrated with Silver’s hyper-masculine resistance to showing even the slightest bit of weakness.  It seemed ridiculous, because I have no doubt that the men of the Walrus would be understanding of, and even appreciate, his vulnerability.  “He’s not Flint!” I thought.  Suddenly Silver’s actions connected to his conversations with Madi in a way I hadn’t seen before.

In their first conversation, Madi realizes that Silver is new to power and doesn’t know how to “wear the crown.”  He has only ever seen leadership modeled by Flint, who is so concerned with creating a mythic character that he refuses to show doubt or weakness.  As an excellent observer, Silver tries to do the same.

In their second conversation, Silver confesses to Madi his fear of becoming so close to Flint that he is burdened by his descent into Flint’s wants, needs, and fears.  He believes he is becoming like Flint, and that this will be his end (though he doesn’t seem capable of just…NOT acting like Flint).  Fittingly, Madi offers him the thing he’s been denying himself – vulnerability, the admittance that Silver needs a tether to keep himself from getting lost in Flint’s psyche.

FRAGMENTED THOUGHTS

Silver’s forced to stay behind on Maroon Island while Flint and the Walrus seek Charles Vane.  Madi is pissed that he’s missed Mr. Scott’s healing ceremony, but he’s in a lot of leg pain.  I get the sense that there is a TINY bit of that brand of aggressive flirting where the boy you like isn’t where you think he is, so you use your Righteous Indignation to find him and talk to him.

Flint:  “If he tied it wrong, then you instructed him wrong.”  I know that his primary motivation in siding with the Maroon guy is to uphold the alliance between pirates and slaves, but it’s also really nice to see him standing against his crew member for a former slave.

I am aware that I am giving Flint all kinds of benefit of the doubt when I haven’t shown the same curtesy to other characters, but, well…I LOVE HIM, and love has made me an expert excuser of his potential faults.

We know Vane’s conscious is irking him because he’s not participating in the revels on Okracoke Island.  What a difference between this and his season 1 self, always lounging with topless women.

Teach at Flint’s resurrection:  “Jesus.”  LOL.

Mrs. Hudson explains that she became a spy because her children’s lives were threatened.  So soon after pirate Nassau feared an English invasion, English Nassau fears a Spanish invasion.  Everyone’s enemy has a scarier enemy.  The whole system is broken.

“If we can’t find Jack Rackham, we’re finished.”  Cut to:  Jack Rackham walking into the tavern.  LOL.

“I thought as an added prize, I’d at leas be able to see it for myself.  The new governor up to his ears in the very same bullshit in which I’ve been drowning for the past few months.  And what do I find?  The streets are swept, industry is in fashion, you’re dressed like a Turkish whore, and all because a man arrived, stood on the beach, and said please.”

What is the show trying to tell us with this?  That people crave order?  That order brings out our better selves?  Or are we meant to see that this IS a benefit of civilization, but (as we have seen and will see), this benefit comes at a significant cost?

This scene between Silver and Madi, though!  SHE IS SO GOOD.

Silver:  For some time now, I have been holding my entire world together with both hands, keeping my men in line, seeing to their needs, and the only way that endures is if I look the part… Madi:  No one prepared you for this, did they?  For as long as I can remember, I have been prepared for the day I would take my mother’s place.  To know that from that day forth, I would forever be the one who tends as opposed to the one who is tended to.  You’re frustrated.  You’re angry.  You’re tired.  Perhaps no one else knows why.  I believe that not even you know why.  But I know why.  The crown is always a burden, but it cannot be borne if you cannot stand.

A good leader cannot take care of others until they take care of themselves!!  It feels very right that it is a woman who teaches a man that self-care is a necessary part of leadership.

I could watch an entire episode of Flint and Teach talking to each other.  And I would give ANYTHING to have a flashback (or entire series!) that shows us Flint arriving in Nassau and telling Teach, Hornigold, Bellamy, and Avery that he’s got a better idea of how to run things.

Woodes Rogers and Jack!!! This episode is A++ on incredibly dynamic conversations between two people.

Jack:  I read your book.  Well, most of it.  I confess, I may not quite have soldiered through to the end.  But, you know, I got the gist of it. Rogers:  If you don’t mind my asking, what did you take to be its gist? Jack:  Wealthy son of a wealthy man takes to the sea to prove something to the parents, presumably.  Seeks adventure, finds the limits of his own capacity.  Loses everything in the process and then stumbles upon a hell of a story in the process.  Please understand, I’m quite particular about my library, but people seem to have liked it fine, and it seems to have done wonders for you.  So congratulations on all that.

BRUTAL, I love it.

The duel scene is perfect.  Starting from Billy’s perspective, who is not loyal to Flint (things just keep changing too fast for him to keep up!), then ending with Vane, who is not loyal to Teach.

The lack of music throughout is SUCH a good choice.  Even though I’d seen this before, it was still so stressful.

TEACH’S FACE when Vane jumps in to save Flint.  Oh God, the utter shock and betrayal.  I mean, I wouldn’t have wanted this to end any other way, but poor Teach!  Uuuugh, it’s so sad.

It is VERY interesting to me that Flint convinces Vane to rejoin him, not based on loyalty, but on revenge.  Fandom seems very into making Vane synonymous with loyalty, but here Flint explicitly tells Vane to think beyond loyalty.

Vane:  I gave you my word, shook your hand, pledged to defend the island with you.  But my pledge to him began a long time before I ever knew your name.  What I owe him – Flint:  I don’t care that you shook my hand.  I don’t care what you feel you owe him.  This is too important to be clouded by any of that.  They took my home.  I can’t walk away from that.  Can you?  Forget me, forget Teach, forget loyalty, compacts, honor, debts, all of it.  The only question that matters is this:  Who are you?

Silver says that he’s not the first person to have descended into Flint’s depths and never resurfaced.  But is this an accurate reading of reality (keeping in mind that Silver doesn’t know all of Flint’s story).  I assume he is here referring to Gates and Miranda.  Was Gates dragged into Flint’s depths?  Into his orbit, maybe, but I never got the sense that he was emotionally burdened by Flint in the way that Silver is.  And Miranda?  If anything, they were thrown into the depths together, and they clung to each other down there.  If anything, she helped him climb OUT of the depths, if only for a too-brief moment.

Again, it’s so fitting that a man consumed in either/or and win/loss thinking is taught to see a gentler, more supportive option by a woman:  “Maybe to go to such a place, one needs another to hold the tether and to find a way out.”  Now that’s both/and thinking!

Love seeing Mr. Scott and Madi interact as father and daughter, and I love even more that Mr. Scott knew the best way to prepare her to lead in the New World was to give her stories.

Max’s betrayal.    She reasserts her worth to Rogers with, “If you have me, you have the street,” and officially choosing her ambitions above her relationships.  To be fair, while this makes me very sad (and a little mad), she is only joining the ranks of Flint, Eleanor, and many other characters I love.

It’s very fitting that as Max chooses her ambition above relationships, Vane does the same, for the very first time.

Flint and Vane talking quietly together in the dark, making little jokes, is SO cute to me.

Vane has changed so much, and this episode really highlights it.  No reveling, choosing revenge over loyalty, and saying with disdain about other men, “one piece of information everyone else was quick to dismiss as it held no value to them in that moment.”  He’s become a proper revolutionary.

[renegade-skywalker]

Out of the Abyss, Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Flashes Before Your Eyes

After years in exile, ex-Jedi General, Eden Valen continues to clean up after Revan and Malak's mess of a war, only to find herself forever cursed with their unfinished business. As an ill-fated lead brings her to Tatooine, Eden finds that Revan's mysterious plans go beyond the Republic, beyond the Outer Rim, and into the utter unknown. (A novelization of The Sith Lords and beyond) 

Chapter Summary: After defeating her once-close friend, Malak, Revan wrangles her former and current selves to the best of her abilities - but despite any wishes she has for a normal life, she knows she has some unfinished business to attend to. The only problem is that she doesn't know where to start.

3964 BBY, Tatooine 8 years before the events of Knights of the Old Republic

The earth shuddered beneath her and it roared with a deafening cry in her ears, but Revan was mute to it all.

She stood still, her hands taut at her temples, focusing her mind’s eye on images that flashed before her consciousness as the world around her began to crumble. Her physical self, now distant and almost unfeeling, wavered under the concerned weight of a familiar hand - Alek - pleading with her to move, to save herself.

But the Force coursed through her, flashing images before her eager eyes almost too quickly for her to comprehend, but urgent enough to block out the world around her which was fast falling into chaos. A father and child descended into the caverns beneath the sands where she stood, standing before an altar not seen for millennia where an ancient crystal cache called to passersby, like a whisper of sand in the wind, beckoning, waiting, repeating its call – untouched and pristine – shrouded with some sweet, dark sorcery that drew them nearer… but then entered two bright figures, swathed in light and angel-esque, who took the child by the hand, eyeing the altar with wary eyes as they left the father to die, fallen victim to a poisoned mind, like so many others before him. Boots crunch over their bones.

“Revan, please,” Alek’s voice found her from a million miles away, pleading. Revan’s eyes shot open, all movement a mere kaleidoscope of images focusing into one as her mind reconciled the vision still clear in her memory. She inhaled, closing her eyes tight once more, stamping the images on the backs of her eyelids as reminders before they trickled away with forgetting. When she opened her eyes, her saber was at the ready and Alek was at her side.

She hazarded a glance at her partner, all wide eyes and raised eyebrows. His icy blue stare implored her, asking without words if she was alright.

Revan nodded, remembering the small child and the darkness she found with her father just beneath the sand they stood on.

Revan charged, vowing to never forget what she saw. It was unlike the vision she had during the decimation of Cathar, it was unlike what she felt when she and Alek found the ancient Star Maps, and yet somehow it factored into all of this. A bookmarked memory, to investigate at a later date. As she opened her eyes to the scene unfolding before her, she opened herself to the Force, still unaware of just how much of herself she would hand over to it in the name of peace and justice in the end.

3455 BBY, Telos IV One year after Revan saved the Republic

“You can’t remember anything else?”

“Nothing,” Nevarra sighed. With her eyes still shut, she held onto tethers of images, ghosts of a memory. A girl touting the name Revan and her father, nameless and without shape, stood as entities before an ancient altar all those years ago in some forsaken cave buried in the desert. Ghosts from a past life she was not entirely sure was her own. They felt like memories, but were they implanted or otherwise? She had no answers.

She had been piecing herself together since the encounter with Malak on the Leviathan, picking and choosing which bits of her old and new selves felt right and which parts deserved to stay. In the aftermath, Carth was the calm and steady force that stayed her, but she knew there was much she still could not remember - much that she needed to remember. The anxiety was crippling. She was a ghost in her own living skin, and she feared what her old self may have kept from those close to her, never expecting that her own memories, her own agency, would ever be ripped away from her.

Carth insisted on staying up with her most nights, helping her figure out which memories were hers and where they belonged, but most importantly he supported her in deciding which memories were worth keeping. Since her Jedi reconditioning, Nevarra was tempted to settle into the false security of this second chance, to start over and settle down. But that was a fleeting thing. No, she could not stay idle - how could she? Not when she knew just how much was at stake. But the key to figuring out what to do next remained hidden in the murky depths of her own memory, phantom trinkets submerged and disguised, awaiting her conscious hand at the bottom of a fathomless ocean to be unearthed and rediscovered, plucked from obscurity and made real again.

From the darkness of her closed lids, the Force held still in her memory, Nevarra felt the gentle probing of Carth’s comforting hands at her wrists, coaxing her into the comfort of his presence - away from who she used to be, away from Revan. A faint smile spread across her lips at the feel of him, bringing herself out of the memory, making sure to anchor its imprint in her mind for future reference.

“It’s alright if you can’t. Just remember that,” Carth told her, his voice even, though still laced with the tempered frustration of a man lacking sleep. She could see it in his face: eyes lined with dark indigo shadows, blinking every few moments to keep himself from drifting off himself. But she knew he wouldn’t, not when she still found sleep so seldom. He would not abandon his post.

Her hands began to react to the warmth of his touch as Carth kneaded her fingers, tingling, as if they had been sleeping prior to Carth’s innocent probing.

“I think I should be the one telling you that,” she sighed, hearing the tiredness in her own voice.  Even to herself, her voice felt hollow, strained and in much need of sleep. “I’ve kept you up long enough.”

Carth resigned, looking proud of her, at least, but feigning to completely mask his relief at being formally allowed to rest. “You’ve made progress,” he said as optimistically as his voice would allow, grating low and soft into a slight yawn, “or at least, it sounds like you have.”

Nevarra laughed silently to herself, chuckling at Carth’s inability to sleep when she could not and at his need to hear her say it before he went back to rest without her. He didn’t have to stay up with her, he knew that and she reminded him, but she never pushed it. She still enjoyed how eager he was to take care of her in any small way, despite her not needing saving. He liked feeling useful, he wanted to help, and even if she said and felt that it was fine that he sleep, she knew he would never rest easy until he felt he had done his part.

Carth still hovered on the threshold to their shared bedroom, lingering between the soft light of their living area and the dense shadow of their unlit chambers. His heavy-lidded eyes watched her, waiting. She felt weighted to the chair she sat in, sunken as if her thoughts anchored her here, but Carth was always so convincing when he was most tired, most unwilling to fight and most likely to surrender to sleep like an overeager puppy who denies he has worn himself out.

The image of a girl and her father at the site of the ancient altar remained in the back of her mind. The weight of it lifted as she gathered her wits to switch gears, to turn her mind to slumber, to rest for but a moment until she would undoubtedly set course for Coruscant to see the one person who may know more about her visions come morning… whether Carth was awake to tell her how he felt about the whole thing, or not.