#the tenderness of this moment. lost for 5 decades!

[redmyeyes]

Listen as though I'm the voice of God or an angel talking to you, telling you this room doesn't matter, this night doesn't matter. You're not inconsequential, or a junkie. You're a bright, young reporter with a point of view. There are stories that need to be told. If things ever get bad again, these are the words you'll hear in your mind like a tape playing over and over. Like a song stuck in your brain, these words will hold you up and carry you. They are your lifeline.

[ckret2]

Chapter 51 of human Bill Cipher is once more the Mystery Shack's prisoner: Dipper and Mabel try to figure out what the Axolotl's poem means; Dipper gets the hang of astral projection; and... whatever's going on up there happens.

####

Ford and Dipper came back into the shack through the gift shop; Ford didn't want to risk crossing paths with Bill. While Dipper went into the house, Ford went down—returning to the safety of his subterranean study.

Once Ford had put on the old black trench coat he'd worn during his multiversal travels and gotten comfortable at his desk, he pulled out Journal 5 to document the events of the last few days. In a cheap ballpoint pen, he wrote, I've lost my #1 Grunkle pen (and favorite coat) to the waters of Lake Gravity Falls. And then, deciding this didn't adequately express his feelings, he drew a small frown. That coat had served him well for decades, and he'd really liked that pen. It did write excellently, and it had reminded him of his gniece and gnephew.

He spent three pages documenting the eclipse—what happened, what readings he'd taken, what he and Dipper observed—and then another four pages talking about Bill. What he'd told them, why Ford had dismissed it; his claims about a trans-dimensional axolotl distorting gravity with its migration; the statue, the rescue, the breakdown.

The act of writing always helped Ford clarify his thoughts and untangle mysteries; it wasn't until he was writing that he realized the limbs Bill had said he couldn't feel were the ones that had broken off the statue.

He listed the rules of the chess variants he could remember Bill inventing. He drew Bill huddled in front of the board, grim, tear-streaked, exhausted; and then scratched out his face, embarrassed at the thought of immortalizing such a raw moment for his private viewing.

He wrote, There's still a slim possibility that the entire "eclipse," start to finish, was Bill's masterfully-orchestrated scheme to make us pity and trust him; but it's unlikely. Although Bill is fiendish enough, he isn't currently powerful enough, and his lies certainly aren't elaborate enough. If he could pull off such a byzantine ruse, then he could just as easily escape—and if he can escape, why hasn't he? Bill may be insane, but he's never been THAT irrational.

And so, even as twisted as Bill's idea of "friendship" is... for the very first time, I'm convinced that he was telling the truth all along when he said he wants me as his friend. It's not an act. He risked his life to save someone who's an active threat to him.

And at the end of it all—though I'm grateful to be alive in spite of my own stubbornness—do I like him any better for it?

Ford leaned back and shut his eyes, sifting through the inner tumult of anger and old hurt that defined most of his memories of Bill, looking to see if anything had changed.

There was a sore, tender spot in his emotions, a place beginning to rot with remorse; when he prodded at those emotions, he found that it was shame over his own harsh conduct of the last couple of days. But he was only ashamed of how cruelly he'd acted; he wasn't ashamed that Bill was the one he'd done it to.

Outside of that tender spot—regret over his own behavior—nothing else had changed.

No. I still hate him. I'm grateful to be alive, but I hate him. He hasn't undone anything he did to my family and me, and he never will. Forgiveness can't be purchased with favors.

I'm only relieved at the certainty of it. Bill has committed an act that can't possibly be a lie. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he's shown me the truth; and the truth is he'd rather see me alive than dead. Whatever other lies he may tell, I can hold on to that fact.

Bill's miserable eyes peered out at Ford between the scribbles he'd drawn across his face. It was truly a pity that Ford had to hate him. Pity that Bill hadn't been somebody better. He could have been better.

Ford couldn't find it in himself to be embarrassed that he'd filled four pages talking about the monster he'd already wasted so many more on. Bill had been right about him: You might hate me to my face, but behind my back you're as obsessed with me as ever. The only thing Bill didn't understand was that hatred and obsession weren't mutually incompatible.

####

"Hey, Dipper," Mabel said, unfolding the living room sofa bed. 

"Hey, Mabel," Dipper said, passing through living room on his way to the stairs. He climbed up to the attic.

He came back down from the attic. "Mabel. Why's Bill asleep in your bed."

"He really needed a nap," Mabel said.

"Okay but why on your bed?"

Mabel pouted. "Dipper, do you realize he's never slept on a real bed? Ever?"

Dipper tried to imagine sleeping on a couple couch cushions on the floor every night. "Yeah, okay, that does kinda suck." Even if it was Bill's own fault he wouldn't sleep in the living room.

By unspoken mutual agreement, having a Bill in the bedroom followed the same law as finding a centipede in the bathroom. The law was "that's the centipede's bathroom now." So once the folding bed was set up, they sat on it to serve as their hang-out spot for the evening and caught each other up on what they'd done the last couple of days.

After Dipper & Co. had left, Grenda had come over to take advantage of the low gravity to retrieve the kite that had been stuck in a tree near the Mystery Shack since last summer (it was, tragically, too tattered to salvage), and then they'd gone over to Candy's house to photograph each other performing feats of impossible strength. (Mabel would be sending some pictures to their parents to confuse them, and adding the rest to her summer scrapbook.) She'd spent the next day breaking the trampoline world record until Soos came outside and said gravity was probably too low for it to be safe to be up in the air anymore, if Bill's warnings about being off the ground when gravity hit zero were true; at which point Mabel had hung around inside air-swimming until she suddenly slammed against the ceiling, and then the ground. She was fine. She just had a couple of bruises. She showed Dipper her bruises.

In return, Dipper told Mabel about how their quest had gone: the checks for micro-rips, Bill's increasingly frantic warnings, the lake—

("You got to see a bajillion magical axolotls and I didn't?!")

—the cliff, the Axolotl, Dipper's near-death experience, and what he now knew about his out-of-body dreams.

"Seriously?" Mabel hissed, eyes bugging out. "And he had us looking up lucid dreaming books! What a jerk!"

"I know! He could have just ignored the whole thing, we didn't even think it was anything but dreams."

"And I'd thought he was being so helpful, too! Like he was really trying to make up for giving you 'nightmares'!" Mabel laughed in disbelief and flopped down on the flimsy mattress. "All that because he just didn't want us to know how it was really his fault? Biiill, ugh."

His fault. Dipper hesitated, wondering whether he should tell Mabel what Bill had said about Mabel's Fault; then decided against it. Bill had probably been telling the truth when he'd said he only wanted all the credit for Weirdmageddon.

But—Dipper did tell her about Bill saving their lives. He would have felt like a liar if he hadn't—like he was trying to trick his sister into thinking Bill was worse than he already was. He hoped Ford wouldn't mind; but how could he not tell Mabel?

"He could have just let you die and didn't?" Mabel turned that over in her head, processing this sudden shift in Bill's behavior. "Wow. I'm impressed."

He also told her about their previous encounter with the Axolotl. Considering the other lies Bill had told recently, anything he said about them meeting the Axolotl was dubious at best; but Dipper could remember the Axolotl, so maybe some of it was true, even if Bill had twisted as much as he could. ("The Axolotl said hi, by the way." "Aww. Tell him hi back!" "Yeah, I... don't know how to do that.")

Dipper laid out his journal between them on the folding bed, and Mabel read over the couplet a few times. "'Sixty degrees that come in threes, watches from within birch trees'..."

"It's got to be talking about Bill," Dipper said. "Equilateral triangles have three sixty-degree angles. I just don't know why the Axolotl wanted to talk to us about him."

Mabel frowned at the lines. "I think... I remember meeting him too," she said.

"You do?"

"Kinda. Like in a dream," she said. "We were in some kind of futury space race car. And he had a really comfortable beanbag chair."

"Yes! I remembered the beanbag chair, too!" And he hadn't mentioned it in his journal. "This is great! Talking about it must... must cause us to remember, somehow. Maybe since the universe where we met the Axolotl doesn't exist anymore, our memories of it are... detached or something? Psychically floating around between dimensions until we try to remember them?" He took in Mabel's skeptical frown and shrugged. "I don't know!"

She scrunched up her face. "Ugh. Last summer's first-grader time travel was complicated enough. This is like college-level time travel. Maybe we can ask Bill how it works?"

She said it so easily, like she thought it was actually a good idea. Right after she'd heard about the lucid dreaming thing, too. "I don't think he'd help." Dipper lowered his voice. "He really didn't want Grunkle Ford and me to find out about the Axolotl—and he kept telling me not to think about what the Axolotl told me. He's trying to cover something up."

"Oo-oo-ooh." Voice dropped to a whisper, Mabel said, "Do you think it's some kind of Space Axolotl conspiracy?"

"It could be," Dipper said. "All I know is he was trying to tell us something important about Bill. Some kind of prophecy, or... maybe a warning...?"

He trailed off. Mabel had stopped listening to Dipper. She was rereading the couplet Dipper had written, moving her lips like she was murmuring under her breath—but whatever she was saying, it was much longer than the couplet Dipper had written down. Distractedly, she said, "Do you have a pen?"

"Yeah, here." Dipper quickly handed over the pen he kept in his vest.

Mabel clicked it, went to the bottom of the page, and wrote: A different form, a different time.

Dipper sucked in a sharp breath as the words snapped into place in his mind. "That's it! That was the last line! What else do you remember?"

"That's it," Mabel said. "It was free form poetry with a bunch of rhyme pairs."

"I don't think free form poetry rhymes."

"Pbbbt." Mabel blew a raspberry and shoved Dipper's face. "Whatever! You know what I mean." She pointed at the last line. "Do you think the poem's about why Bill's here? He time traveled to the Mystery Shack in a new body..."

"Exactly! Bill must be back here for a reason. He's got all those powers—or, used to, anyway—and he knows more about the multiverse than anybody on Earth... Maybe there's some kind of big threat coming, and Bill's the only one who can stop it, and—and the Axolotl wanted us to know...?"

"I like the sound of that," Mabel said. "That'd basically make him a hero, right?"

Dipper grimaced. "I mean. I guess? But we're talking about Bill. If he does help us stop a threat, it'd be like if a serial killer picked up a hitchhiker and killed him, and then it turned out the hitchhiker was an even worse serial killer."

"That still sounds kinda heroic to me."

"Pfff, okay." He looked at his journal. "But... what is he here to do?"

Mabel considered what they'd already written. "Maybe we can use him to spy on our enemies through birch trees!"

"Thaaat's probably not it."

"No, I think I'm on to something. I can feel it."

There was a lot of empty space between his couplet and Mabel's line. "There's more we're missing, though. Maybe the rest of the poem describes the threat? Or what we need to get Bill to do?"

"I can't remember anything else, though."

"Me neither."

They stared at the page together, waiting for something to come to their blank minds. Mabel looked at the fish tank. "Hey, Primrose! Do you know anything?"

The pet axolotl in the tank ignored her serenely.

Dipper said, "'Primrose'?"

"Yeah, last summer Grunkle Stan said her name is Freakface, but I thought she deserved a cuter name. She's primrose color!"

"Ford says he originally named him Nikola."

Mabel gasped. "Nikki..."

Dipper twisted around to look at the axolotl. "Do you know anything? Do you... get messages from the Axolotl's heralds, or anything...?"

Nikola slowly opened his mouth, and slowly closed it.

Mabel said, "Hey. The Axolotl's one of those dimension-crossy time-travely guys, right? He probably wouldn't have given us a prophecy in the wrong timeline and then made us forget it unless he knew we'd remember it in time in the rightdimension!"

"I guess," Dipper said uncertainly.

"So we don't need to worry about it! We'll remember it when we need to."

"Unless this timeline's going to branch, and the only one where we survive is the one where we put all our effort into trying to remembering—"

"Shhh!" Mabel put a finger over Dipper's mouth. "Uh-uh. No college time travel. We'll be fine!"

Dipper pushed her over. "Okay, but we should at least try a little to remember what the Axolotl told us."

"What if we work on it separately?" Mabel propped herself up on an elbow. "Instead of just sitting around thinking about it. And whenever we remember a line, we can tell each other and see if it makes anything click."

"That might be faster," Dipper said, stroking his chin. "We're already remembering different lines."

"Yeah! And that lucid dreaming book said something about focusing on a problem before you sleep so you can figure it out in your dreams! We can just work on it in our sleep and we'll remember it all in no time!"

Dipper laughed. "What? No way, I think lucid dreaming is just one of those made up pop psychology things. I didn't get it to work at all." Either it didn't work or Bill had deliberately recommended a terrible book.

"I did! I can remember like... eighty percent more dreams. And I can tell when I'm dreaming a lot more often!"

"Huh." Or, maybe Dipper just wasn't doing it right. "Maybe I need to start over from step one. Do you know where the book we were using went?"

"Over here!" Mabel had set a couple library books on the end table next to the sofa bed; she pulled out the second one, which had a glittery pink bookmark with a cat on it stuck two-thirds of the way through. "Just don't lose my bookmark."

"Thanks." He'd reread the first step before bed. "We should probably be getting ready for bed anyway, huh?"

"Seriously?! It's barely bedtime!" And when the adults weren't watching, official bedtime was an hour and a half before Actual Bedtime.

"I'm exhausted. I just hiked up and down a mountain and faced down death."

Mabel pointed at Nikola. "You faced down a big salamander."

"Close enough."

They went upstairs, brushed their teeth, went to their bedroom...

And stopped in the door. Bill was still asleep. "Oh. Right," Dipper said.

He was curled into a ball on his left side, facing the wall, covered with only the zodiac blanket and his borrowed/stolen top hat sitting on the side of his head. He didn't use a pillow; he'd pushed Mabel's pillows and dolls behind himself to form a squishy makeshift fortress.

"Please don't wake him up," Mabel whispered. (She'd already set up the folding bed for herself; she'd clearly planned on this.) "He's had a really really hard time the last couple of days, and I think he needs as much sleep in a real bed as he can get, and it's just for one night, and I'm sure he'd rather sleep than do anything evil—"

"He said something, didn't he?"

Mabel paused. "Yeah. I think seeing his body really messed him up."

Dipper sighed. "We were trying to keep him away from it." He didn't want Mabel to think they'd forced him to stare his own death in the face. "But he did that... eye thing and looked through the trees, and..."

Mabel nodded.

Well. Dipper couldn't kick him out now. For Mabel's sake.

As children, occasionally when they got hotel rooms with a bed too few, their parents would stick them in one bed with a barrier of pillows in between them. At age thirteen and without two crabby parents trying to get them to just go to bed after a long plane flight, they unanimously vetoed that plan. Dipper decided against asking Stan if he could sleep in Ford's unoccupied bed, both because he suspected Stan would just go upstairs and drag Bill out of the room and because he didn't want Stan to think he was scared of Bill. He wasn't scared of Bill. Not anymore. He could handle one measly night in the same room as him. Anyway, somebody had to make sure he wasn't unsupervised in their bedroom all night, right?

Dipper and Mabel quietly set a floor mirror and old lamp next to Mabel's bed, draped a sheet between them, taped on a pink poster that said "WARNING! TRIANGLE ZONE!" and was covered in stickers of triangular objects, and decided Dipper was adequately shielded. If Bill did get up during the night, he'd probably trip through the sheet and wake half the house before he got anywhere near Dipper.

Dipper went to sleep with a baseball bat in his hands.

####

"Okay," Bill said, hands on his sides, "what am I looking at here?"

The feral band members of Sev'ral Timez turned toward Bill, eyes reflecting in the dim light. They were squatting around Bill's petrified corpse like a pack of apes examining a sleek black monolith.

"Hey girl," Creggy G. said.

"Hey," Bill said. He looked down at himself. His onyx black feet hovered over the ground and the yellow glow from his exoskeleton illuminated the clearing. "Lemme cut to the chase, is this gonna turn into a raunchy dream? My corporeal love life is about as cold and dry as Antarctica, I keep hoping one of my dreams will get a little hotter and wetter—"

"Nah, G," Deep Chris said. "Mr. Bratsman got us fixed."

"Aw."

"We're here to pay you reverence for freeing our minds from the chains of the conventional," Greggy C said, gesturing to Bill's corpse. Leggy P was kneeling and bowing to it and Chubby Z was posing for it. "We want to help free you like you tried to help free humanity."

Bill's eye narrowed. He tapped a finger against the edge of one brick as he considered this offer. Finally, skeptically, he said, "Fine. I'll bite. Why should I think you can help me?"

"Because we can give you the understanding your heart's been missing, girl. You're just like us," Chubby Z said. "A horror never meant to exist, born of a dream to construct the perfect golden idol, forced to dwell within an unnaturally-fabricated human shell."

Bill tilted his head thoughtfully. "I'm with you so far."

"We want you to join us," Deep Chris said. "Cavort with us in the silvan night, G. Shun the harsh light of the spotlight for the healing salve of moonbeams. We'll get drunk on the sweet fermented summer berries, uncaring of how the brambles prick our flesh. We'll dance in a frenzy of ecstasy and only sleep when the morning sun lifts the dew from the flowers and the sweat from our skin. It'll be straight Dionysian, boo."

"We can kiss the hot trees," Creggy G said.

Bill grabbed his shoulder. "Oh, you're the human that keeps making out with birch trees! I knew your face was familiar!" He paused. "So... are there any eligible ones around here?"

"Sure, girl, just downstream."

"If I'd known, I would've polished myself first."

"Say you'll join us, Bill girl," Deep Chris said. The band crowded around Bill to either side, posing around him—the backup dancers for the star singer. "You'd be one of us."

"We're already exactly the same," Creggy G said, holding up a mirror so that it reflected his and Bill's faces beside each other. In Bill's human face were two empty white eyes with pinprick pupils and pale blue irises, exactly the same as the eyes of the Sev'ral Timez boys.

He sat up with a gasp, hands flying to his face. There were still green boughs at the edges of his dreaming vision, blending into the wooden boards of the Mystery Shack's attic. Before sleep had fully fled his mind, he seized up the zodiac blanket draped over his body and stared into his embroidered eye.

The eye stared back at him. Through it, he could see his horrified sleepy face, and his normal slitted yellow eyes. His connection to the blanket's eye disappeared as he finished waking up.

He heaved a sigh of relief and flopped back down. He'd been lucid, but he hadn't been in control of that dream. He still needed practice.

He rolled toward the light of the window, groped around beneath it until he found his journal, grabbed up his crayons, and flipped pages blearily until he found the first blank one. He started writing down his dream, pausing only briefly as he tried to figure out how to translate "Sev'ral Timez" before settling on a sufficiently goofy way to misspell "several times" in Plaintext.

He made it halfway down the page before he stopped. Hold on. This wasn't his beautiful journal. These were not his beautiful crayons. He checked the cover and grimaced in displeasure when he saw a pine tree rather than a hand. Dipper's journal. Bill ripped out the page, ate it, and set the journal and Mabel's crayons back on the table  under the bedroom window.

"What was that," Dipper asked, "some kind of Morse code?"

Bill yelped and twisted around. Dipper's soul was hovering above Mabel's headboard, watching over Bill's shoulder.

"Hey! Back, foul ghost!" Bill snatched up Mabel's pillow and swung it at Dipper.

"Ow—Hey! How did you hit me, I'm in the mindscape—"

"I said back!" Bill swung again, chasing Dipper off the bed. "Back into your fleshy tomb!" He climbed off the bed, stumbled into Dipper and Mabel's trap, tripped through the sheet and probably woke up half the house.

He yanked the sheet off and flung the pillow at Dipper by its corner. "Now get back in your body, go to sleep, and leave me alone."

"I don't know how to get back in it. I just wait until it happens by itself," Dipper said, floating irritably over his sleeping body, arms crossed. "Why do you think I just wander around every time I have this dream?" He paused. "Right—it's not a dream, is it."

Bill sighed heavily. "Try putting your body on like..." He almost said like an exoskeleton, remembered his audience, and amended himself: "Like it's clothing. I usually start with the hands. Just like putting on gloves!"

Dipper looked at the cold fingers wrapped tightly around the baseball bat. "How do I put hands on like gloves? There's no opening or—"

"Just try it, would you?" Bill sat tiredly on the edge of Mabel's bed.

Dipper shot him an irritated look, but pressed his ghostly hands against his fleshly ones, passing through the skin until one set of fingers rested inside the other. A fingertip twitched. 

Bill gestured with one hand, continue. "Now the sleeves."

"I know how to get dressed." Dipper laid down in his body, forearm into forearm, shoulder into shoulder—until he was wholly back inside. He sat up, awake. "Huh."

"There, see?" Bill said. "And if you want to take it back off, just do the same thing in reverse. Like degloving your body from your soul!"

"Did you have to phrase it like that?" Still, Dipper tried it, peeling out of his body from the fingertips up. He left his body sitting upright as he hovered over it.

Bill chuckled tiredly. "Lookit your face, staring at nothing. Stupid looking."

"Shut up." He slid back into his body, more quickly now that he knew what he was doing.

"Great," Bill said. "Now that you know how to get back in your body, never do that again." He flopped back onto Mabel's bed and rolled over to face the wall. "It's a pain in my base having you wander around all night."

"Then you should've thought of that before you ripped my soul out of my body," Dipper grumbled. "Can you reattach me to my body?"

"Sure, easy." He lifted a hand to point down at his regrettably human form. "Not like this, though. Wanna help reattach me to my body?"

"Never in a million years."

"Then come back in a million years. There's nothing I can do for you until then." Bill dragged Mabel's zodiac blanket back over himself. "So sorry. Go to sleep. Leave me alone."

Dipper bet Bill could do it and was only saying he couldn't to try to trick Dipper into helping him. But he lay back down—clutching his bat again—and shut his eyes.

After a moment, Bill asked, "Where's Mabel? Sleepover?"

"Sofa bed in the living room."

"Right."

And then there was silence.

Several minutes passed. Dipper nearly fell back asleep. He heard Bill climbing out of bed and creeping across the room; but the footsteps didn't approach Dipper's bed, so he didn't open his eyes.

A few minutes after that, Dipper heard him come back, walking more heavily. He cracked open an eye to see what Bill was up to.

He was carrying Mabel, who was still asleep; his arms were trembling from her weight, but even at that Dipper hadn't known Bill was that strong. With a quiet grunt, he set her on her bed, then haphazardly tossed her sheet and zodiac blanket over her. He picked up his top hat from the bed and put it on; and then he wandered off, footsteps quiet as a ghost, and Dipper heard the creak of the door as he left the bedroom.

That was a lot nicer than Dipper had expected from Bill. Maybe he did care about Mabel in his own way.

Mabel rolled over and latched on to one of her dolls. Dipper shut his eye and fell back asleep.

####

(My favorite part of writing this was Bill dreaming about Sev'ral Timez saying the most absurdly flowery things imaginable. Anyway, let me know what y'all think about this week's chapter! And reminder that I MIGHT skip next week or the week after because the next couple chapters need heavier editing than usual.)

[whimsicallyenchantedrose]

At the Dawn There is Rejoicing--a birthday gift for @kmomof4 (Chapter 1)

Summary:  Birthday gift for Krystal, @kmomof4. Based on the story of Leslie Moore and Owen Ford in the book Anne’s House of Dreams–the 5th book in the Anne of Green Gables series.  Emma Gold has led a difficult life.  Her brother and her father died when she was a child, and she was then coerced into marrying the odious Neal Gold.  She thought she’d been granted a reprieve when he was believed to be lost at sea–only for him to return disabled and in need of a caregiver.  Killian is a newspaper reporter who is tired of his routine life.  When he falls ill, his editor forces him to take a sabbatical.  What will happen when Emma takes Killian in as a border for the summer? Big thank you to @snowbellewells for making the cover pic set!

Word Count: 2445y

Other Chapters: (Prologue) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7)

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Four Winds Harbor, Prince Edward Island, Canada, 1890

Emma Gold shut the door quietly but firmly before taking the harbor road toward the small, seaside village she’d called home all her life.  She let out a long breath, rolling her head from side to side, trying to work out the tension of the day.

And what a trying day it had been!  Neal had been absolutely impossible today.  Some days her husband was calm, affectionate, sometimes even helpful, as much as he could be anyway.

This was not one of those days.  

Today, he’d vexed her from the moment he woke up until the moment he went back to bed.  Her one consolation was that Neal slept like the dead, not moving from the time his head hit the pillow until the rays of the morning sun woke him.

It was a lovely evening for a walk, the twilight painting the sky with beautiful pinks and oranges and yellows, the temperature ideal for an evening stroll.  If her life were different, she’d likely have enjoyed every moment of it–the temperate sea breeze, the faint call of the seagulls, the distant crash of the ocean against the shore.

But her life wasn’t different.  It was an endless cascade of drudgery ever since the day she’d turned twelve.

She remembered that day like it was yesterday, knew she’d never forget it.  It had been a lovely summer day.  She and her eight year old brother, Henry, had been playing out in the barn.  She’d never, to her dying day, forget the moment Henry had stepped through a broken floorboard in the barn loft and fallen to his death.

She might have gotten past the trauma–or at least learned to live with it, if, not six months later, tragedy hadn’t struck again.  Her father, Philip, had never been the same after his only son’s death, and when he’d subsequently fallen ill with pneumonia, there was no fight in him.  He succumbed to the illness within a week of its onset.

And so, all that was left of her once happy, vibrant family was her and her mother Aurora.  Aurora, known for her stunning beauty, but never for her strength and resiliency, had rather fallen apart after the death of both her husband and her son.  Emma, at the tender age of thirteen, had to effectively take on the role of head of the household.

“Those appear to be some rather melancholy thoughts, you’re having, Emma, Dearie,” came a comforting voice to her left. “Difficult day was it?”

Emma turned and smiled despite herself at the woman who’d joined her.  Granny Lucas, though four decades her senior, if she was a day, was quite possibly Emma’s best friend in the world.  Granny had stood beside her through thick and thin, always ready with a comforting pat–as well as a run-down of all the gossip in the village, peppered liberally with scathing commentary about anyone she deemed to be in need of it.  (More often than not, it was the men who got the sharp side of her tongue, rather than the fairer sex.  Good woman, though she was, Granny was something of a man hater.)

Emma sighed loudly.  “Indeed,” she said. “Neal seemed to take it as his personal challenge to plague me from morning until night.��

“Just like a man!” Granny scoffed.  “Emma, dearie, would you like me to come by and give you a break tomorrow?  I’m determined to finish knitting my blanket for the expected Hubbard baby–it’s their eighth, you know, and them barely able to care for the seven they already have.  That house of theirs is no bigger than a shoe!--and I can knit just as well at your place as my own.  You’re looking pale and thin.  You need a break.”

Emma smiled at the older woman, but then shook her head.  “Neal is my responsibility, Granny.  You’ve been too kind already.  I’ll muddle through as I’ve always done.”

Down at the shore, the lighthouse came on just as dusk fell, and Granny scowled darkly at the beacon.  “I will never, no never, forgive Captain Nemo for bringing Neal back to you that fateful day all those years ago.  The man should be horsewhipped!”

Emma looked up at the lighthouse, thinking of the kind old man who ran it like clockwork.  After Granny herself, Captain Nemo was probably her greatest friend and ally.  There wasn’t a mean or hurtful bone in his body, and Emma knew he’d have walked over broken glass to spare her from pain if he could, but he also had a sense of honor and duty that was stronger than anything.

She sighed.  “Granny, you know that’s not fair.  When Nemo found him down in Havana, he couldn’t leave him there, as much as I wish he had.”

“Well I’d have left him,” Granny said with a decisive nod, “and I’ll tell you, I wouldn’t have felt one pang of conscience for it.  That man deserved what he got!”

Emma couldn’t exactly disagree with the older woman there.  Neal Gold had been the bane of her existence since she was little more than a girl.

She’d met him when she was sixteen–he was twenty-four at the time, and had been away from the harbor for many years–and she’d despised him from the start.  He was handsome enough, she supposed, but he was arrogant, something of a womanizer, utterly full of himself, and had a mean streak a mile wide.

To her chagrin, he’d taken a fancy to her from the moment they first met, and he’d immediately made his interest known.  The first time he’d proposed marriage, she’d gently turned him down.  The second, she’d refused more firmly.  The third time, she let her fist do the talking.

If she’d believed Neal got the hint after that, she was sorely mistaken, for Neal had a secret weapon, and he was more than willing to use it.  Emma and her mother lived on land that was owned by Robert Gold, Neal’s father, and the day after Emma’s third refusal, Mr. Gold had shown up at the house they rented from him and threatened to evict them if she didn’t agree to become Neal’s wife.

Everything in Emma screamed at her to refuse, but her mother had simply fallen apart at the thought of being turned out of her home.

“After everything that’s happened to us, Emma!” Aurora had wailed.  “I can’t lose our home too.  I can’t!”

And so it was with a heavy heart that she’d agreed to the marriage.

Emma found marriage to Neal every bit as noxious as she’d anticipated, and when her mother passed away suddenly, only two weeks into her horrible marriage, she felt as though she didn’t have an ally left in the world–save for Granny and Captain Nemo, of course. Some days, Emma woke next to her snoring, detested husband, and thought the hopelessness of her situation would swallow her whole.

And so, when Neal got bored of staid, married life no more than a month after their nuptials and declared his intention to seek treasure and adventure on the high seas, Emma had breathed an unqualified sigh of relief.  She’d be left alone to tend to their farm and make ends meet to the best of her abilities, but she’d be free of Neal.

He vowed to come home in six months, and Emma circled the date on the calendar with a heavy, black pen.  A little dramatic, maybe, but she felt like that date spelled her doom.

But the date came and went with no Neal.  

Six months passed, seven, eight, and still he didn’t appear.  The good folks of the harbor began to worry that something had happened to his ship.  When the year mark was passed and still no sight nor word of him, they gave him up for dead.

Emma breathed a sigh of relief–and then immediately hated herself for it.  What kind of horrible wife was glad it looked like her husband was dead? 

Granny had no such qualms.  “Good riddance!” she averred firmly.  “Someone needed to take the trash out.  It looks like the sea managed to complete the task.”

“Now, now, Granny,” Captain Nemo said good naturedly, “I’m surprised at you!  Such an unChristian thing to say.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t feel exactly the same, Nemo,” she said, piercing that jolly sailor with a withering glance above her spectacles.  “Neal Gold was no good.  You know it. I know it. We all know it.  Our Emma is well rid of him.”

But the ill-luck that had plagued Emma ever since her twelfth birthday was not done with her yet.  Two months later, Captain Nemo had set sail once more with his crew–being at that time still an active sailor and not yet the keeper of the lighthouse.  It was when he made port in Havana that he learned the awful truth.

Neal was still very much alive.  

Several months past, he’d been ambushed on his way to his ship and beaten badly.  He’d been taken to a dockside inn, where the proprietors had nearly given him up for dead, but he’d pulled through–physically at least.  One of the worst blows to his head had evidently induced not only amnesia but brain damage as well.  To wit, he emerged from his life-threatening injuries with the mentality and faculties of a child.

The innkeepers had continued to house and care for him, having no notion of his identity or how to discover it, but from the moment Captain Nemo set eyes on him, it was clear.  The man before him had changed–he’d gained weight and he had a scar on his face that wasn’t there before–but it was unmistakably Neal Gold.

For a moment, Nemo had contemplated simply setting sail and pretending he’d never learned the truth, but Captain Nemo was such a fundamentally honest and upright man, determined to do his duty no matter how detestable, that in the end he brought the man-child home with him.

Emma took the news as stoically as she could, knowing there was nothing for her but to accept her responsibility to care for her husband.  Only once did she bemoan her fate.  On the day Neal returned, she’d looked across the table into his vacant eyes and said “I was hoping you were dead - because it would be easier for me to put you behind me, than to face all the pain that we went through all over again.”

That was eleven years ago.  She had cared for him from that very day.  Some days he was reasonably pleasant–even somewhat helpful.  Others, he was a holy terror, reminding her of nothing so much as an overgrown toddler.

Still, life with this Neal was far more palatable than life with the man in his right mind, and so she persisted.

Coming back to the present, Emma sighed.  “You and I both know Captain Nemo would do anything he could to help me, but we also know he couldn’t turn from doing the right thing, even if it was hard.”

Granny merely harumphed, and for a moment, they walked on in silence.

“Well, as I live and breathe,” a delighted voice came from beside Granny, “if it isn’t Granny Lucas, looking lovely as ever.”

“Well as I live and breathe,” she retorted with an eyeroll, “if it isn’t Marco Gepetto looking as much like an overgrown wooly mammoth as ever.”

Emma smiled in spite of herself.  Marco was, indeed, an odd looking personage with his beard and hair both falling in tangled curls to his waist.  Apparently his state of hariness had something to do with politics, but Granny Lucas never missed an opportunity to tell him, in no uncertain terms, how utterly ridiculous he was.  Marco, for his part, gave as good as he got.

If Emma didn’t know better, she’d swear it was their preferred method of flirting.

As the older couple began bickering in earnest–and apparently enjoying every moment of it–Emma excused herself and walked on.  She did, in fact, have a few errands to run before the sun fully set and the stores closed, and if she waited for her companions to finish their “conversation”, she might be standing here all night.

Emma walked on in silence, her melancholy thoughts returning once more, and she’d nearly reached the store when she heard the sound of a horse and buggy approaching.  She looked up in curiosity.  Few people drove into town, everyone living within walking distance.

The carriage contained a young couple–a woman with long, curly black hair and sparkling green eyes.  A blond man with blue eyes.  Both looked at each other as though there was no one else on earth.  Their love was nearly a tangible thing.

This must be the new doctor–David Nolan, wasn’t it?--and his bride.

The woman noticed her then, standing on the road, and she raised a hand in greeting, apparently eager to make her acquaintance.  Emma turned her head and rushed away as an overwhelming wave of bitterness washed over her.

Talk in the town was that the new doctor and his bride had married that very day and then, in lieu of a honeymoon, had set out for their new home–the little house on the harbor which would make them Emma’s nearest neighbors.  Emma knew she shouldn’t begrudge the newlyweds their happiness, but sometimes the pain overwhelmed her.

That kind of happiness would never be hers.  Tomorrow she’d likely feel bad for her lack of neighborliness toward the newest citizens of her town, but for right now…for right now, she just wanted to wallow.

Notes: I did warn you there would be a good deal of pain on the front end of this story, didn’t I?  I took (and will continue to take) a fair amount of liberties with OUAT character relationships for my story.  The goal was to cast OUAT characters that I felt best matched the personality and story of the Anne’s House of Dreams characters.

For those who have read Anne’s House of Dreams, you’ll probably recognize that Mary Margaret and David  are Anne and Gilbert, Granny is Miss Cornelia Bryant, Nemo is Captain Jim, Marco is Marshall Elliot, and of course Emma and Neal are Leslie and Dick Moore.  (If I ever slip up and call Neal Dick….it’s probably due to the character’s name in the book, although the insult is also warranted.)

Up Next: Emma meets Mary Margaret.  Meanwhile in Montreal, Killian is rather burnt out at his job as a newspaper reporter in Montreal.  His boss suggests he take a vacation.

NEXT CHAPTER->

[jimmyjims]

Day 5: By a Thread

Zelink Week 2023 ~ @zelinkcommunity

On days like this, Zelda offered her soul to the harp she had learned to play when she was a small child. The soothing melodies that were emitted by each string offered something to Zelda when nothing else would. Sure, she enjoyed the pleasure of reading, but the excruciating studies she was pressured to conduct took away the fulfillment from the words that she engraved in her mind. Every page became a bag of sand that she had to carry, a weight that came with being a descendant of the Goddess. Much to her dismay, Zelda had to accept her destiny. However, that same dreadful destiny began to take a toll on the young princess, little by little draining whatever power she did have.

Tears kissed her cheeks as Zelda strummed on the threads of steel, her mind lingering on her failing sense of duty. What was the point of reading about Hyrule’s history? Why did she have to read about the princesses of the past and their accomplishments? Why did she try praying to the Goddess when she did not even feel Her presence?

Zelda played the first song she had learned, a lullaby passed down through every generation, a song that held such a strong connection to the Hylian royal family. When she played the melody, its tender sounds reached out to her, the melody holding her in its arms. As much as she tried to keep her composure, her fingers began to slip from her as she played a glissando. The melody and bass parts after the strum of all strings became unrecognizable, dissonant. The embrace from the lullaby was lost when she stopped in the middle of the tune, leaving Zelda alone, sitting on the small bench that had sustained her for more than a decade.

Choking on her sobs, Zelda knew that she had to stop relying on the last shimmer of hope that she had preserved for many years. The silence began to suffocate her as Zelda’s mind spun, her mental exhaustion finally catching up to her. The words of her father rang through her mind as she stepped away from the harp. The kingdom of Hyrule depends on you. Your mother and I know you can do it. You just have to keep praying. You have to keep studying. You have to keep trying, Zelda.

The Princess let out a loud sob before she covered her mouth, not wanting to worry the knight that sat intently in the room next door. She was a lost cause, she began to accept. If Hylia did not want to give her a sign of Her blessing, why should Zelda keep trying? Why should she hang on to something that is not there?

~~~

In the room next door, Leon felt his heart ache as he thought about Zelda’s reaction when he returned from his mission. Despite his victory, Zelda’s lips quivered as she took him in, then stomped to her quarters, her hands wiping at her eyes. Now, as he sat in his bedroom, he fought his overbearing urge to burst through the door and console her, but he knew that he placed doubt into Zelda’s mind. Although she never told him this directly, every look she gave him did whenever he received any gratification for fulfilling his duties as the legendary hero. Her eyes held a tinge of jealousy, despite her best efforts to hide it. It pained Leon to see this, so since then, he had avoided glancing at her when receiving his thanks from the inhabitants of Castle Town.

When the sounds of the harp began, Leon faced the door while he sat on his bed, waiting for the moment he had to step in. The divine sounds of the strings carried through the crevice under the door—and he listened. He listened to her as she plucked on the instrument she treasured so dearly, her wordless voice weighing on his heart. He listened as she began to falter, the divinity of the harp becoming riddled with darkness as it consumed her. He winced as his body tensed, his wounds still healing from the mission he had carried out earlier that day.

Then, he heard it. The sound of her desolation was finally vocalized through her cries, serving as a signal for his interception. He cared about how she felt in his presence, he did, but being there for her when she was losing herself was more important. Opening the door carefully, Leon saw the Princess sprawled on her bed, her hand covering her mouth. His stomach dropped at the sight of her misery but he walked to her, watching her curl away from him as he drew nearer.

“Don’t,” she whispered in a croak. He took a seat next to her, his face contorting as he frowned. The Princess sniffed and covered her face with her arm, making sure Leon could not see her in her worst moment. Exhaling through his nose tentatively, he shoved away the thought of leaving her alone and placed his hand on her arm. He heard a small gasp as the Princess raised her head to stare at his hand, his thumb brushing her skin. She remained stunned by his touch until he finally stopped and lifted her chin to face him. Her heart began to hammer in her chest as he wiped away her tears, his heart thundering in his own. 

This shared moment between her shifted the key in which she cried. She still had hints of the dissonance in her heart, but she finally realized that she was missing a string to her own harp. It was in front of her. The melody had turned dark when she began to walk away from him, welcoming the doubt to taint her thoughts. But now that she embraced him, she felt the string of her heart vibrate against his, their melodies intertwining, creating a new melody that served as a barrier from the darkness. Why did she ever hinder the thread that connected them through destiny?

They supported each other in their arms, holding on to what they both believed to be Hylia’s blessing. Leon stroked her long curls as he placed a kiss on her cheek, while Zelda cut away at the weight she had been carrying. She told him of all the doubts she had about herself, her insecurities, her inability to use her power from the Goddess. Leon listened intently, again, as she poured her soul into his, finally repairing what the darkness had broken. How ardently he wished to reassure her with his own words; he felt helpless in his only capability of using his touch to console the Princess.

Zelda placed a hand on Leon’s chest and looked into his sorrowful eyes. She gave him a weak smile and rested her head on his shoulder. She was not sure what his worries were now, but she felt the need to reassure him.

“Thank you, Leon,” she whispered, placing her lips on his chin in a grateful kiss. He smiled in return and tightened his grip on her, not wanting to forget the feeling of her. Their love was shared in their silence as they decided to spend the night together to erase the memories of their time spent apart, creating a new thread that connected them through love.

[thymewayster]

Now that I’ve seen episode 7 and a lot of the writing decisions in this season makes a lot more sense, I think this is the real biggest issue with season 3: We have no idea how Din feels about a lot of things happening to him for most of the season.

Here’s a few moments that should be huge emotional beats but just...aren’t:

The corpse of IG-11 tries to kill Grogu, and Din...gives us a one-liner. Is he upset? Presumably so, but we don’t even see him hurry over to Grogu to check on him if he’s alright, something Din does regularly after saving Grogu from danger in season 1 and 2. Also, we’ve previously seen that IG-11′s sacrifice played a huge role in Din’s evolving attitude towards droids. Did seeing the one droid he trusted revert to its original programming disturb Din? Make him double down on his droidphobia? I don’t know, because we aren’t really shown Din’s reaction/thoughts.

In episode 2, Din bathes in the Living Waters, something he’s been working toward doing since episode 5 of Book of Boba Fett (for two in-universe years if Favroni’s new timeline is to be believed!). In the process of doing so he is nearly killed by a monster and then nearly drowns while he’s in the middle of the actual redemption process. And when he wakes up after nearly drowning...he just says “I am redeemed.” And that’s it. Does he feel any different after performing this sacred ritual? Was this a deeply meaningful moment for him, or a chore he needed to check off his to-do list? Does he have any feelings about the fact that he almost drowned while trying to achieve his redemption? I don’t know, because we aren’t really shown Din’s reaction/thoughts.

Before even landing on Mandalore, Din does have a tender moment where he tells Grogu, and the audience, that despite his entire life being tied so directly to his Mandalorian identity, Din has never actually been to Mandalore. Surely even visiting the planet would be a huge moment. Perhaps a moment to look around, to marvel that he may be the first Mandalorian to set foot on the planet in decades. Does he have any feelings about being on his adopted native planet? Does seeing the ruins of what Mandalore used to be make him want to see it flourish again? I don’t know, because we aren’t really shown Din’s reaction/thoughts. (He just pops out to go check on R5, no reflection whatsoever.)

In episode 4, Din calls Grogu his ward, not his son, despite other characters doing so, despite clearly trying to parent Grogu and teach him, despite other characters having no issues whatsoever referring to their children as their children. Is there a reason why Din, who clearly loves Grogu, who sacrificed everything for him, who was distraught when he made the decision to let Grogu go, refuses to call him his son? Does he perhaps have some kind of trauma surrounding his own father (Mandalorian or birth)? Did he perhaps not have a Mandalorian father but was instead raised communally, and doesn’t really think of himself as a true father? Does he see himself as not worthy enough to be a father? Is his love for Grogu somewhat complicated now, because Grogu is the reason Din lost so much in the first place? Does Din even know that the reason Grogu is with him now is because he chose Din over his Jedi training, and does Din have feelings about that? I don’t know, because we aren’t really shown Din’s reaction/thoughts.

And so on and so forth. Season 3 has been very plot-driven compared to the previous two seasons, which were much more episodic in nature. Din might be wrestling with intense feelings or carefully reconsidering some of his views—on Bo-Katan, on the nature of what it means to be a Mandalorian, on his relationship with Grogu and his covert, on what he should do with the Darksaber—but we never really get any hints of what’s going on his head. Which is why some of his actions and decisions seem to come out of nowhere, such as handing the darksaber to Bo-Katan.

Now, I realize that it’s much easier to know what’s going on in a character’s head in prose than a TV show, but the first two seasons did a much better job of conveying Din’s thoughts and feelings through long pauses, through music cues, through Din’s body language/dialogue to Grogu and others.

Consider this scene in The Sin episode when Din decides to save Grogu:

Din doesn’t say a word in this scene. He doesn’t need to. Thanks to the framing of the shot, the zoom in on his (completely still, motionless helmet!), and the music, we the audience know exactly what he’s thinking, despite not being able to see his facial expression at all!

I could go on with a lot of other scenes. There are lots of moments like this in season 1 and plenty of them in season 2, but because season 3 is so busy cramming in 40-minute sequel-propping Coruscant stories and Bo Katan plot, we have very few of these moments in season 3.

The first time we really get any sort of hint of how Din feels about the major plot of this season involving Bo-Katan and the Darksaber...is his loyalty pledge to Bo in episode 7.

We the audience should know what Din is thinking and feeling about events long before the penultimate episode of the season. That’s why this season has felt so all over the place for a lot of people.

And a lot of these would be fairly easy fixes too that wouldn’t take up much more screentime. A slow camera pan over his helmet as he takes in Mandalore’s landscape. An extra line or two to Bo or Grogu.

(“Ward? Not father?” “I haven’t officially adopted him yet / He is a foundling of the whole covert, not just mine / I’m not really father material / He’s older than me. I can’t be his father / His species is long-lived. I will probably not live to see him swear the Creed (and am thus trying to distance myself to lessen the emotional harm)” or no reply followed by some kind of flashback.)

(”I am redeemed.” “And how do you feel?” “Better. Renewed. Like my armor fits the way it’s supposed to.” “Great. Now can we get out of here?” OR “..I don’t feel any different. Maybe...maybe it’s because I fell in. Maybe I should go in again.” “Absolutely not. You went in, you came out, it’s done. You’re redeemed. We’re going.” “...Yeah. I guess you’re right.”)

The droid knocks the bust on top of IG-11′s corpse, stopping him from killing Grogu. Din holsters his blaster and walks toward Greef and Grogu. “Now that’s using your head...” Greef returns Grogu to Din, who inspects him for injuries. “You okay, kid?" Din looks away from Grogu and the camera pans down to the ruined IG-11. Din holds Grogu tighter.

Imagine, if you will, that after leaving the Mines of Mandalore, Din and Bo-Katan had a thirty-second conversation where Din says that the Darksaber means nothing to him or his people, and points out that since she defeated the creature who defeated him, she should take it now, and Bo-Katan refuses, saying that she hasn’t earned it.  Then a couple episodes later, after Bo’s bonded with the covert and shown her leadership qualities, when the showdown with Axe happens, Din handing Bo-Katan the Darksaber doesn’t seem to come out of nowhere.

Afterward, Bo-Katan could even be like “Why did you give me this? You know I didn’t earn it.” With Din replying “I think you have.” And maybe some of his episode 7 speech here.

All that adds maybe a couple minutes of screentime spread over the entire season, serves both Din’s and Bo’s character development, and clearly communicates to the audience the characters’ thoughts and motivations.

I think there is a good story in season 3. I have enjoyed a lot of moments in this season. After episode 7, I am really excited for episode 8. But in my opinion, the writing for this season, especially before episode 7, is just not executed well. (And while I am enjoying Bo’s development, I miss Din being the main character.)

What's holding Din back?

I sat down to try and write some fic for the new season, but so far, I'm fresh out of ideas for Din... mainly because I'm unclear of what's going on in his head these days.

On the surface, he has everything he could possibly want.

Grogu is back with him! Din was clearly thrilled to have him back in their reunion in TBoBF, and his pride for Grogu shines through in all of their interactions.

He has the Darksaber! It's been liberated from a non-Mandalorian enemy, and is back safely in Mandalorian hands.

With the help of his ally Bo-Katan, he's bathed in the Living Waters of the Mines of Mandalore and been redeemed in the eyes of his people, who have accepted him back with open arms and no further questions on his transgressions. Even better, Bo-Katan has joined his covert as a skilled warrior he respects. The Armorer is treating Grogu as one of their people, and Din is even getting along with Paz Viszla.

So why do things feel off?

Paz Viszla, who has the emotional range of a brick, explains to Din (possibly his least favorite fellow Mandalorian) that the foundling they are seeking to rescue is his son. Bo-Katan calls Din Grogu's Dad in all of their conversations. Grogu is trying his best to learn to talk, and Dad is an extremely reasonable guess for one of his first words.

Din... calls himself Grogu's ward. Not his dad, his guardian, his father. Just ward, an archaic word for protection. Grogu is a foundling. Not his foundling.

Why?

And why does he struggle so badly with the Darksaber? We've only seen him use it a few times; the only time that barely approached competence was when he used it on Tatooine, but even on sacred Mandalore itself, his mind focused on redemption and the history of his people, it would not obey him. The Armorer told him the Darksaber responds to his mind and its distractions. Why would he be distracted then, on his path to achieve his goal to honor his Mandalorian culture? Will we see next week that he's suddenly super proficient with it? It's possible, but I doubt it -- otherwise, why make such a big deal of his incredible skill in other areas contrasted with his clumsiness with the Darksaber? I really hope they're going somewhere interesting with this.

...Just like I wish this meta was going somewhere. But I can't get it there because I genuinely don't know what's wrong with him. Why can't he claim Grogu as his own after everything? Is that why he struggles with the Darksaber, because he's not accepting fatherhood? Why wouldn't he? Fear, memories of trauma... what could it be?

Talk me through it, folks. Reblog with your theories or ideas and help me figure this out!

(Of course, bad or inconsistent writing could certainly be the explanation for all of this, it is Star Wars after all and we all know it ain't that deep. But for the sake of argument, let's pretend that's off the table, haha!)

[luuurien]

Daniel Avery - Ultra Truth

(Progressive Breaks, Ambient Techno, Atmospheric Drum and Bass)

Darker, richer, and lovelier than ever before, Daniel Avery's new album pushes him into colder emotional territory while holding tight to his moody, colorful ambient techno. The results are nothing short of marvelous.

☆☆☆☆½

If last year's Together in Static was a glorious embrace of reunion, Ultra Truth looks squarely into the dark corners behind that embrace. First teased back in 2020 with the single Lone Swordsman that never made its way onto Together in Static, Avery's latest album is both his most immersive project and his darkest to date, dropping the optimistic haze that hung over his previous few records in favor of glossy techno with unsettling textures and dimly-lit atmospheres, minimalist in its composition yet expanding his songs until they become nothing more than smoke in the air. Ultra Truth lingers with a sense of doom and defeat, but it's Avery's cathartic jungle tunes and groovy drum 'n' bass that holds the album just inches above the depths, a constant balancing act of despair and elegant electronica forming one of the year's most wondrous albums, and a landmark in Avery's discography at that. Avery had one guiding mantra throughout the entirety of making Ultra Truth: "Let’s fray every edge and make it sound like it’s fully alive," and his constant pursuit of that gives the album's moody alien edge a tinge of pure human excitement. Put together with a handful of other collaborators, Ultra Truth takes on a connectivity and wholeness even his previous starry-eyed techno couldn't match, Sophie Hutchings' piano loop that opens up the album on New Faith chopped and distorted with a level of warped ambient bliss Basinki would adore and first half highlight Only sounding like a lost Portishead track dug out from the bottom of an oil vat as he blankets Jonnine Standish's sensitive vocals in light reverb while every bass drum hit and new synth pad causes the edges of the mix to crumble just a little bit more. He pays homage to his influences more overtly than usual, too, Avery's love of Aphex Twin immortalized in the blissful techno title track or Lone Swordsman's dreamy IDM and My Bloody Valentine's shoegaze sound walls sneaking their way into Devotion and Higher, heavier than normal atmospheres brought to Avery's speedy jungle tunes but a beautiful marrying of styles nonetheless. These songs aren't bleak so much as they are explorations of contrast and distance, warm synthesizers and energetic drum breaks supplemented by reserved vocal performances and tender ambient interludes that make Ultra Truth both Avery's broadest and most artistically refined project yet. Like many other albums to come out in the past few years, the lasting effects of the pandemic and its lockdowns position Ultra Truth to take on feelings of isolation the last decade spent touring around the world never afforded him. The album's ambient portions are the clearest example of this, manipulating wind instrument samples into cold windy expanses (Ache) or slowing morphing misty synth pads into an acidic river of distortion and compression (The Slow Bullet), but even the traditional techno tracks have an air of loneliness to them, Collapsing Sky's heavenly 5/4 waltz weighted with gleaming, near-orchestral synthesizers that marries a buoyant groove with teary instrumentation, while the subtleties of something like Chaos Energy's flashy progressive breaks - courtesy of HAAi and Kelly Lee Owens' work on the track as well - emphasize Avery's ability to make even the sweetest moments pang with a sense of sentimentality and loss, the time he'd spent looking inward over the past few years pushing him to realize not only personal struggles he'd been avoiding but how his music is inextricably tied to it ("With that came the realization that it was not the touring that was making me happy... but that I was still able to make music. It was that that made me happy, and always has done.”), Ultra Truth a sublime navigation of mental noise and direct confrontation of Avery's personal battles without sacrificing any of the foundational elements he uses to make his music so incredibly special. He's pushed into a new place, but there's something so immediately familiar about it that Ultra Truth feels both emotionally uneasy and completely at home. The dichotomy between heartfelt electronica and angular emotions that guide it makes Ultra Truth a fantastically structured, deeply layered and marvelous step forward for Avery, pushing him into murky waters and testing his abilities to light it all up with the most wondrous colors he can find, every synth pad and rumbling techno groove aiming to glow brighter than the ones that came before it as he reaches the farthest edges of futuristic breakbeat and jungle. It's as much a diversion in his discography as it is a new peak in his discography, a masterful change of pace he uses not only to show off his skills as a producer but as a sound designer as well, toying with unusual effects and inventive sample manipulation to breathe new life into well-known instruments in a way only his past experience in the world of ethereal techno could bring. Ultra Truth is exactly what its name suggests, and that's exactly why its ambitious concept succeeds on every level.

[sendme-2hell]

Ranking the HOTD episodes by how gay they are

10. Episode 3. really very little happened except Rhaenrya and Alicent having their gay little fight in the godswood 5/10

9. Episode 5 this episode isn’t super heavy on Alicent/Rhaenrya other than Alicent having her big green dress moment and angrily calling Rhaenrya “stepdaughter”. But it DOES introduce a very important gay couple: Laenor and Joffrey. If this episode hadn’t violently murdered joffrey in a way that diverged from F&B and made it MORE traumatic for Laenor, making him get married in the same building his love was murdered in, hours afterwards, I would give it more points for having a canon gay couple. I’m not over the change however. I still don’t understand how Criston got away with that .10/10 for joffrey and Laenor before the end of the episode -10/10 after the ending

8. Episode 2. This episode was also homophobic bc Alicent got engaged to Viserys. But it did have a scene of Alicent comforting Rhaenrya in the crypt, which 1) shows Alicent is religious 2) is the beginning of the holding hands motif 3) was sweet 4) also a parallel to them sitting at the table in episode 8 with the candles 5) highlights how they are both two young women who have lost their mothers and neither of them should be anywhere near a certain two targaryen brothers😔 6/10

7. Episode 6. This episode was important because it introduced Emma D’Arcy and Olivia Cooke. And the question on everyone’s (my) mind was: now that the younger actors are being replaced, will the homoerotic subtext remain? And the answer is a resounding yes. Episode 6 was an experiment to see how much gay tension you could fit in one small council scene. Alicent was really mean to Rhaenrya in this episode and also accidentally asked for the murder of her baby daddy but I still call it a win 8/10

6. Episode 1. I rememeber having extremely low expectations for HOTD due to GOT disappointment but after watching the first episode there was only one question on my mind: did they add lesbians to game of thrones? Even my extremely straight friend texted me to ask if I thought Alicent and Rhaenrya seemed a little bit in love. 10/10

5. Episode 7. The entire knife scene is one of the best on the show. And really showcased a breaking point in Rhaenrya and Alicent’s relationship. The rituals were intricate I fear. Also Alicent called Rhaenrya’s feet pretty. oops. This is also the episode that Laenor and Quarl avoid death and HBO avoids the #buryyourgays accusation so I’m happy for them 9/10

4. Episode 9. In this episode Otto calls Alicent gay to her face, and Alicent loses her shit at the mention of murdering Rhaenrya. It lays it out for us that Alicent cares a lot about Rhaenrya and it’s messing with Otto’s plans. But also Alicent crowning Aegon is not gonna help her pull Rhaenrya. 9/10

3. Episode 10. In this episode Otto recovers and finds a way to use his daughter’s inconvenient lesbianism to his advantage. Is it gay to keep a ripped out piece of paper your ex-homoerotic bestie-now-enemy gave you decades ago? Is it gay to receive this piece of paper and shed a singular angry tear? The way that Rhaenrya says “Alicent…. asked …..you to …declare ….for Aegon” is the second most heartbreaking line delivery on the show, right after “he is your son, Viserys”. Clearly Rhaenyra cared about Alicent. 10/10

2. Episode 4. First of all this episode contains possibly the gayest scenes in the whole show, when Alicent and Rhaenrya are sitting on the bench. Rhaenyra apologizes to Alicent and says she missed her too and grabs her hand. In interviews, Milly Alcock and Emily Carey said they thought they were gonna kiss and reader, I did too. This scene of almost reconnection is so tender and heartbreaking and it adds to the hand motif these girls got going. But second of all, the way that Alicent reacts to rumors of Rhaenrya fucking daemon. I’m sorry there is no heterosexual explanation for HOW upset she is. None at all. 11/10

1. Episode 8. Rhaenyra and Alicent giving forgiveness toasts. Rhaenrya and Alicent staring at each other while pretending to stare at Viserys. But most of all, Alicent begging Rhaenrya to stay and giving her a death grip and Rhaenrya gently reciprocating as she promises to return, even though I think in some way they both know that if she leaves their tenuous reconciliation will not last. Every time I see a gif of that grip I go feral. All of the shots of their hands touching in episode 1,2,4,7 for it to culminate in this shot of them desperate to find each other again. 100/10

[its-a-hot-girl-thing]

Antología | Bruno Madrigal x Reader

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

Slightly based on Antología by Shakira 

Summary: Years before disappearing, Bruno and (Y/N) had an ephemeral romance that ended unexpectedly by the tragic whim of fate. 

"How foolish of me to think you could be mine, when you're the light and I'm the eternal night.” 

He saw her talking to Julieta near where the entrance was being built, handing her two baskets full of food as she smiled gently, air moving her skirt like butterfly wings. For a moment, as his sister took the baskets, he believed to be hallucinating, that she was just the ghost of a worn-out memory after a decade of playing it over and over again in his head out of pure masochism. 

“Ah, (Y/N)” Julieta stopped as she turned to leave. “You probably already heard from the neighbours, but Bruno came back. Well, he never actually left, but it's a long story... "

She had stopped hearing the woman the moment she mentioned his name, surprised to hear someone pronounce it after so many years in exile. A dozen emotions flood her body, leaving her dismayed and lost, not quite sure how to react. It's as if she had been awakened from a profound sleep because her heart starts beating vehemently against her chest, pumping blood to her cheeks to tint them with a slight pink hue, her brain going so fast not even she understands what's happening. 

<I'm dreaming> she thought, it wouldn't be the first time. She pinches her wrist, but Julieta's still there, telling her something she can't hear thanks to the commotion a simple name caused in her insides: happiness, delight, guilt, despair, anger, and so much more piles up in her chest. She wanted to see him, hug him, kiss him, tell him how much she had missed him and how sorry she was for not arriving that night. And it's precisely the memory of that night that makes her smile fade and her face go pale, a hole replacing the butterflies in her stomach. 

"Let me go look for him, I saw him with Luisa a few minutes ago." Julieta turns around, but the man had run to hide already. 

"I have to go, I left the children alone." It was a lie, Amparo, her sister, had stayed at home with her husband to look after them. 

Heart racing, she turned around and nearly ran downhill, leaving Julieta confused and puzzled: She'd expected another response given the way she had reacted years ago when she found out about the disappearance of the youngest triplet. 

<He hates me> she kept repeating as she walked between the townspeople <He hates me more than anything>. She had learned to live with that thought over time, but it was one thing to suspect and another to confirm. There was nothing she wanted more in the world than to see him, but she didn't think she could bear his disdain and rejection; she'd rather die before seeing the slightest hint of resentment in his eyes.

<She hates me> Bruno torments himself with made-up scenarios. <She hates me as I've never been hated before, and that's saying a lot.> Had she received his farewell letter? And even if she did, would it make any difference? He'd left her with little to no explanation, the only person who saw him with tender eyes and not as a bad omen, she who had dared to defy reason to devote herself in heart, mind and body to him, to whom he vowed marriage... To ultimately disappoint her like he did with everyone else.

He didn't deserve to see her, (Y/N) probably didn't want to either, and he could live with the hatred of the entire Encanto - with being perceived as a cold and calculating monster - but not hers. Bruno wasn't strong enough to look her in the eyes, once burning with love for him, and only find rage and repulsion.

Their minds went back to the first day, eleven years ago, when their lives crossed at the same place that now lies in ruins behind them.

<I'm sorry for falling in love with you, mi Mariposita> Said his last letter. <You deserve better than me>

And as she disappeared between the houses and the crowd, his words seemed truer than ever to him. 

[inkandguns]

Jon Hamm is actually not drinking from a period correct bottle here. They’ve tried to modify a new bottle to look like the classic. They’ve modified the bottle a few times over the years - they used to have a raised glass logo for the year and now it’s a sticker.

Many years ago I got a period correct bottle of CC from my friend’s dad. He was a Vietnam veteran helicopter pilot and he had a Knack box of liquor bottles in the basement. If we were good, and didn’t pilfer any liquor or stink up his basement like weed too much, he would give each of us a bottle from the box at Christmas.

He has lost an eye, although it was not in the war. So naturally we called him, “The Pirate”. The first year I partook in this holiday tradition I was homeless and living in the forest and my vehicle. So a nice warm Polish dinner, too many shots of vodka, and a few extra pierogi’s later, the Pirate and I were peering in to the Knack box.

There were liquor bottles everywhere, stacked in top of each other. The liquor stash this man had was truly incredible. There were Bacardi bottles from every decade, vodkas that I couldn’t even read the label on, and I saw a few bottles of moonshine from our other friends grandfathers collection - their hand drawn and water colored labels were one of a kind (god bless the Italians).

I peered in to the liquor trove looking for a great bottle of whisky or any bottle of Ouzo that I could find. I had not known the Pirate for very long but I had the sense that he would have one of these. I knew he wouldn’t let me rummage forever (he had his own holiday drinking to get back to), so I frantically turned over bottles looking for The One.

Stuck to the bottom of the Knack box in the back corner was a dark brown and gold bottle of 1960’s Canadian Club Whisky. I remember taking it home with me and not wanting to open it. But at the time I was drinking 3 bottles a week and almost 5 during the holidays.

I doesn’t savor that bottle at all. I shared as much as I could with my friends - at least the ones who still tolerated doing shots of CC with me. Sometimes I think about that bottle and wish that I would have kept it. I’ll always treasure the memories of those Christmases past, and that one was one of my all time favorites. I’m happy to have the memory instead of the bottle.

PS:

Years later I returned to Illinois to see my friend, the son of the Pirate. His dad had passed from cancer that year and the loss hit him and his mom hard. He had come to visit me in Colorado that year and I knew something was off but I just couldn’t tell what it was. My buddy is kind of a weirdo. When I returned to Chicago he told me his father had passed and I was kind of shocked. The Pirate was a man that seemed like he would live forever. His decline was sudden and his death peaceful so I was happy to hear that.

But in one of the most tender moments I have ever experienced, my buddy told me, “dad thought you were a hard motherfucker for picking that bottle of Canadian Club”.

Pendleton, Suntory, and Canadian Club are easily my favorite whiskys

If I ever take up the alcohol habit seriously again it will be with whisky. I feel like everything else is just fuckin’ around drinking.

[the-scandalorian]

Tempered Glass: Chapter 5

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader Rating: M (will become explicit) Word Count: 6.4k Warnings: canon rewrite, slow burn, canon-typical violence, sexual harassment/unwanted sexual advances, cursing, sexy thoughts, pining Summary: When you’re caught in a firefight with a bounty hunter and the Crest is damaged, you and Mando stop on Tatooine to find a job. A shadow of your past catches up with you. Notes: Sorry not sorry for making Toro even worse than he already is. Taglist: @bbdoyouloveme @beskarhearts @dincrypt @dunderr @honey-hi​ @just-me-and-my-obsessions00 @mbpokemonrulez @red-leaders @speakerforthedead0 @theflightytemptressadventure @zoemariefit

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Image from The Art of Star Wars: The Mandalorian

After leaving Sorgan, you and Mando chose a second “backwater skughole” several systems away as your next destination. Mando set the nav, and the automated voice of the computer informed you that the trip would take almost five days. The thought of spending five days confined to the Crest was not appealing, but you knew it was important to keep your stops as remote as possible.

Time was a functionally meaningless concept in space anyways, hours and days bleeding together. Without the usual environmental cues to govern your circadian rhythm, you had to rely on a schedule to maintain some semblance of normalcy, keeping alarms on your chrono to remind you when to sleep. Mando, on the other hand, seemed so completely accustomed to this slippery sense of time that he needed no reminders; this was natural for him.

If you hadn’t already seen some of his skin, you might actually think he was a droid. Aside from his hard metal exterior, the most compelling piece of evidence to support this theory was the fact that he didn’t seem to need much sleep. He disappeared into his bunk for maybe four or five hours a day, plus twenty minutes here or there to eat. You suspected he settled into a half-asleep, half-awake hibernation mode when he sat in the pilot’s seat for hours at a time without moving. Once, he jolted so violently when the child sneezed that he had to catch him by his collar before he slid off his knee.

His relationship with the kid, though, was achingly, heartwarmingly, vulnerably human.

You lived for the glimpses of their bond—the way Mando would remove a single pauldron so he could rest the child’s head on his shoulder to lull him to sleep, whispering to him as he swayed gently. When the kid was restless and energetic from being cooped up, Mando would roll the little silver sphere from a control in the cockpit along the floor of the hull for him to chase. For a generally impatient man, his patience for the child seemed almost inexhaustible; he would hold him and pat his back endlessly while he wailed his way through particularly bad tantrums.

You collected these precious moments and held them close to your heart, unwittingly creating a catalog of comfort that you’d return to later. They weren’t necessarily your moments to claim, as a visitor in their world, but you treasured them nonetheless.

***

You were out of colored contacts. You could only wear each pair continuously for a month, and your current pair was due to be switched out any day. The morning you threw them away, Mando stopped you as you passed him in the hull with a light hand on your shoulder. The kid was tucked in his other arm.

He stepped in front of you, just inches away from your chest, tilting his helmet down to look at you. You looked up to meet his gaze, puzzled. He cocked his head, a silent question.

Not for the first time, you wondered about the color of his eyes.

You held your breath, unsure of what he was going to do.

He said nothing but brought his gloved hand up to your face, running this thumb along the crest of your cheek—so lightly, the leather was barely touching you. The tender gesture brought goose bumps to your arms, and your heart stuttered in your chest.

The kid reached up a tiny hand toward your other cheek, mirroring Mando’s movement. He babbled quietly, breaking the tense silence. You flicked your eyes down to watch him but remained still, not wanting to disrupt the spell of the moment. The baby wiggled his fingers and whined when he realized he couldn’t reach you. You smiled.

You looked back up into Mando’s visor. You wanted so badly to reach out and touch him back, to pull him closer, but you let fear keep you rooted to the spot.

To your astonishment, he dipped his helmet, as if he was going to lean his forehead against yours. He was inches from your face—you could see your surprise reflected in his visor and hear his steady breathing through the modulator. But Mando seemed to change his mind mid-gesture, and the moment was over before you knew it. He straightened, dropped his hand, nodded stiffly, and stepped past you. The child let out a frustrated cry in protest.

Without the kid’s lingering whines, you might have thought you imagined the whole thing.

Little by little, you were revealing your real self to the Mandalorian, placing your safety in his hands. This would have been harder to stomach if you weren’t getting pieces of him in return. Spending this much time in such close quarters with someone—even someone as closed off as Mando—was enough to get to know them fairly well.

For instance, you weren’t quite fluent, but you were getting really good at reading his body language. He relied on his armor to mask his intentions with strangers, and he wasn’t accustomed to people spending extended amounts of time with him—time to learn his patterns and tells. Over time, it became apparent just how many minute things there were to unpack: subtle tensions in his back and shoulders, clenching of his fists, tapping of his fingers, the lean in his hips, audible inhales or exhales, the tilt of his helmet. Plus, there were nuanced flavors of each movement: a sassy head tilt, an angry head tilt, a confused head tilt. Soon enough, you’d be able to create a dictionary of the Mandalorian’s body language. 

It was strange to think that you’d only been with him for a few weeks, and you might be the only person in the galaxy who could read him so well.

Something else you’d come to learn about Mando was that he was very particular about where his things were kept. This made sense—he’d clearly been living alone for years, if not decades. Of course someone with such a nomadic, unsettled lifestyle would want to carefully control what little in his environment that he could, but his compulsive organization was next level.

You came to this conclusion after you scooted his toothbrush and toothpaste over just slightly in the med cabinet to make a space for yours. The next morning, you opened the cabinet to find his things exactly where they had been before you’d moved them. You looked down to see that yours were sitting precariously on the edge of the sink, waiting to fall to the floor at the first sign of turbulence. Seriously?

That inspired you to devise a fun game—well, it was fun for you. You were pretty sure Mando hated it, though to his credit, he didn’t say anything about it for several days. Every day, you’d move one of his items just slightly to see if he’d notice and move it back. So far, he’d caught every tiny adjustment. He even reoriented his bar of soap when you moved it so it sat slightly off-kilter in its dish in the shower. He hadn’t even showered yet that day.

After three days, he finally cracked.

He was digging through a storage compartment, huffing dramatically though his modulator as he searched for something.

“I can’t imagine you’ve lost something,” you said, from where you were sitting on a crate sharing a ration pack with the kid, who was perched on your lap. “Not with how terrifyingly organized you are.”

“Yeah, well, that was only true before you started moving my stuff around.” 

You grinned. “I was wondering when you were going to say something.”

“I was wondering when you were going to stop,” he huffed, but you detected the lightest trace of amusement in his tone.

“I haven’t actually moved anything,” you laughed. “Just... adjusted.”

He harrumphed, still digging around in the box.

The kid chittered and reached toward your hand for more food. You gave him another piece.

“If you let me leave my toothbrush and toothpaste in the med cabinet, I’ll stop.”

He looked up. “That’s it?”

“I’m a reasonable woman.”

“Deal.”

When you went to brush your teeth that night, one of the three shelves in the med cabinet had been completely cleared for you.

As you slowly began to insinuate yourself into Mando and the kid’s life, the guilt of not telling him about the bounty on your head started to weigh heavier on your mind. He deserved to know, but you couldn’t imagine him letting you stay if he found out. Why would he assume any extra risk? I’ll tell him soon. We probably won’t be together much longer anyways.

***

“I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold.”

The unfamiliar voice of the bounty hunter echoed over the com in the cockpit. A ship was hot on your tail, landing several shots that rattled the Crest violently. The child, who was strapped into the seat beside you, seemed to enjoy the excitement of the chase, arms raised and giggling. Mando maneuvered the Crest quickly and deftly, so the pursuer was suddenly directly in front of the viewport.

“That’s my line,” he said dramatically, as he pulled the trigger and obliterated the ship in his sights.

Despite the fact that your heart was pounding in your chest, you couldn’t help but let out an exasperated laugh at that. 

The chase had been short-lived, but the hunter had managed to inflict some serious damage. Alarms beeped and warning lights flashed along the console.

“Losing fuel,” said Mando. He was working hastily, his hands flying from one control to the next. He was trying to address several warning alarms at once.

“You work on that. I got this,” you said, unbuckling.

You stood next to him, attending to the controls in front of you.

“What are—Don’t do that,” he said, “Stop. I need to—”

He didn’t finish his sentence when he realized you were doing exactly what needed to be done to stabilize the ship.

“I thought you said you worked in programming.”

“I did. Mostly avionics.”

The second thruster sputtered and died. The cockpit went dark. All of the usual mechanical sounds that the ship made whirred to a halt. Mando turned in surprise, looking around. He clicked a few buttons. Nothing happened.

The child giggled from his seat.

“I’ll get it.” You walked to the back of the cockpit and wrenched open a panel to do a manual reset of the controls. Some of the lights came back on. Mando flicked several switches, and the displays came alive.

Together, you got the ship in good enough shape to limp to a nearby planet. Luckily, you were already close to Tatooine. The Razor Crest rattled alarmingly as it cleared the atmosphere, and Mando landed the ship with an unceremonious clunk in a bay in Mos Eisley.

Mando left the now sleeping baby in his bunk, despite your objections. That never works. He walked down the ramp to haggle with the mechanic.

Peli was a gruff woman, sassy and straightforward. You liked her right away. Mando deserved the sass Peli dished out, considering he had begun their interaction by shooting at her pit droids when they tried to approach the Crest.

He really hates droids.

You and Mando headed to the cantina to inquire about work. As soon as the ship went dead, you’d both known you’d need to pull a job to pay to fix the damage because there was no way the Crest was making it to your destination in its current state.

You trailed a few steps behind him, watching the intimidating way he stalked down the sandy street, his cape billowing behind him. He seemed less scary now that you knew he secretly had a sense of humor and an occasional flair for the dramatic. And that he once let you sleep on his shoulder. And tied your shoe for you.

When you entered the cantina, you shivered from the abrupt change in temperature. Outside the twin suns beat down; inside the dark cantina, it was cool.

Mando strode up to the bar. You followed him, taking in your surroundings.

“Hey, droid. I’m a hunter. I’m looking for some work.”

“Unfortunately, the Bounty Guild no longer operates from Tatooine,” replied the droid in a stilted voice.

“It doesn’t have to be Guild work,” you clarified.

“I am afraid that does not improve your situation, at least by my calculation,” said the droid, continuing to wipe down the surface of the bar with a rag.

“Think again, tin can,” interrupted a smug voice behind you. You and Mando turned.

A young man, his legs propped brazenly on the table in front of him, continued, “If you’re looking for work, have a seat, my friends.” He gestured to the seats across from him.

“Name’s Toro, Toro Calican. Come on, relax.” He beckoned for you to join him again.

You and Mando exchanged a look and walked over to where he was seated.

Toro swung his legs off the table and slapped a bounty puck down in front of him as you slid into the booth and Mando followed.

“Picked up this bounty punk before I left the Mid Rim,” Toro explained. The hazy image of a woman with dark hair hovered over the puck. “Fennec Shand, an Assassin. Heard she’s been on the run ever since the New Republic put all her employers in lockdown.”

Toro had thick brown hair and dark eyes, a boyish face despite the scruff of five-o’clock shadow on his jaw. He couldn’t be older than 25.

“I’ve heard the name,” said Mando.

You nodded beside him. Fennec Shand was a legend. Having been chased by enough hunters, you were familiar with the big players.

“Yeah, well, I followed this tracking fob here. Now the positional data suggests she’s headed out beyond the Dune Sea. Should be an easy job.” He shrugged.

This kid clearly has no idea what he’s doing.

“Well, good luck with that,” said Mando, standing up. You stayed where you were, relaxed against the back of the booth.

“Wait, wait, wait, hey. I thought you needed work?” Toro looked from Mando to you, confused.

“How long you been with the Guild?” asked Mando.

“Long enough,” Toro spat unconvincingly.

“Clearly not. Fennec Shand is an elite mercenary. She made her name killing for all the top crime syndicates, including the Hutts. If you go after her, you won’t make it past sunrise.”

Mando looked at you and jerked his head to signal that it was time to go. He started to walk away. You stayed seated, saying nothing.

Toro looked at you, pleading. You nodded toward Mando: “You’ll have to convince him.”

Toro scrambled after him. Mando turned to face him, and Toro had to look up to meet his visor.

“This is my first job,” he admitted in a strained voice. “You guys can keep the money, all of it. I just need this job to get into the Guild. I can’t do it alone.”

Mando looked to you. You smiled knowingly, and he let out a sigh and nodded.

The man cannot say no to someone who needs help.

Toro was visibly relieved.

“Meet us at hangar three-five in half an hour. Bring three speeder bikes and give me the tracking fob,” instructed Mando, holding out a hand.

Toro’s shoulders pulled together. Someone doesn’t want to let go of the fob.

Without any warning, he smashed the fob on the wall. It sparked.

Mando gave Toro his angry head tilt.

“Don’t worry, got it all memorized,” assured Toro, tapping a finger on his temple.

“Half an hour,” growled Mando.

“Looks like you’re stuck with me now, guys,” Toro said triumphantly, turning to look at you.

Mando pushed past Toro and walked back to the booth, leaning down toward you. “I am not that predictable,” he muttered in a low, irritated voice.

“You really are,” you smiled up at him. “I’ll meet you at the hangar in 20. I want real food.”

He nodded and left.

Toro looked very pleased with himself, grinning at you.

“You better go track down those bikes,” you reminded him, gesturing for a droid to come take your order.

Toro ignored your advice. Instead, he looked you up and down in a way that made your skin crawl and slid back into the booth across from you.

“You know what? I have an even better idea. Me and you can take Fennec ourselves. You look like a girl who can handle herself. Let’s ditch that rusty bucket right now and do this together. Fewer people to split the reward.” His eyes sparkled.

Is he fucking serious?

You already weren’t a huge fan of Toro and his cocky attitude, but the minute he called you “girl” like that, your regard for him plummeted. What little patience you had for this kid was wearing thin.

“Not interested.”

The droid came over, and you placed your order.

Toro, still looking at you expectantly, scooted around the table to sit next to you, and you moved in the opposite direction to maintain the distance between you.

“Mando is old, you know? I don’t know if you can tell, but I can. That’s an old man under that shiny armor. You look like you need someone younger to keep up with you.” He winked conspiratorially, as if the two of you were sharing a mutual joke.

You watched him through narrowed eyes, a sour feeling settling in your stomach.

He was clearly terrible at reading people because he responded to your disgusted look by reaching over to run a heavy hand along the inside of your thigh. He barely made it an inch past your knee when you ripped his hand off your leg, tightening your fingers around his wrist until your nails dug into his skin.

“Touch me again and lose a hand,” you spat at him, releasing him and pushing up from the table. You wrapped your fingers around the hilt of the blade at your hip.

“Whoa, whoa! I was just being friendly, sweetheart,” he said loudly, holding his hands up in mock surrender. He looked around at the other patrons as if seeking outside confirmation that you were the one who was being unreasonable in this situation.

“You should leave.”

“I was obviously kidding about ditching Mando,” said Toro, shaking his head. “You really need to lighten up.” He didn’t even have the decency to look abashed.

You spared him a biting response, fixing him with a glare instead.

“I’ll go find those bikes.” He stood to leave, purposefully brushing past your shoulder as he went.

***

After finishing your meal, you stalked out of the cantina and back to the terminal to find Mando.

He was sitting at the top of the ramp of the Crest fiddling with an open control panel in the wall. He looked up to nod at you when he heard you approach.

“I don’t like that kid, Mando. I don’t trust him. I don’t think we should do this.” You stopped in front of him and put your hands on your hips.

“I know. He’s inexperienced, but he’s harmless.”

“No, that’s what I’m saying—he’s not harmless.”

“What did he say to you?” Mando continued working on the open control panel, only vaguely listening to you.

“He tried to talk me into ditching you and teaming up with him, so we didn’t have to split the reward three ways... He also hit on me.” You added the last part as an afterthought and grimaced at the memory of his gross hand on your thigh.

His head snapped up to look at you. “He—what?”

You looked at him, waiting for him to verbalize a more coherent question. You weren’t sure which part of what you’d shared horrified him the most.

“I—what—uh, yeah, I know... I don’t trust him either,” he continued, “but there are two of us and only one of him. We need the credits—and we’ll get the full reward, like he agreed, whether he likes it or not. We’re not going to find many other jobs here, and I don’t think he’s smart enough to pull anything.”

“I guess,” you shrugged. Toro doesn’t seem capable of critical thinking, let alone concocting and carrying out an elaborate scheme. The bounty was too high and other jobs too scarce to resist.

“We’ll keep a close eye on him. Let’s just finish this job quickly, and then you, me, and the kid can move on.”

“Okay,” you agreed, reluctantly. The way he emphasized the fact that you and him and the kid were a team was an obvious attempt to quell your worries. And it did. Mostly. It was a little startling how well he knew you already.

“Where’s the baby?” you asked, suddenly realizing the door to his bunk was open, and it was empty.

“He left the ship, and Peli found him. She agreed to take care of him while we do this job.”

Again, here he is, trusting a complete stranger.

“I told you he never stays put,” you scowled.

“Don’t worry, Peli already gave me an earful about how much I don’t know about kids.” He sounded defeated, so you decided not to pile on.

“You’re doing a good job, you know. The kid really loves you.”

He seemed surprised by your sincerity, his shoulders pulling back slightly. “I’m not, but thanks.”

It hurt your heart a little to hear him say that. 

***

When you left the terminal fifteen minutes later, Toro was outside, leaning against one of two speeder bikes with a cocky smile on his face.

Peli, who was holding the kid and arguing with Mando about payment, stood in the doorway to see you off. You caught the curious look that Toro gave the baby in Peli’s arms.

“Hey, what do you think? Not too shabby, huh? I could only track down two. You guys will have to share,” Toro said.

You and Mando looked at each other. Mando started to inspect the bike closest to you. Before he could beat you to it, you threw a leg over the speeder bike and sat down at the front of the seat.

“What are you doing?” Mando asked you.

“Driving,” you said, shrugging and reaching into your bag. You pulled on a pair of googles and wrapped a scarf around your nose and mouth. You secured your bag on the back of the bike.

When you noticed that Mando had made no move to join you, you looked at him and tipped your head back toward the seat behind you. “Let’s go.”

You could tell by the resigned drop in his shoulders that he knew it would be more work to try to convince you to scoot back than was worth it. He climbed on the speeder behind you, crowding you forward and reaching his long arms around you to grab the controls.

“Nope. Nice try,” you said, slapping his gloved hands away and grasping the controls yourself.

He sighed and wrapped his arms around your middle. You hoped he didn’t notice the goose bumps that appeared on your neck when he touched you. It was way too warm out under the two blazing suns to explain them away.

You jerked your wrists down and leaned forward to take off across the open sand, not waiting for Toro to mount his speeder.

“What the hell??” he yelled after you.

He caught up after a few moments.

After awhile, you let yourself relax back against Mando’s chest, and you smiled to yourself when he tightened his arms around you. 

The suns slipped lower in the sky as you coasted over the shifting surface of the Dune Sea.

***

You and Toro slowed your bikes to a halt when Mando released your waist to hold up a fist.

“What’s going on?” asked Toro.

“Look. Up ahead,” The rasp of Mando’s modulator in your ear and the concurrent rumble in his chest made you shiver, so you hastily hopped off the bike.

Mando stayed seated while you and Toro each pulled out a set of binocs to scan the landscape. Neither of you had the heightened vision that Mando’s helmet afforded him.

Through your binocs, you spotted two Tusken raiders standing beside two very hairy Banthas a short distance ahead. You lowered your binocs and scanned the immediate area.

“Tusken raiders. I heard the locals talking about this filth,” spat Toro, who was still watching them through his binocs.

You stepped back toward the bike as two Tuskens crested the hill you were on. Mando reached out a hand to grab your wrist, squeezing gently. You looked at him, and he nodded reassuringly.

“Tuskens think they’re the locals,” Mando said coolly, turning back to Toro. “Everyone else is just trespassing.”

“Well, whatever they call themselves, they best keep their distance,” Toro remarked.

“Yeah? Why don’t you tell them yourself?” asked Mando.

You grinned. There’s that flair for the dramatic.

Toro turned, and the two Tuskens screeched at him. You laughed at the way Toro positively jumped. Mando stood, raising a calming hand toward Toro, and told him to relax. You followed him as he approached the Tuskens and started gesturing to them, clearly proficient in their sign-based language.

Mando’s hands moved smoothly though deft, controlled movements. You looked down and bit your lip, trying to focus on twisting the toe of your boot back and forth in the sand to prevent your mind from wandering somewhere less appropriate.

“What are you doing?” Toro asked Mando.

“Negotiating.”

The Tuskens signed back to Mando.

“What’s going on?” asked Toro.

“We need passage across their land.”

“What did you think he meant by “negotiating”?” you said, raising your eyebrows at Toro.

“Let me see your binocs,” said Mando, holding out a hand to Toro.

“Why?”

Mando said nothing but kept his hand out, waiting. The two suns, now low in the sky, reflected brightly off his helmet. Toro handed them over begrudgingly, and Mando tossed them to the Tuskens. The Tuskens looked satisfied with their payment.

“He—hey! What? Those were brand new!” stuttered Toro in surprise.

“Yeah? They were.” Mando stalked away and remounted the speeder bike. You followed him.

And there’s that sense of humor. It’s sassy.

“You couldn’t have taken hers instead?” Toro asked, nodding at you.

“Nope,” said Mando.

You smiled sweetly at Toro as Mando scooted back in the seat and let you climb on in front of him.

***

The next time you stopped more abruptly. Mando raised his fist and barked, “Get down!”

You and Mando sprang off your bike in unison and crouched down. Toro, struggling to keep up with what was happening, fumbled with his goggles before following suit.

The three of you made your way to the edge of the dune in front of you, staying low. You set yourselves up on your stomachs at the top of the rise. Not far below, a dewback trudged forward slowly with what looked like a dead rider trailing after it, a rein wrapped around the figure’s limp ankle.

“Is that her? Is that the target?” asked Toro.

“I don’t know... I’ll go.” He looked at you to say, “You two cover me.”

You nodded.

He looked at Toro to emphasize, “Stay down.”

You and Toro pulled out your blasters. Mando ran hurriedly down the dune, his own blaster drawn. He approached the dewback slowly with a reassuring, “Whoa, whoa.”

Mando flipped over the prone body.

“So, is it her? Is she dead?” yelled Toro.

Mando turned, “It’s another bounty hunter.”

Toro turned to look at you. “He’s not planning to keep all that stuff for himself, right? I at least want that blaster.”

You rolled your eyes at him. “Can you shut up for one second?”

He gave you a disbelieving look. You ignored him and focused your attention back on Mando.

Mando started to rise, turning suddenly to yell, “GET DOWN!” as blaster fire hit his pauldron, knocking him to the ground.

“Mando!” you yelled.

He scrambled back to his feet and broke into a run. He crested the hill as a second shot screamed after him. Again, it hit him in the beskar, sound reverberating off the metal. He threw himself down with a grunt, rolling towards you in a shower of sand.

“Are you okay? You didn’t get hit, right?” You reached out towards him.

“Yeah, it hit me in the beskar. And at that range, the beskar held up.” He sounded winded.

“What happened?” asked Toro, as Mando set himself back up on the crest of the hill, lying between you and Toro.

“Sniper bolt. Only an MK-modified rifle could make that shot.”

“Fennec,” you said. Mando nodded.

“Did you see where the shot came from?” he asked you.

“Yeah, from that ridge.” You pointed.

“Okay, we’re gonna wait until dark.”

“Well, what if she escapes?” asked Toro from where he was resting on his elbows on the other side of Mando.

“She’s got a good position,” you said. “She’s not moving.”

“Exactly,” agreed Mando. “She’ll wait for us to make the first move.”

Mando rolled over and stood only part of the way up, offering a hand down to you. You grasped it and got to your feet. You both hunched low to keep yourselves behind the protective swell of the dune.

“We’re gonna rest. You take the first watch. Stay low,” Mando said to Toro.

You followed Mando back to the bikes.

“Be extra careful. I don’t like you being out here with no beskar,” he said to you, more quietly.

“I will.” 

Your stomach clenched at the way Mando’s voice warmed when he was talking only to you. He spoke to Toro in a clipped tone, like he was scolding an unruly kid. He spoke to you like an equal, a partner. You couldn’t pinpoint when he’d started talking to you this way, but it had shifted recently. It was a tone you’d heard him use with the kid and with Omera. Something that felt a lot like hope sparked in your chest at this realization.

He slumped down against your speeder bike and reached up to pull you down next to him. You leaned back against the bike next to him, your body flush with his, and let your cheek fall against his shoulder.

After a few moments, you could hear a light snore rasping through his modulator. Apparently this man can fall asleep anywhere.

Eventually, you fell into a light sleep, not trusting Toro enough to sleep deeply.

***

You woke to Toro saying, “Time to ride, guys.”

“Come on, wake up!”

You opened your eyes and lifted your head. It was dark out; the last lavender traces of the sunset were disappearing along the horizon. Mando was still beside you, his chest rising and falling rhythmically.

“Look at him, asleep on the job. I told you he was an old man,” leered Toro.

You felt the cadence of Mando’s breathing shift beside you.

“You’re right. He’s ancient—basically dead already,” you quipped, patting Mando on the knee to signal that you knew he was awake.

Toro couldn’t tell if you were mocking him or joking with him, so he just looked at you, slack-jawed, trying to parse it out.

“Not quite,” Mando said, jabbing you in the ribs lightly with his elbow. Toro started at Mando’s words.

You stood, this time extending a hand down to help Mando up. It was more of a symbolic gesture than anything else—he weighed way more with that armor on than you could ever lift. Nonetheless, he took your hand as he hauled himself to his feet.

“We’re going to ride as fast as we can towards those rocks,” explained Mando, pointing to where Fennec was presumably perched.

“That’s your plan?” scoffed Toro. “She’ll snipe us right off the bikes.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t seem remember the amazing plan that you came up with?” you sniped, raising your hands in disbelief.

Mando snickered, a short rasp through the modulator, and in answer to Toro’s question, he tossed a small item his way then handed something to you.

“They’re flash charges. You two will alternate shots. It’ll blind any scope temporarily. Combine that with our speed, and we got a chance.”

You looked down at the charge in your hand, noting the button that would set it off.

“A chance?!” blurted Toro.

You bit back a scathing retort, turning back to your bike.

“Hey, you wanted this. Get ready,” replied Mando, tipping his helmet at Toro.

Mando stepped close to you, lowering his voice. “Let me sit in front this time. In case she manages to make any shots.”

You nodded in agreement, appreciating his protective nature.

You mounted the bike behind him and wrapped your arms around his middle, the charge grasped tightly in your right hand. Mando wrenched his wrists down, and your speeder bike took off, with Toro in your wake.

Mando pushed the bike as fast as it could possibly go, launching it over the swells of sand. You gripped him tighter, and the wind whipped the edges of his cape against your legs.

Apparently Fennec spotted you easily from her vantage point on the cliff because she started her assault immediately, firing at Toro’s speeder first.

Mando reached one hand down for a moment to squeeze your arm, and you understood. Holding his waist tightly with your left arm, you reached your right one up into the air to set off the charge. It went off with a screech. Even through your closed eyelids, you registered the blinding flash of light.

Fennec recovered fairly quickly. She resumed firing only moments after the light dissipated. Mando weaved the bike in a serpentine pattern to avoid the shots.

He turned to Toro and yelled, “NOW!”

Toro let off a charge. Another searing light rippled across the landscape.

After a moment, Fennec fired again, her aim becoming more precise as you drew closer to the cliff. This time, she didn’t miss. A direct shot screamed across the sand and hit the front of your speeder bike. You let go of Mando in the jolt of the impact, and you both flew over the top of the bike and landed in the sand.

Ouch.

Toro zoomed past, looking back for only a second. You didn’t like how easily he left you both behind, but logically, you knew that someone needed to get to Fennec as soon as possible.

You stayed prone on the sand, lifting just your head to see where Mando had fallen a few feet ahead of you. You were relieved when he sprang to his feet and ran back towards you. Without any warning, he lowered himself down over you to protect you from any more incoming fire. He braced himself on his elbows and knees so his body was pressed against yours, but he wasn’t crushing you with the combined weight of his body and armor.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice right behind your ear.

“Yeah.” Your face was pressed against the warm sand. “You?”

“Good. You got the charge?”

You handed it up to him. Luckily, you’d managed to hold onto it during the impact. Mando fumbled for a moment, then lifted an arm to set it off.

After the searing light faded and the dark blanket of night returned, another blaster shot landed in the sand a few feet from your head. Mando edged forward and rested his helmet on the sand above your head. You were completely shielded.

“Thanks,” you muttered up to him, slightly self-conscious that this purely protective position was affecting you so much, a slow heat coiling tight in your stomach. His whole body was flush with yours, his breath heavy and fast in your ear, and you could feel the steady rise and fall of his armored chest against your back. The places where he wasn’t covered by beskar pressed warmly against you. Think about anything else.

A shot pinged off his back. Mando tensed and grunted at the impact. You gritted your teeth and focused on burying your fingers in the sand, definitely not thinking about what other things might draw similar sounds from him.

“Alright, I think Toro got to her. Let’s go, but stay behind me,” Mando rasped in your ear, squeezing your shoulder with a gloved hand.

You nodded beneath him, stifling the shiver that was threatening to run up your spine. Think about anything else.

He rolled off you, and you both got to your feet. You breathed a sigh of relief and positioned yourself at his back, both of you drawing your blasters. In the dark, you could see red streaks of blaster fire on the cliff where Fennec had been perched.

“We gotta run,” you yelled, pushing him forward. “Toro wont be able to take her alone, Mando!”

You stayed close behind him, a hand on his lower back, so he knew you were with him.

When you reached the foot of the cliff, you could hear Toro’s groans and Fennec’s grunts, but you couldn’t see them. You and Mando scrambled up the sandy incline that was littered with boulders and crested the cliff right as Fennec wrestled Toro to the ground.

“Nice distraction,” said Mando, training his blaster on Fennec. She reluctantly released Toro from her hold and put her hands up in defeat. You waited, partially concealed behind Mando until you knew she was restrained.

Toro grunted in pain as he stood up slowly.

“Cuff yourself,” Mando ordered Fennec, tossing the cuffs in front of her.

“A Mandalorian. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen one of your kind.” She stood. “Ever been to Nevarro? I hear things didn’t go so well there, but it looks like you got off easy.”

Fuck, just how much has she heard about what went down on Nevarro?

Fennec smiled even wider when you stepped out from behind Mando. There was no avoiding her now. Sure enough, recognition flickered in her eyes.

Uh oh.

“Well, well, well... if it isn’t my favorite bounty,” she drawled, and before you could react, your name—your real name—fell from her lips. “You lead me all over the damn galaxy, sweetheart.”

***

Chapter 6

[bipercabeth]

“Something’s wrong, I can tell” for percabeth 💖🔪

(in which we ignore the fact that hoo exists)

Annabeth’s alarm clock blinks 5:00 PM on her bedside table, the bright red casting a glow over her dark dorm room. Her blinds are drawn back, but uselessly so. The sun hides behind rain clouds that drown the city in their gloom. And so the turn of spring is more limp than victory march, or maybe it just walks to a cadence Annabeth can’t hear. The moment her feet hit the floor this morning, it felt like she was stepping out of time. 

The darkness presses in heavily on Annabeth, like maybe it’s her fault the sun rose wrong today. The girl with a plan for everything can’t even rouse herself out of bed. Afternoon collapses into early evening, and the weight of the lost day pins Annabeth below her comforter. Alone in a twin bed, the way it way built to be. Even after nearly a decade of sleeping in a cabin with all her siblings, that’s all Annabeth has ever really been: alone, the way she was built to be. 

Sneakers scuff the carpeted hallway, stopping when they reach Annabeth’s door. A key scrapes the lock without a knock, which is how she knows it’s Percy on the other side. 

Light from the hallway follows him in, and both of them blink as their eyes adjust. Annabeth is blind for a moment, able only to focus on Percy’s silhouette. Even in the lowlight, she can see the way concern softens his brow and stiffens his hands. 

“Baby...” he says, a nickname that has become a common occurrence in their seven months of dating. This is the first time it has failed to warm Annabeth’s chest. “What’s wrong?” 

Annabeth tries—she really does—to sit up and wipe the tear tracks from her cheeks, but her nose is snotty and half her hair falls out of its scrunchie from being upright for the first time all day. Her voice cracks when she says, “M’fine.” 

Percy just crosses the room and turns on her desk lamp, giving the place a soft yellow glow. He looks like the sun sweeping away the shadows of a dim day. With gentle hands, he undoes Annabeth’s scrunchie and coaxes her curls into a bun that will hold in the wake of her wallowing. Annabeth leans her head back into his stomach to look at him upside down, at which point he holds her cheeks and breaks her with a gentle, “Something’s wrong, I can tell.” 

She just gapes at him uselessly, because isn’t the lack of words the very core of this pain? All the power of Athena’s wisdom, Daedalus’s laptop, and Annabeth’s own mind, and she cannot string together a sentence about Luke Castellan that rings true. 

He was a hero. Naive. 

He was a monster. Calloused. 

He loved me. 

Well, aside from that, which is the only thing she knows to be true. 

Percy senses the tectonic shift within Annabeth and holds her tight, laying her back on the mattress and tucking himself in behind her. His arms wrap around her like he can prevent the earthquake, but all that tension can only do one thing: snap. 

Luke loved her. It’s the one thing she knows. None of it makes sense if he never loved her. She has to make it make sense. 

Most days her brain buries the ache. Annabeth is a runner; she is good at lacing up her shoes and hitting the road, but her feet cannot carry her far enough. She is the house she’s running away from. Luke’s influence is a painful design that fuels self-hatred and frustration, but the bones were good. At its core, the house was built with love, the kind you want to share with family. Before her fearlessness and fire were her own, they were his. Luke was the first person to put a weapon in her hand, and Annabeth is nothing if not a warrior. He made her to be the exact thing she needed to be to survive him.

Seven months after his death, and sometimes a day goes by where Annabeth doesn’t think about it. Some days are too full of Percy’s sunshine smile for the sky to dream of dimming. Other days—ones she keeps to herself—the thought of Luke shines in the rose-tinted lens of nostalgia. And then there are days like today where she is rendered immobile by the mere memory of him.

Closure is a sick and twisted joke. Luke’s love for Annabeth saved his soul and the world, just the way she wanted. All the pain and suffering of the past four years was worth it. She was right to believe in him. So why does the burden still burn into her shoulders? 

Percy presses his lips to the back of Annabeth’s neck, drawing her back to the present. His arm rests underneath her neck and wraps around her shoulders while the other falls over and around her torso, linking their fingers over her heart. He’s grown considerably since the summer, a fact that bothers Annabeth until moments like this where the width of his shoulders eclipses her own. It almost fools her into thinking he can protect her from this. 

“Easy.” His voice is low, whispered into her neck. “You’re okay. Just breathe with me, alright? I’ve got you.” 

Each swell of Percy’s chest coaches Annabeth through her own. Inhale. Hold. Feel his hands squeeze each second. Exhale. Listen to him whisper affirmations like prayers into her skin. Repeat. 

It takes a while, but Annabeth’s heart slows.

Percy’s voice resonates again her back. “What happened?”

This, she thinks, is the hardest part. Annabeth doesn’t have an empathy link like Percy and Grover, nor does she have someone with shared experience to speak to. In her struggle with Luke, she is truly alone.

“It’s not fair,” she manages, breath hitching.

“What isn’t?”

“That he—“ A stray tear leaks onto her pillow. Percy’s lips linger on her shoulder, patient and steady and everything Luke couldn’t be. Annabeth sobs, a mortifying sound, and she’s glad Percy can’t see her face as she presses it into her cold pillowcase. The stain of fallen tears waits for her, inviting her back into old pain. “That he loved me. It’s not fair that he loved me.”

Though he tries to hide it, Percy’s body goes rigid. They have fought about this on Annabeth’s rose-tinted days or whenever someone brings up Luke’s legacy, be it as hero, pawn, or monster. Part of Percy will always be the twelve year old boy who was betrayed by Luke, and part of Annabeth will always be the seven year old girl who found a family with him.

“Love isn’t always enough,” Percy says, and she can hear the tension in his jaw. Bless him though, he tries for her. “It’s not your fault he couldn’t do a single damn thing about it.”

He pulls her into his chest and lays his head on her shoulder, keeping her from falling off the bed while her body shakes. She withers at the realization that she can’t offer him anything in return, not even a promise that she’ll take his words to heart.

Luke did something about it: he died. He became the hero Annabeth saw in him after years of struggling, and then he left her again.

But he kept his promise. 

Annabeth’s chest aches as it always does when she thinks about Luke, it just runs a bit deeper today. It was in his nature to cut to the bone. 

“I just don’t want to feel like this anymore.” She sounds every bit the small, bitter runaway. 

The cold of the pillow is replaced by Percy wiping away her tears and dabbing at her nose with the sleeve of his hoodie. “What can I do? Tell me how to help.” 

“Just stay with me.” She leans into his palm, kisses his wrist. “Hold me a little longer.” 

“As long as you need,” Percy promises, dropping kisses along the line of her neck, her jaw, her cheek. “But I need you to look at me.” 

They untangle their limbs for Annabeth to flop onto Percy’s chest. His arms wrap back around her, this time firm around her waist while his free hand slides to her neck, his thumb under her jaw to hold her gaze. His eyes blaze with the fierce love she is still learning to accept, the one that burns to protect. 

“I love you so much,” he says, his voice aching as though it almost hurts. “And if I could take this away, I would. You don’t deserve it. I know we don’t... That he...” Percy frowns, then tightens his grip on her. “I know I don’t get it. I know. But I’m still here, you know? I don’t want you to be alone. Ever.” 

The gears in Annabeth’s brain take a moment process, and her response comes out in a breathless, “I love you.” The phrase is warm, as it always is, like the sun shining through the rain on her window. Loving Percy turns the light on in every room she enters. The rest of her words fall short, though they’re honest. “I don’t know what to say.” 

Percy’s thumb swipes across her cheek. “Me neither. We’ll figure it out together, yeah?” 

She throws herself into the crook of his neck, knocking the air from his lungs. He just softens and holds the back of her head while tracing circles on her hoodie—steady, sweet, supporting. He holds her tight and kisses her temple with the same tenderness she presses into his collarbone: a small attempt at reciprocity, but a meaningful one nonetheless. They’re trying, which is all they can do. 

[19gumi]

WHEN THE SUN SETS | KUROO TETSUROU

Summary: Kuroo hates the way he can never tell what’s on your mind (and also, you eat your cherries ridiculously slowly)

Genre: Fluff (childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining)

Word count: 1.8k

Porcelain plates now stained with chocolate are neatly tossed to the side, bearing the remnants of the croissants Kuroo treated the two of you with. Secluded in your favorite part of the park, you try to get one last whiff of the sweet pastry that you ate a little too quickly for your liking, making a mental note to pay that bakery another visit soon.

The final beams of sunlight graze your face as you observe the birds above you, hurrying to find a shelter before the rosy sky hues turn dark blue. You’ve missed their renowned song – the winter fell into a silence after their departure, sometimes too deafening when paired up with the freezing December cold.

Your field of vision is obstructed by a muscular arm reaching for the cherries in the bowl placed beside your head. You observe his Adam’s apple move as he swallows the fruit, eyes focused on the horizon sprawled in front of him. And then they suddenly shift to your figure, your head soundly placed in his lap.

“You okay?” he asks, thumb rubbing circles in your shoulder.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Dunno. You seemed lost in thought.”

You’re about to respond when his body abruptly shifts under yours, the motion prompting you to sit up straight. Kuroo’s hand flies to the back of his head, and you assume he’s received a hit to it.

That is shortly proven to be true when a distressed mother shouts after her son who you don’t even notice at first, standing a foot away from the two of you. His arms are folded behind his back, lips pouting as his eyes search for the ball he had previously been playing with.

Kuroo’s furrowed brows shift back to their original shape, face muscles relaxing as he takes in the sight of the kindergartener. The mother pants as she approaches the two of you, crouching down next to the child that you assumed wasn’t more than 5 years old.

“Hi, I’m very sorry to have caused-“

Kuroo swats his arms in the air. “It’s not a big deal really, didn’t even hurt.” He then smiles at the kid, extending his hand towards him. “Nice to meet you. I’m Kuroo.”

The kid buries his head in the crook of his mother’s neck as a response, refusing Kuroo’s handshake. She spots the ball and sends him off to pick it up, sighing deeply.

“He gets shy sometimes,” she chuckles, scratching her forehead.

Couple of more apologies and one goodbye later, the sun now long hidden and the moon greeting you (this time only one half of it), Kuroo wishes he could take a peek at your mind.

He knows that’s not possible, though, leaving him with the only option of staring at the side of your face, alluringly illuminated under the evening sky. Admiring the faint glint in your eyes, he sighs when he realizes he is about to go to bed with the same unanswered questions another night in a row.

Kuroo is too lost in the way his fingertips itch to sink themselves in your cheeks, his body starving for that addicting warmth of yours – the one he sensed once for the first time many years ago and never wanted to let go of again.

You turn your head around unreasonably quickly – he’s unprepared and so, so exposed. The look in his eyes is soft, way too soft for you to have a full view of it. He hasn’t said a word, but the faint burning in the pit of his stomach convinces him he’s spilled the most tender secrets of his.

“You know,” you begin, reaching for the bowl with cherries behind you. You chew painfully slow, he thinks, the time that it takes for you to swallow the cherry seeming like an eternity.

“That child from earlier,” you continue at last, fiddling with your hands in your lap. “He reminded me of myself when I was his age.”

Kuroo doesn’t know what he was hoping for, but your words do cause a change in his stance. “How so?”

And there you are, flashing him your signature smile one more time. The enigmatic one, the exact one that he’s been trying to decipher unceasingly.

The same one that causes him to miss serves in practice.

The one that keeps him from entering the world of his dreams at night, but also the one that makes him feel like he’s living the sweetest fantasies of his when he gets to see it up close.

“Just like the birds we watched earlier, the pink sky alerts everyone that it’s time to find a shelter for the night,” you glance at him, to which he nods, prompting you to continue. “My mom would always tell me to go straight home once the sky changed colors, and you know I always followed that rule.”

“Yeah, I remember going home and sulking during dinner because I didn’t get to spend more time with you.”

He mouths an ‘ouch!’ when you poke him in the ribs, clutching at his chest. “Dramatic much?” you chuckle, rubbing circles in his back.

“Anyway,” you continue, retracting your hand. “Sometimes I’d lose my toys just like that child from earlier did, but I wouldn’t have enough time to look for them. The street lights would already be turned on and I didn’t want the monsters to catch me.”

Kuroo lets out a hearty laugh. “Monsters? What monsters?”

You shift your eyes towards your hands, which he sees as a chance to inch closer, just enough for him to feel your shoulder against his.

“Dunno,” you say. “But I knew once I’d reach my mom’s arms that I was safe. She’d always nag at me for forgetting to wash my hands – when in reality I didn’t, I always remembered to do it. But I guess I craved that noise which served as an additional proof that I was secure between the four walls of my room, when the silence of the night was the loudest.”

“Well aren’t you a poetic one [name],” he teases, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

A hush descends between the two of you. Kuroo can feel his lips bruising as he chews on them, unsure whether to verbalize the words that could possibly hint at the desires he held close to his heart.

In the end he does it anyway. “It’s way past sunset now, though. So why,” his voice cracks, before he swiftly disguises it as a cough. Or at least he tries to. “Why aren’t you rushing to get home? What if as we speak, the monsters are actually coming to get you?”

It’s your turn to stare at his side profile now, your pulse forming an unsteady rhythm in your throat as you study the slope of his nose, unsure of what was about to come next.

A confession? Were you really ready to ruin a decade long friendship just because rather than playing catch with him you wanted to kiss his lips instead?

His question is silly, you aren’t that eight year old child anymore – the one who’d run away and leave their friends in the street the same instant the clock stroke seven-thirty.

It’s way past seven now, air breezy and short of any sunrays piercing through it, but not even the scariest monster in this world could make you budge from the tranquility surrounding you in this very moment.

It’s almost as if the thought of a life without Kuroo Tetsurou horrifies you more than anything else that’s out in the wild, waiting for you.

“That’s what I was wondering too”, you sigh. “It might be because you’re here.”

And just like that, your secret is disclosed; it’s a simple statement that makes your lungs feel lighter, the burden of having to bear it within your chest for so long now easing with every exhale you take.

He gulps. The arm around your shoulders seems to have become stiffer, too. He’s already close enough for you to feel his breath on your cheek and all you wish for is to lean into his embrace, all of this talk turning your eyelids heavy.

“But I was there all those years ago as well. What changed?”

“Well, for starters, I was what, eight years old?” you scoff, meeting his eyes momentarily before you let your head fall on his chest, inhaling deeply. You have yearned for the scent of the fresh new leaves ever since they wilted last October. “I guess I wasn’t in love with you back then, Tetsu.”

It’s silent. You think it’s unfair – everything you’ve built over the years rapidly slipping through your fingers, just because of one sentence full of longing, anticipation. But then his arm travels down to wrap itself around your waist, the other one finding its way to the nape of your neck.

It’s not the first time he’s heard those words leave your mouth - his imagination has deceived him multiple times already. He’d wake up only to find himself clinging onto his pillow, providing enough heat to trick him into thinking it belonged to you.

However, your scent is way too real for everything to be fake this time around; it simply can’t be. The words he’s been longing to hear are there, the confession lingering in the air only for him and the trees around you to know.

All it takes now is for you to learn his answer, even though the way he’s pulling you into his body gives you an idea of what it might be.

“Do you know why I never went home before you did?” he asks.

“Mm. Why?” your voice is muffled by his hoodie, the vibration sending chills down his spine. He’s convinced now. This is truly his reality he’d always been wishing for.

“Because you were there,” he tilts his head, moving your chin so you can look up at him. He’s grinning, and if he didn’t just admit he was in love with you, you’d probably be now telling him how lame you thought he was. “I couldn’t understand it then, the way your presence made me feel at peace. I realized what it was only when we started high school. I didn’t want to say anything, though.”

“So?”

“So,” he says, his hand leaving your waist to join his other one on your face, lightly squishing your cheeks. “I’m very much in love with you, too.”

His gaze momentarily shifts to your lips, before it’s back on your eyes. “I really want to kiss you, [name].”

The entirety of your body heat accumulates in your face, and his fingers effortlessly melt against it, your body sinking into the grassy earth as if it’s sand.

“Do you?” you ask, your thumb grazing his bottom lip.

“Yes. Can I?”

You nod, and Kuroo swears his heart skips a beat. Hypnotized, he allows his eyes to flutter shut, ready to memorize all the various flavors you have to offer.

When finally he gets to savor your bare, delicate skin - sweeter than anything he has ever tasted before, it’s like the world stops for the both of you.

Or maybe you only drift to your own, each swipe of his tongue guiding you through a new route, the destination of which has yet to be discovered.

[stopeatingwhales]

vinyl searching (pt. 1) x graham coxon

okok i'm so sorry i haven't posted in such a long amount of time, but i'm back! (and hopefully for much longer this time haha). this was requested to me a very long time ago and i fell in love with the entire concept immediately - i'm sorry it took so unbelievably long to post it!! i might make a second part to this as i felt like i haven’t properly put the story to an end so look out for that!

Pairing: 1999 graham coxon x reader

Warnings: nothing!

Word count: 3.421

part two

Requested by anon (I’m so sorry this is so late) x

༉‧₊˚✧

Cutting open my last box of new vinyl, I quickly scanned through the contents, figuring out what genres it had consisted of. I discovered a brimmed box of popular 80s vinyls ready to be organised as I allowed my nimble finger to slowly caress every bump that was conveyed whilst it went through every single record. Working in a record shop was often tiring due to the amount of physical labour you have to commit to doing (it really takes a toll on your back sometimes), but it overall was a magical experience, with a lot of perks: free vinyls every once in a while, the ability to snatch a first copy of a highly anticipated album before it got sold out, and ultimately being able to be surrounded by art constantly. It was a genuine blessing to be able to work in a shop that abides and requires your whole passion, because it can never go to waste. What was beautiful about music was that, regardless of personality, fashion or who you genuinely were, everyone can connect to some form of it, whether it be rock, pop, hip/hop, rap, anything. A simple strum of a guitar or mumble of a lyric can manipulate one’s mind so diligently that you become so enthralled by that rhythm to the point it consumes and dictates your entire outlook on existentialism and surroundings of life. You are free to interpret what you like from either lyrics, melodies or even music videos; music is there for one form a bonding with it, not to be told specifically what this or that means, otherwise it loses its enchanting wizardry. Unsurprisingly, you are never able to free yourself from the affiliation that you receive from music, as it is infinite, absolute, limitless without end. Every day, every hour, every minute, there is either a small group, or just one person, attempting to create melodies and cadences that can resonate with people for the rest of their lives - and once they’ve cracked that specific coding, that in which takes overwhelming amounts of dedication, you have created something that is unforgettable to maybe a nation, or a couple, or just one single person. Regardless of the amount, with such ability, you carry the ultimate power that no grade, mark or report card, can ever prove to show. 

Exhaling, I began to stock up the few crates that were beginning to gain empty space in between the few vinyls that embraced them. Attempting to organise them as quickly as I could, I hummed along to the soft music that was escaping out of the radio. Usually, during the day, there wouldn’t be much activity in the store, so having to care for the place by myself wasn’t something out of the ordinary. The shop tended to be more of a second home to me; it never became excessively stressful, and being able to conversate with customers about opinions on specific albums or ‘which album by this or that artist is their best?’ was always an enjoyable part of the day as it simply felt as if it was a random conversation instigated in a bar. Almost as if you’re discoursing with a long lost friend; you gain this sort of connection between specific albums that both mean something to you, and despite the fact that it could mean completely opposing ideas, you were both able to share that connection the music was able to provoke. The shop was moderately small, with 6 rows of 5 crates (two on either side of the wall) aligned neatly, three quarters of a metre separating each in order to allow those to walk around. Having the space quite compact yet overflowing with all sorts of music was what made the space so enthralling. You could have your favourite album of all time sitting there, patiently lingering for your grasp and attraction to seep in, and eventually your purchase - all you seemingly had to do was rummage for it. That in specific is what makes record searching so entertaining, simply scanning through crates of records until you find something that appeals to you. And although you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, if a band has put enough effort in their covers, it would appeal to people more, and therefore allow more sales to seep through. Situated on the end of a high street which had countless amounts of civilians walking into multiple stores each day, only a few customers had come in every so often as it only sold vinyls, and CDs were becoming more of an attraction these days. It didn’t bother me all that much - I definitely preferred having only a few customers in and out every couple of hours in comparison to groups of screaming teenagers begging for the chance that I might have the Californication vinyl by the Red Hot Chilli Peppers. 

Once I had completed distributing the vinyls to their designated boxes, I put the large - now empty - cardboard box behind the counter to place in the rubbish after my shift was over. As if on cue, I was met with the light ringing sounds that escaped from the bell at the top of the clear glass door, indicating that someone had arrived in the shop. Swiftly turning my head to figure out who it was, I was met with the sight of Graham Coxon, a usual customer, and an amazing lead guitarist in one of the most known bands in Britain as of this moment due to their latest album titled 13, Blur. News had surfaced that the band were having troubles between each other, and it became apparent that Graham hadn’t played on the album that much. He looked a little scruffy, his short hair untidy but that didn’t make him look horrible, it suited him very much. There were small dark circles forming on his eyes, exposing ideations that he may not have slept, or been able to sleep, which played on my heart strings a little. Although he was a heart-throb of many young girls over the coming years, especially during the height of the Britpop era, he had the demeanor completely contrasting against those projected to the nation by his other bandmates. Graham was quiet, reticent, composed, and it was obvious that the entire Britpop era didn’t work to well for him - being put up against Oasis to fight for the supposed ‘king’ of a genre proved its mental strains on him, to the point he had began drinking to escape his struggles. Me and Graham had become quite good friends over the months that he had been visiting the store, so a shocked face and beg for an autograph was something that by no means would be happening in this given moment. I always felt that because of Graham’s restrictive attitude, it caused him to be quite secluded from maintaining a lot of friendships - although that may just be an assumption. “You alright?” I asked sweetly, putting on a soft smile as I made my way over to the counter. 

“Yeah, fine thanks. You?” He replied, exchanging the same smile which caused my heart to patter in an unsteady rhythm as he paced over to one of the crates, beginning his search for something new. Over time as mine and Graham’s friendship had bloomed, I felt myself forming a sort of tenderness for him. The way he stared at the ground whilst speaking to someone; the way he ruffled through his dark coloured hair ever so often; the way he bit his lip when conflicted against what album he should buy, were all things that I had taken into note after I had caught my eyes staring at him repeatedly, every single time he had entered the shop. And of course, he was immensely good looking, which only added to the long list of things that made me so captivated by his presence. Sometimes he would meet my eyes, to which I would instantly look away, hot flushes forming on both my cheeks over the sudden embarrassment I would receive from being caught admiring someone. Then again, would you not continue to stare at someone who carried an undeniable amount of beauty, that they were so oblivious to understanding that they had?

“I’m alright, we’ve got a couple new 80s records in the crate over there if you’re interested.” I said, exiting the counter as my finger pointed towards the freshly updated crate. Whenever Graham had come into the shop, he tended to spend a good chunk of his time in here, which made me almost addicted to his presence there constantly. We would talk about a lot of things, bridging from best albums of specific decades, to what our favorite candy was. It was a joyful experience, talking to someone that you would have seemingly looked up to for such a long period of time, watching them grow musically, but also physically. In ‘91, all the boys from Blur had charmed themselves with tattered bowl-cuts, which indirectly emphasised their innocent-yet-psychedelic look. Now, his hair was in a much different state, almost completely short yet there was still a small chunk of hair covering his forehead. I much preferred this look of his, though. He looked mature, and pairing with his personality that I have come to be somewhat close with, it boosted his attractiveness. Whenever he left the shop, I would be accompanied with such boredom and sadness right afterwards. I seemingly wanted him here, all the time, adding to the fondness that I had formed for him. 

Shifting his gaze to interlock eyes with mine, I felt my heart begin to form into the same unsteady pattern it composed when he had reciprocated my smile. “I’ve pretty much listened to everything that had appealed to me from that decade, it was when I was growing up you know.” He chuckled, which caused my cheeks to heat up a little at the sound of his lovely laugh that I sadly didn’t hear so often than I would’ve liked. 

“Well, what have you been coming in here to search for then?” I questioned, slowly making my way to stand next to him as I analysed his actions, his index finger grazing over each album name, mirroring how I was earlier when scanning through the vinyls I needed to unpack. I was able to gain a whiff of his aroma standing near him - he smelled like cigarettes and cologne, a combination that when mixed would sound quite disgusting, but they somehow complimented each other. I attempted to edge my body closer to his, to take a greater look at what exactly he was doing, without it coming across as suggestive. I would have no courage to do something that evocative, anyways.

I allowed my arm to rest on the other crates as my hand held my face. I felt Graham’s stare switch from the vinyls to quickly take a look at me, noticing my new positioning. A very short silence was shared between the pair of us, almost as if Graham was trying to find the right words to say, whilst the music from the radio had continued on playing. “Not too sure, just want to find something to listen to,” he began, slowly trailing off his sentence as he pulled a record out and examined its cover. “I’ve worn out all of my records at this point so I’m practically desperate for something else.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place!” I grinned, making eye contact with him for a short second, before switching to look at the album he was looking at. He was holding up Pavement’s 1997 album, Brighten the Corners. The cover was quite colourful and artsy, almost as if it had come straight out of a cartoon. “Play that on the record player, see if you like it.” 

Moving over to the record player that was situated by the cashier, he took the record out of its sleeve, placing it on the turntable as carefully as possible. I turned my body around to watch him place the stylus on the grooves of the record, my body fixated in place. Every so often I would glance at the walls of the shop, which were decorated messily with band posters and tour-dates of multiple bands that you were able to purchase in-store. Although it was untidy, it added to the sensation of music; you don’t need to be the smartest, the most organised, the most put-together person in order to make an amazing album. All you could have is three chords that you are unaware of the names, and you’ve got a song. The Sex Pistols done it, and the message they portrayed was that no matter who you are, you can make music. It’s universal. Sometimes my gaze shifted to look through the window that portrayed the cars passing down the road, with the occasional person walking past. The comparison of outside, where it professedly looked very dull and unhappy, and the liveliness of such a small shop, is what proves the power of music. Life is tedious without some colour in it. Regardless of anything though, my eyes would always trail back to Graham, whose back was resting on the counter where the cashier was, intently listening to the music draining from the turntable. The sweet sounds of pop songs that were once splashing out of the radio were now inaudible; the record player emitted music that was much louder, so it was now the only thing you could hear inside the closed space. By the look of Graham’s expression it seemed that his desperation to listen to something new was much needed than I had come to expect; it was almost as if he depended on the new music to soothe him away from whatever thoughts, or distressing moods that were battling his mind. 

Once the song had ended, I decided to ask for his opinion on it. “What do you think?” 

I watched him intently as his eyes fluttered back open, examining his facial features slightly. Our eyes had met, and they stayed fixed in place as I began admiring his honey-like orbs. “It was good, might as well get it to hear the rest of the album.” He answered, sighing slightly at the end of his sentence. It was quite obvious, to me, that he had been going through something that he wasn’t able to quite mention or bring up to anyone - especially me, as I am only just a worker he knew quite well inside a record shop. It enthralled me slightly, how mysterious he was, although he was completely projected to the limelight of Top Of The Pops and many interviews countless amounts of times over the years. The thought of asking him how he was always played in my mind; his reaction however, frightened me to the point of me avoiding the topic. I didn’t want to come across as patronising, I simply cared for him, for someone I didn’t even know all that well, too much. 

Graham placed the vinyl back into its sleeve gently, and then made his way to where he previously stood - next to me. Although our bodies weren’t touching, I felt as if my skin was entering the gates of hell due to the amount of heat that had been emitting from my skin. He began looking through the same vinyl crate that he did before, whilst my eyes inspected his hands, allowing my thoughts to randomly drift on the feeling of his hand in mine. How soft his palm may feel, how warm it would be - like a hug from a loved one when you needed it most, their touch, caressing, having so much impact that it completely changes your entire mood for a short period of time. How they could perfectly merge together, his and mine. Or not, though either way it would release a sensation of my teenage-girl like self, squealing inside over the fact that a boy that I've seemingly fallen for is in grasp of my palm. I doubt that he was feeling the same things that I was, but in moments so silent but loud, exactly like this one, it was all I could muster a thought about. “You have lovely eyes.” 

I noticed Graham pause in his movements once those accidental words slipped off my mouth. Mentally cursing myself, my gaze was fixed on him. The air was a little tense, the pit in my stomach completely empty from my unneeded slip-up of words. “Thank you…” He replied, shifting his gaze over to look at me. He seemed taken aback to my sudden compliment, which made me feel a little embarrassed, causing my cheeks to heat up slightly. “Yours are lovely too.”  

My heart fluttered slightly towards the compliment he passed back to me, my lip sinking into my teeth in anticipation towards where the conversation was headed. Graham’s awkward self carried on searching through vinyls, and began walking over to different crates in search for something else. I moved to position myself behind the till, where my gaze followed him as he preoccupied himself in the cover art of multiple vinyls he had taken out, admiring them or looking perplexed by them, then putting them back into their original place if they weren’t appealing to him. I began humming along to the new song that began playing on the radio, as I played with my fingers, deciding on forwarding the conversation to something else. “What are you up to this week?”

“Nothing much… I’m probably going to stay at home. There’s not much to do these days.” He answered, his eyes glued onto the vinyls he had now found. My heart sank after those words left his mouth, almost in pity for him - he didn’t seem like he was fully okay, then again no one is, but it came across as if he had been struggling quite a bit mentally and that he needed someone to be there for him, yet he didn’t know exactly how to ask for it, or maybe he felt cowardly to ask. He began to walk over to the cashier, instigating the fact that he had found the records he’s decided to buy - filling my stomach up in an unusual mix of sadness and anticipation. I wanted him to be here, all the time. 

“So I assume you’re not doing anything tonight?” I questioned, taking the vinyls from his hand in order to scan them and place in a bag. I avoided his stare whilst asking, though I could feel the burn of his eyes intently staring at every move I made. 

“Yeah, the most I’m going to do is probably listen to these vinyls at home.”

With the little amount of courage I had spared inside, I decided to take a big leap of my conscience and ask him a question he’s undoubtedly been asked so many times before. Lifting my gaze to connect eyes with him after I had finished neatly placing everything into a plastic bag, I handed the vinyls to him. “Do you want to go out tonight?”

“I mean I’d like to go out.” He responded, completely oblivious to what I was egging towards, which only bubbled the apprehension inside me even more. I began to second guess the idea of me asking him out to do something together.

“Graham.” I sternly responded, a hint of annoyance laced between my voice when I spoke his name. 

“What?” 

Sighing to myself, I realised that his oblivion wasn’t on purpose, which brought the same feeling of a sinking heart in my body. I came to realise that Graham had been so isolated, so deserted from society, that he was completely blind towards someone taking an interest in him. Inhaling sharply, I asked, with my sweetest smile. “Would you like to go out with me tonight?” 

Graham’s expression had completely changed from his delirium to shocked. His eyes widened, a reddish tint forming on his cheeks as his lip sank into his bottom teeth. A couple seconds were shared between us staring closely at each other's eyes, as I tried to decipher what was going through his mind. “I- Uh- Yes, sure.” 

The little stutter that rolled off his tongue warmed my heart as the beam on my face began to widen. I noticed a small smile starting to curve at the bottom of his lip. “That’ll be fifty pounds, please.”

[mcgreyson]

a decade and a half of a man’s fears, anxieties, and the things that keep him up at night- and the hope that keeps him going despite everything

1. a better son/daughter - rilo kiley

You'll be awake, you'll be alert. You'll be positive though it hurts. And you'll laugh and embrace all your friends.

2. cough syrup - young the giant

And so, I run now to the things they said could restore me. Restore life the way it should be.

3. terrible love - the national

And I can't fall asleep without a little help. It takes a while to settle down my shivered bones until the panic's out.

4. caring is creepy - the shins

One day I'll be wondering how I got so old just wondering how never got cold wearing nothing in the snow.

5. fears of a father - ed harcourt

You can hide yourself in the drink, you can teach your mind not to think; not be frightened to death. But when you look in the mirror and your eyes become clearer you'll dig yourself outta this mess.

6. no surprises - radiohead

With no alarms and no surprises, no alarms and no surprises, No alarms and no surprises, please.

7. a perfect sonnet - bright eyes

But I guess I'll have to settle for a for a few brief moments and watch it all dissolve into a single second and try to write it down into a perfect sonnet or one foolish line.

8. help I’m alive - metric

Help, I'm alive. My heart keeps beating like a hammer, hard to be soft, tough to be tender. Come take my pulse.

9. lost coastlines - okkervil river

And see how that light you love now just won't shine. There might just be another star that's high and far in some other sky.

10. float on - modest mouse

Already, we'll all float on alright. Already, we'll all float on, okay. Don't worry, even if things get heavy we'll all float on, alright.

[blackvelvetwriteson]

𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋

                               (  ~ Villain Kirishima Eijirou x Kidnapped Hero-Turned-Villain Gender Neutral Reader Insert ~ )

━━━━━━━━━━━━ ━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

GENRE: Smut and Fluffy Fluff!                                                                  

FANDOM: Boku No Hero Academia (My Hero Academia)

TRIGGER WARNINGS: SMUT! This time it’s pretty intense. God complex, drugs usage/mention, abuse, biting/marking, dubcon, cumflation, dacryphilia, somnophilia, degradation, blood play. There’s also some angst if you look hard enough.

SUMMARY: REQUESTED!! Requested by: @itzmekuka​    “𝘊𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰 𝘢 𝘒𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘢 𝘟 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘝𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘬𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘢 𝘬𝘪𝘥𝘯𝘢𝘱𝘴 𝘗𝘳𝘰-𝘏𝘦𝘳𝘰 𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘺 ( 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 ✨👄🍆💦) 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘢 𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯 _ 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘥𝘵       ~𝘶𝘭𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘢”

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Ah! This was actually so fun for me to write and I’m absolutely SO sorry if this is so intense. I read it over and over and over and it even bordered a little intense for me as an author. If this made you uncomfortable, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE let me know and I’ll write a different version that’s not so intense! I’m also VERY sorry it took so long, Tumblr didn’t want to show me that you sent me a request!

WORD COUNT: 6548

| 𝘉𝘕𝘏𝘈 𝘔𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 | 𝘉𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘝𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘵 𝘕𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 |

(Headers are mine, but the art inside of them are not! Please don’t steal or repost without credit!)

     The city around you was crumbling; the one you swore to protect as a pro hero. You were one of the better knowns sitting at the impressive spot of rank 5. That’s why everybody was relying on you, everybody that was successfully evacuated eyes were locked on the news trying to see if you’d escape safely or save their precious city. The scent of charred tree bark and burning trees filled your nose as you ran; that is what you had to do at this point. It was only you on the scene against Shigaraki who’d gone crazy, Dabi, and Toga. Dabi, in his usual fashion had his dead, icy eyes fixated on you, alternating his hands in his pockets as he torrented wave after wave of melting blue flames in front of him, off to the side, giving no time for breath, no time for anybody that could’ve been alive to escape. Some of the flames licked your body, some of your hero costume burned off, your skin burning as blood ran down the tender scalded bits. Keep running. 

     That’s all that was on your mind, your head spinning as you inhaled ash and the thick smoke of the area around you, stumbling as your adrenaline started to give up on you. Why were they after you? They all seemed so focused on you, all of them from the start beelining it towards you the second their feet hit the ground. Your eyes started to flutter and you found it hard to stay awake, Toga appearing from the trees with a hellish smile on her face as she fought trying to lure you back into the inferno. You lazily tried to dodge every time she swung her knife, dealing a few weak hits that at least made her a little disorientated, palming her ribcage making her cry out, but in return, she plunged one of her blades deep in your forearm, her crazed smile flitting to the flood of blood running down your arm.

     “Arigato gozaimasu (Y/N)- Chan~” She giggled as you tried to fight her off. “Maybe we can become goooood good good good friends!” She licked her lips as she drooled, crushing your forearms into the ground with her feet. “You’re being the hero you WANT to be, to me,” she said as she admired the capsule full of blood. You tried moving your head to stay awake, the soot coating your lungs not helping. Your body started to feel tingly and you couldn’t help but to try to fight even after Toga had hopped off into hiding. “She’s all yours~” Is all you heard; it was Toga for sure, but you didn’t know who she was talking to. Your vision was hazy now, your body feeling heavy like you were chained to the floor. You saw a familiar… Almost… Figure towering over you with hungry bright red eyes, his tongue running over his sharp pearly white teeth. From where you were right now, it was an intimidating sight, you tried to squirm and get away, turning on your stomach, crawling helplessly, shivers running up your spine as you heard the sadistic chortle that was brewing in the anonymous figure’s chest.

     “Where are you going, (Y/N)?! You know you can’t escape me,” he snorted as he walked towards you. Your body froze at the familiar voice that carried so much bass you were rattled to your core. “Ooh, you remember now, huh?!” He chuckled as he grabbed the back of your head and he pushed your face into the ground, standing over you as he stared at you with a ravenous expression. “All of this is for YOU, (Y/N),” he growled as he ran his fingers through your hair, yanking your head back, tears filling your eyes as you yelped out and looked at your destroyed city. “What kinda hero are you, (Y/N)? They’re supposed to depend on you but you ran… Just like that day…. You ran away from me,” he hummed in a sot of annoyed remembrance. “I NEEDED YOU, AND YOU RAN,” he yelled as he yanked your head back, turning you onto your back again so that you could look up at him looming over you. “Now I have this ugly ass scar… Right over my nose… And down my arm… Do you see it? Hm? Maybe we should get some more LIGHT in here so we CAN see it, right?” His eyes were crazed, you didn’t know him anymore- hell, you thought he’d died! At least you could sort of live with that- kind of. You shook your head, unable to speak, your tongue heavy. “HEY DABI,” he called out with a soft laugh. “GET OVER HERE, WE NEED SOME LIGHT!” He waited a moment hearing no response, slow footsteps approaching before suddenly stopping, a sudden wave of heat blanketing your body as you flinched, some of the stray embers singeing your hair. You winced as he held you down, able to see his scars that he was talking about. You were going to attempt speaking, but you couldn’t, his hand wrapped around your neck, palming your airway only allowing you to let out choked cries. “See it now, (Y/N)?… I know you do… And even after all of that- how you fucking left me and then told everybody I died; that’s cold, (Y/N)… But I still can’t help but to love you, yknow… Even though you let me get kidnapped…. Beat up… And then told everyone I died but I mean come on baby,” he laughed darkly as he looked over at Dabi. “That was probably the best thing you coulda did because this is the best thing that has ever happened in my life! Well… Aside from catching you again… Even if you’re choking… But I don’t want to hurt you, no! Of course not! Actually, I say we CELEBRATE, right? A momentous occasion where I was risen from the dead! And now YOU’RE gonna have your dance with the Devil… Whether you like it or fucking not,” he smirked down at you. “So resilient… I’m surprised you’re still awake! Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you too bad… I LOVE YOU after all… After everything, after all is said and done. I haven’t lost my chivalry, I’m just the most chivalrous VILLAIN instead of a hero because I realized how fucking fake all of you are… Only getting faker the higher up in rank you climb and for what? All you ever did was run so how the FUCK are you at number five? I don’t know… Maybe the same reason that All Might was number one for a decade or two by lying,” he sneered as he giggled and he picked you up, letting your feet dangle in the air. This was it, you thought, the moment you were going to die. “You never were the model hero… And I still have faith in you… So… Eh.. We’ll deal with that when the moment comes… But no matter what, HERO, you’re going to love me back,” he growled as he pulled you closer, pressing a rough kiss into your lips, biting your lip so hard it’d started to bleed. You let out a strangled squeak, your body going limp and feeling warm. Somehow you felt an odd sense of comfort feeling him kiss you, feeling his teeth gnaw at your lip, feeling his tongue explore your mouth. You’d let yourself go and gave him the moan he wanted to hear so bad. “You like that baby,” he whispered against your lips with a gravelly giggle. “Yeah you do… You’re gonna get more of that where we’re going…. Don’t make too much noise now,” he laughed as he set you down and punched you HARD in the face causing you to pass out. He caught your limp body and draped you over his shoulder nodding in Dabi’s direction signaling that he got what he came for and they could go back to base.

—

     To the best of your knowledge, not too much time had passed since you’d been taken and you woke up in a daze, your whole body numb and trembling. You groaned softly, swaying from side to side, chained with your arms crossed over your body, chained to your ankles, then further restrained to the floor with a brace around your arms to make sure you didn’t slump over. You were unaware of where you were and who was by you, the soft voices sounding distant until your hair was snatched back again and you opened your eyes fully. “Wake up, Pebble,” you heard his gravelly voice in your ear as you came to, the harsh slaps to your cheeks not necessarily helping your cause. You allowed your eyes to focus on the man in front of you. You didn’t know if it was just you or whatever drugs they’d pumped you full of in your time in the dank room, but he looked almost angelic as he loomed over you. You, of course, already loved him and thought he was the best thing ever when you went to school together, but now… So many years later… His black/brown roots of his hair were starting to show, gradienting into the iconic red you’d grown accustomed to. Since his hair had spent so long getting tamed, his mane was full with fluffy spikes- some drooping, some not, going every which way on his head in such a way that made him look that much better- practically blanketing his broad shoulders, his sharp eyes staring condescendingly down at you. He was wearing a suit shirt that was a satiny red and was just begging to burst from his muscular body, seemingly freshly ironed black jeans to match along with black and red boots… And… Fingerless gloves. He licked over his sharp teeth as he noticed you checking him out and he let out a hollow laugh. “Like whatcha see? Hm? Am I still the manliest you’ve ever laid eyes on,” he laughed as he watched you squirm, his hand only twisting in your hair causing you to cry out. “Well?! ANSWER ME,” he growled out before planting a harsh slap across your face causing you to jolt against your restraints. Tears immediately pricked your eyes as you looked up at him.

“K-Kirishima,” you whispered out weakly, your throat parched from before, a cold sweat having broken out on your body. “H-How long have I been here…” Your eyes frighted rolling back into your head, the drugs having gotten to you a little more causing you to wince. Honestly, you felt like you were going to throw up, but you couldn’t help but to keep your eyes on him.

“You still didn’t answer my question,” he hummed as he stood up and paced the dimly lit room in front of you. “What a shame… Oh well, I mean it’s more fun for me- that I get to have… With you… My adorable little slave…” He looked over at you with a side eye and he smirked a little, huffing a small laugh through his nostrils before swaying his head to get his bangs out of his face. “You’re a fool to challenge a god,” he said lowly. “Especially one as… Well.. The best one. Myself…”

A god? Who the hell was talking to you right now? This definitely wasn’t Kirishima Eijiro… Not the one you met all of those years ago at UA… Not the one you were training to become a hero with. Who the fuck was this? You ignored that one pang that struck you that told you it was kind of hot that he thought of himself that way. You shook your head and hissed softly at the surge of pain that shot through your body. “I’m not your s-sla-“ mid sentence, you were interrupted with a slap that made you cry out again, your body broken, bruised, bloody, and sore… Your lungs were sore, everything was sore. You could barely even stay awake. He kneeled in front of you and tilted your chin tenderly so that he could admire the tears rolling down your face but also the nice bruises he left you.

“You are EXACTLY what I say you are… You’re the stupid pitiful hero that let yourself get caught by a dangerous man like myself, baby,” he said softly, practically straddling your lap as he fed you another gently, loving kiss. He didn’t bite your lip, he didn’t even pull away quickly. He pushed a soft hum into your lips as he trembled and allowed his hand to go to the wall next to your head. “You liked that… Didn’t you,” he murmured against your lips drunkenly, his eyes halfway open gazing into yours, and suddenly a pang of lust and… Adoration surged your body. You didn’t even know that you nodded until you saw his reaction. “Yeaaahh… I know you did… They all usually do,” he teased, just to get a rise out of you. And it worked. He popped his knuckles as he stood up and he popped his neck too, spinning on his heel as he picked up a small remote. “Let’s play the quiet game baby,” he said as he pressed on the remote, your legs trembling as you tried to grasp what happened. It was a vibrator lodged deep inside of you, of course, and your legs had started trying to give out. You also heard metal clinking together as Kirishima removed his belt, a big metal red R in the middle of it. “Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he smirked at you as he undid your restraints to the floor and he led you over to a chair, pushing you to fall into it. You were bent over the seat and he just admired the sight, you could hear the heavy breathing behind you accompanied by the small growls as you tried to stay awake long enough to know what was going on.

“You… Are gonna be bent over…. L-Like that,” he said with the occasional shaky breath, his own bulge forming and pressing against his jeans just seeing you bent over the chair so helplessly, your uneven breathing escaping into the air around the two of you. “And I’m gonna control this toy however I damn well please,” he said as he upped the level on the vibrator. “I put it in when you were sleeping! I figured you wouldn’t mind,” he said as he walked around so that you could see him, his bulge and all. “And… While I’m controlling this, you’re not gonna say anything, make a single noise, or even so much as breathe the wrong way or…” He showed off his sleek leather belt with a soft laugh. “You see this beautiful ‘R’ right in the middle here? It’s gonna brand that sweet ass of yours… And I’ll take pictures and videos and show EVERYBODY just who you belong to… Little hero slut,” he spat as he tugged your hair back to make you look up at him again. “Do you understand me,” he growled as he slapped your ass with his hardened hand. You whimpered softly and watched as his arrogant stare became smug as he stood up and he rolled up his sleeves to reveal his muscular, veiny forearms. You couldn’t help but to shake your ass in anticipation. He let out a low groan and he bit his lip as he watched you squirm and shake for him. At this point, he figured it was just the drugs that were pumped into you kicking in again, but to you it was much more than that. You liked him even when y’all went to school together, and that only intensified once you both became pro heroes. Then he fell off of the face of the earth and it was told that he died in action. This was your first day back in work since then and this is what happened? He was alive? And.. He had you in his grasp. You were scared to lose him again, and you wanted him to know how much he meant to you… But the drugs also made your body feel heavy and it made your mind hazy how just his words had an effect on you. You caught the glint of that pretty metallic red ‘R’ on his belt and you couldn’t help but to drool over him. He noticed how your eyes were fixated on his bulge and he smirked a little with a soft grunt, his fingers tactfully unzipping his pants as he tilted his head and licked over his sharp teeth again.

“Oh I forgot how much of a needy slut you were,” he whispered softly as he let out another soft laugh. “You want to suck my cock don’t you? Yeah I know you do,” he said softly, slowly pulling his cock from his jeans, stroking it as he used his other hand to force your head back. “Open up,” he growled, slapping you before forcing himself inside of your mouth. Instantly, you teared up both from the hard hit he dealt but also from how quickly he filled your mouth and all of those sweet groans he was letting out for you. You whined as you felt him slowly thrusting his hips into your mouth, forcing himself down your throat more and more. “Oh fuck,” he gasped out quietly, starting to move the chair a little as he pushed your head into him harder and faster, slowly starting to find his rhythm. “Y-Yeah,” he whispered softly as he upped the level of the vibrator making your legs give out right under you. “I know it’s big, but you don’t have to show it all on your face,” he slurred out as he twisted his hand in your hair again making you whimper and whine as you choked on his cock, your face drenched with soot and your tears as you let him use your throat as his fleshlight. “Deeper,” he moaned out as his back arched. “Take me deeper!” He smacked your ass with his belt and he moaned at the sounds, the sound of the leather hitting your skin, that big red R in the middle smacking against your ass bruising it, that choked moan you let out as he sucked in a sharp breath. “Choke on it, choke… Ch-Choke… On… It,” he whimpered out as tears pricked his own eyes. “F-FUCK! Who would’ve thought you were so good at s-sucking d-dick,” he moaned out as he lolled his head to one side, staring down at you with a soft smile; a ray of sweet light breaking through that rough exterior of his that came with being a villain. He gently caressed your face, his thumb swiping your warm tears before he forced himself further into your throat, watching the bulge form and then disappear again. “Suck it harder! S-Suck it l-like it’s your fucking god, (Y/N),” he growled as he forced you as deep as he could go, holding you down on his cock, feeling you choke on it, taking in all of your gags, watching as you drooled, feeling as you squirmed and tried to suck up all of the saliva you could.

“Oh hell yeah,” he whimpered out as he shuddered. “Oh fuck fuck fuck,” he whined as he smacked your ass with the belt again. You felt like you were about to pass out and your eyes rolled back into your head before you whined softly as he pulled his cock out of your mouth. “Do you like the taste of your god’s precum,” he growled as he stroked himself slowly. “I know you do,” he whined as he forced himself into your mouth again, and you looked up at him with soft whimpers of protest. “I KNOW YOU DO,” he whimpered as he smacked your ass with that belt again, watching the R brand itself into your skin. He felt you tighten up and he pulled your head back into him, bottoming out inside of your mouth again as his eyes crossed. “F-Fuuucckk,” he whimpered out quietly as he threw his head back. “I-I’M YOUR F-FUCKING GOD,” he moaned out as he tried not to cum so quick. “S-Suck it l-like- O-Oh fuck,” he groaned out as he caressed the back of your head before filling your mouth and throat with his cum. He curled his fingers into your hair and pushed you down on him more, his eyes rolling back into his head as his hips jolted and he orgasmed, his whole body tense as he panted, trying to catch his breath. “D-Don’t… L-Let a s-single… F-Fucking… Drop… Out,” he said shakily, slowly pulling out of your mouth, your gaze locked on him and how perfect he looked in this state of ecstasy.  You watched the cum and saliva that was left on his cock drip to the ground as he reeled and brought himself back, looking down at you smirking at your dazed fucked out expression. “Oh baby,” he whispered softly as he kneeled in front of you, tilting your chin up a little. “You… Cute little thing,” he said with a small, sweet smile- even softer than the one he gave you before. You looked up at him and made soft chittering noises as you accepted the soft act and you tried to reach out to him but couldn’t.

“I wanna see it in your mouth,” he said softly as he squished your cheeks and watched some of the cum drip down your face. “Open wide… Show me how you take the cum of a fucking god,” he whispered harshly as you opened your mouth for him and stuck your tongue out. He grunted and closed his eyes as he tried to keep himself from getting too turned on again and he let out a shaky breath. “You really are a needy hero whore,” he said with a smirk, running his fingers through your hair, smiling at all of the cum dripping down your face. “You dirty… Filthy hero slut…” He stood up and snapped his belt with a soft growl and he hummed softly. “Fuck… This feels so good… I know what you want,” he said as he strolled behind you. “Tell me how bad you fucking want it,” he said as he slapped the belt across your ass again with a condescending laugh watching you spasm on the chair, unable to move. “Ah… You and those useless legs.. Can’t even hold you up- now you’ll have bruised knees. What a shame,” he teased as he struck you again.

“P-PLEASE,” you cried as you sniffed back tears, trying to arch your back just squirming against the chair. “I-I w-wanna f-feel you I-inside,” you whimper out as you let your head hang. “P-Please! F-Fuck me p-please,” you whined as your eyes burned with tears. “I want to feel y-you d-deep inside… Please!” You wanted to look back at him but your body wouldn’t let you. You heard him shuffle behind you, hoping that you’d be able to feel him inside of you, but you felt his large, warm hand caressing your inner thighs instead and you fell weaker as your breath stopped.

“Aw… What nice begging you did… But it looks like someone came without asking,” he growled as he stood up again, giving you a half second to breathe before he dealt another harsh slap, ‘R’s bruised into your skin. He gave a breathy groan and he stretched his arms out as he looked down at your bruised skin. “Looks like you’re getting punished… It wouldn’t be manly of me otherwise,” he said with a soft sigh, adjusting his shirt before dealing you slap after slap, blow after blow, soft groans and giggles of content punctuating each and every single one. “Oh yeah,” he whispered softly as he smirked. “Tell me how much you love it when I spank that sexy ass of yours,” he commanded as he shuddered. At this point, you were too out of it to speak, not being able to muster up more than soft mewls. He couldn’t help but to smirk as he suddenly shoved his cock inside of you, your eyes widening as you felt your insides conform to his shape.

“K-KIRI-“ you were cut off by your own pants and moans before feeing his fingers in your mouth. He bottomed out inside of you, already, and of course, there was a little bit of blood because of how sudden it was. He watched on with soft growls, slipping a hardened hand under the shirt to your hero costume that was already ripped. A small tug made quick work of the shirt, your back completely exposed to him. He let out soft whines as you constricted around him, subtly grinding your hips after you got over the pain of him suddenly rutting inside of you. You sucked on his fingers with soft mewls, drooling more, practically dumb from every single ounce of attention he payed you.

“Yeah,” he whispered softly as he lowered his lips against the skin of your lower back, taking in your scent, his eyes closing as he bit his lip, placing soft kisses on your lower back. Your eyes crossed as you tried arching your back into him. “Suck my fingers just like that,” he whispered, smiling as he watched the goosebumps run like waves over your skin. He continued to feed you soft kisses against your back, taking his time as he travelled up, his hands wandering over your body slowly, his hold commanding but still soft. If he wanted you to move, you did, and honestly you were fine with it. “Stop moving,” he commanded as he closed his eye, licking over the spots he kissed too. His warm tongue made you slick with precum, loving how warm he made you feel. You couldn’t do anything but moan around his fingers as he forced you to cockwarm him. He made sure to take extra care of you, gently working his way up your body as his hands followed and massaged every inch of you resting at your waist as he made it to your neck. It sounded like he was having trouble breathing, giving you short deep thrusts as he kissed at your neck. “O-Oh fuck you’re so tight,” he slurred out drunkenly as he closed his eyes. “F-Fuck fuck fuck…” He licked along your neck, grazing your skin with his teeth, still teasing you as the drugs made you almost pass out as well as how your insides conformed to the shape of his cock. “Just like that,” he whispered against your skin as he nibbled the sides of your neck. “Tell me how bad you want me to fuck you,” he commanded again, slapping your ass hard with his hand this time. It made you jolt and you let out a choked moan, sucking harder on his fingers with tears still running down your face. “Only good slaves get what they ask for,” he growled and you still felt the vibrator pulsating inside of you making you light headed. You drooled around his fingers as you gave him soft mewls and he only laughed at how fucked out you were already.

“Too much already? I haven’t even done anything to you yet,” he slurred out in your ear with a delighted grin. It felt like he was pulling out to give you some time to breathe, but he instantly snapped his hips back up into you with a loud moan, his teeth digging into the nape of your neck as you yelped out weakly. The hurt was accompanied by intense pleasure that made you quiver all the way down to your core, the condescending laughs and growls that followed making you light headed almost seeing stars. “Take it,” he moaned out as he kissed the bite in the nape of your neck which was now covered in beads of blood.

“K-Kiri-“ you choked out as you crossed your eyes. “P-Please! ’S t-too much,” you whine as you tremble and convulse on the chair under him, happily smushed into his body. “P-Please! S-Stop,” you whimpered out weakly, but he was still pounding deep inside of you, one of his large hands palming your neck from behind, his fingers crushing your trachea so you only let out choked cries and whimpers, your legs practically numb.

“Sorry! Dirty little h-hero sluts d-don’t get to say no!” He used his free hand to dig into your skin making you bleed more. “The h-harder I choke you, the more you t-tighten around me! W-What if the public knew what a whore for villain cock you were, hm? And you’re s-supposed to be a hero,” he scoffed as his bruising grip tightened around your neck, making your tongue loll out of your mouth as your eyes crossed and you struggled to stay awake. With each thrust he seemed like he was getting rougher, you were unable to move, you couldn’t even moan anymore, you were left with your labored breathing unable to fight it anymore, not being able to stick through his death grip he had on your neck. It seemed like one harsh movement of his thumb would break your neck, but you had no more resolve to fight it. “F-Fuck yeah! Ah fuck my cock,” he groaned out as he let your neck go feeling you fall limp under him. He let you stay passed out as he abused your hole how he wanted to, his smirk only growing as his tongue pushed out of his mouth, drooling as he drove himself crazy using you how he wished. “F-Fuck! Fuck I’m gonna c-cum s-so fucking hard,” he growled, digging his fingers into the bruised, tender bite mark, your blood smearing over his hand. He couldn’t help but to lick his hand clean, his gaze locked on your limp body as he thrashed you about, but he wanted you to be awake when he filled you up.

He gave you a harsh, wet slap and pulled your hair back, smirking at all of the bruises on your body that was for him. “R-RISE AND SHINE,” he growled as he slapped your ass harshly as he threw his head back and let out a loud laugh, crushing his chuckles with a growl as he forced your head to one side, licking up your neck until he made it to your ear, his stern tone making you wake up a little more. “I said wake. Up. Slut,” he whispered as he bit his lip. “I won’t ask nicely next time,” he growled as he pulled you down on his cock more. “F-FUCK,” He groaned out as he ducked his arm under one of yours, his arm pressing against your chest, easily pulling you up so that your back was rested against his toned chest, forcing you to bounce on him, forcing you to take him balls deep inside. “Oh this f-feels s-so m-much b-better,” he moaned in your ear with a soft growl, his nails digging into your skin marking you, watching the beads of blood roll down your body as he continued to rail into you, his own moans breathless. You were halfway awake as you clenched around him and let your arms fall helplessly still unable to move on your own. He whispered in your ear right before he came inside of you.

“O-Oh f-fuck,” he gasped as he kissed the side of your neck gently before growling into your ear. “Y-Yeah you like that huh? Hm?” He slapped your ass hard, his nails digging into your tender thigh. His hand forced your legs open as he nipped at you, scratched at you, growled into you, his face red, his body coated in sweat. “Yeah you do,” he whispered softly. “Y-You l-like it when a-a m-man takes control, huh? Hm? Yeah you do,” he growled as he forced your face into a nearby wall, grinding hard into him as his legs seemingly took up a mind of their own. “That’s WHY I b-became a villain baby,” he said with a smirk as he kissed up and down your neck, smiling as he admired your tears on your blood and sweat drenched body. “You like it when someone ca-can fucking take control of you like this! Fuck you like a dumb slut against the wall!” He growled as he kissed up the back of your neck. “You’re so fucking dumb right now baby,” he whispered with a soft giggle. “D-Drooling over villain cock… The cock of a fucking king!” He pushed your hips against the wall with a loud groan, his fingers going deeper into your mouth, grabbing your tongue, watching your saliva run down your face. “You’re so pretty like this! MY fucking toy,” he growled as he closed his eyes, slowing down a little as he nipped your ear. “Oh fuck I’m gonna cum right inside of that tight hole of yours,” he mumbled in your ear. “But I’m gonna make you milk me… Slowly… Gently,” he said as he took a deep breath, gently brushing your hair out of the way, kissing the side of your head as he smiled a little.

“You like this,” he whispered as he dealt you slow, deep, hard thrusts that were definitely more comfortable as he blushed and let out soft sultry moans, his hands gently guiding your hips into his and then away from his. He held you against him lovingly, groaning needily as he massaged over your marks, his hands covered in your blood. “Make me cum… Make me cum baby,” he whimpered as he kissed the side of your head, down your neck, your ear, then on your neck and shoulder, punctuating every single thrust of his hips with a soft groan. “I love you,” he mumbled to you softly, his body tensing as he edged himself closer and closer to cumming. “I-I love you,” he whispered, sounding like he was about to cry. “I-I always have,” he whimpered quietly as he thrusted hard into you, nipping into your soft, supple neck. “C-Cum with me because you’re m-mine! Mine! F-Fucking mine,” he whined as he he rolled his body into yours. “I’m the only one that c-can fill you up the right way! I’m the one that can  fuck you the right way! T-The only one w-with c-cock big enough to satisfy you! The only one that can take control of you t-the right way!” He growled before pulling you onto him hard, filling you with his warm, sticky cum. He dug his nails into your skin as he watched your cum mix with his after it left a bulge in your stomach. “Oh fuck yeah,” he whispered softly as he slowly came down from his high as he watched the bulge he pushed into your stomach because of his cum. He trembled feeling his cum mixed with yours running down his leg. He hugged you close, hiding his face behind your shoulder, tears from his own overstimulation soaking his face, his breathing shaky as he slowly released you from his hold. Immediately, you slumped against the wall, Kirishima’s arms being the only thing holding you up. You trembled and whimpered softly, not even able to turn your head, barely even able to open your mouth.

“I m-meant what I said,” he said after awhile, slowly dusting your upper back with soft kisses, his hands hardened only halfway, massaging your back to help ease your pain a little. “I really do love you… But after it was expressed that I died in action… I couldn’t come back out… Hero work- well I wasn’t cut out for it,” he said as he pulled his pants back on, adjusting himself except having his messy hair. “This… This was the thing that made the most sense… This was the only way to get back to you,” he said sweetly as he took a deep breath and he bit his lip, picking you up with a soft grunt. “Cmere baby,” he said softly as he sat on the ground, cradling you in his lap, pulling your head against his chest. “Shh.. I know it hurts… I’m so sorry for hurting you… Calling you mean things- that wasn’t manly of me,” he said as he gently stroked your face. “I don’t actually think you’re a slut… or a whore… or… something like that. I was a little too intense,” he whispered softly as he kissed the crown of your head. “You mean everything to me. I already lost you once… I don’t want to lose you ever again…” He tilted your head up gently and he caught your gaze. He smiled and kissed the tip of your nose and he shook his head slowly. “… Please be mine,” he said softly. “I-I don’t care about social status or labels or anything! I don’t care if I’m a fucking villain and you’re a hero… And I wouldn’t care vice versa… I-I just…” He teared up and he looked away, biting his lip as he tried not to get too emotional. You reached up gently and weakly, your arm trembling as your fingers met his hot skin and you slowly stroked his face.

“Hey,” you whimpered hoarsely. “I’m all d-drugged up or whatever… But please believe me when I say that… I love you too… I always do… I mean have… Ugh,” you lolled your head back only to have Kirishima’s hand gently lift your head up gently and rest it against your chest again. “S-Since high school,” you squeaked before hiding into him taking in his scent. “I love you, Kirishima,” you whispered softly as you shook your head.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered as he stood up again, whimpering softly at how sensitive he was from how fast and hard he was moving. “Oh fuck,” he whispered softly, covering you up. “Let me run a nice bath for you… You can wear some of my clothes afterwards… I think Mr. Compress actually made some food, so you’ll eat good… But… Please,” he practically begged, his hand cupping your face as his glistening keen eyes stared into your sleepy ones. “Please don’t leave me again,” he whimpered as he hugged into you, kissing your shoulder gently.

“I won’t,” you smiled weakly at him, trying not to fall asleep again. “I don’t want to,” you reassured, running your fingers through his smooth, messy, fiery red hair. “I’m yours… I’m all yours… I l-love you Kirishima Eijiro,” you whispered before laying limp in his arms, the drugs catching up with you as you fell asleep.

He looked down at you with the most protective stare and he smiled sweetly at you, standing in the middle of the corridor to stare at you. His smile was lazy and sleepy as he stared at you. “I’m so happy that you’re finally mine… Finally… I’ll take such good care of you… It’s the manliest thing for me to do,” he whispered softly, gently kissing your forehead with a soft wispy giggle.

[pillage-and-lute]

Thicker Than Water (Part 1)

Post-mountain, heavy angst with a happy ending Geraskier, featuring platonic Yennskier and Yennalt. + immortal Jaskier and Ciri getting the family she deserves. PG-13? (Mentions of but no actual sex, brief mention of familial abuse, very very minor character death) This first bit is mostly just Jaskier’s sad reflections post-mountain.

Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8

Ao3 link HERE

{AN:This is me (an adhd person) writing Jaskier as adhd, based on my experiences, but my experiences with adhd are not universal, but some of you may recognize Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria. Also, because it’s never explicitly stated in the fic, feel free to headcanon him however you like.}

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Jaskier never got an apology after the mountain. He’d never gotten the rest of the story from the others either, but after everything it didn’t seem all that important. Maybe it never had been. 

Twenty-two years. 

It wasn’t so long, not when Jaskier knew he had an entire lonely eternity to look forward to. But to be fair, he hadn’t known that twenty-two years ago. He hadn’t even known it last week. It turns out having a very pleasurable liaison with a high priestess who had just so happened to be the mortal vessel for a minor goddess, has its perks. He’d seen her in a bar three nights ago and she’d bought him a cup of milk and asked him how immortality was going. 

Of course, he’d thought she was joking. He was pretty heavily into his sixth? seventh? pint of the evening. It was strong stuff and she’d bought him milk to sober up. He just told her his skin care must be working and she explained that, yes, it was, his skin looked very nice, but no, that wasn’t why he still looked twenty-three. 

Then a fan had bought him some rather nice gin and after that he doesn’t remember the evening. He hoped he’d bid the priestess goodbye. 

He’d been drinking more lately. Jaskier had never actually had much of a head for drink, preferring to sip a light wine than down things more akin to paint thinner. Now, though, well. It was the mountain, wasn’t it? He’d never taken rejection well. Oh, sure, a potential lover turning him down was one thing, admittedly it stung, but he would never force unwanted affections, and he’d always had a mobile heart, ready to fall in love with someone new. Criticism on his music? That depended, the reasoned, encouraging criticism of a good professor was fine. Nothing else was. He poured his heart and soul into everything he sang, even if it was just a nonsense song or a ditty plucked out on the road. Having it criticized cut straight through him, especially by those he cared about.

The hurt ran deeper though. The youngest son of a minor noble, with two big, strong, fighting brothers and one sickly but pretty younger sister, Lotte, he’d always been a bit of an odd duck. His brothers had heckled him, but they hadn’t been home often. His father had beat him, but that pain at least was only physical. His mother ignored him. That had hurt. It still hurt, when he thought of it. Lancing through him like a knife of ice. And then Lotte, who had loved his stories and music, had died. A fever took her suddenly in the night and after that Lettenhove held no more light for him. So he left and his father was happy to see him go. 

Some things you bring with you. His family had never given him any gifts, but left him with a lifetime of baggage. Their voices in his head telling him he was never good enough, a weakling, a burden. A shit shoveler.

Sometimes a much smaller voice, that sounded a little like Lotte piped up. He was good at music. He brought people joy. But it was so much weaker than the constant barrage of hate. 

And now Geralt.

Jaskier wanted to believe that Geralt didn’t hate him, that twenty-two years of grunts and silences meant at least a glimmer of friendship. But how could it? Jaskier’s own family hadn’t wanted him, and here he was, forlorn that after he’d inflicted himself on Geralt for two decades he’d finally been thrown aside. Like the garbage he always had been. He tried not to let himself think about it too much, but somehow the thoughts always found him. Usually at the bottom of a bottle. Or three.

There were no doubts in his mind about Geralt. Jaskier could never believe Geralt a cruel man, not after years of watching him fight dreadful monsters for less coin than chimneysweeps earned. Years of him patiently bearing the worst of people and cleaning up their messes and saving lost baby birds. Jaksier never would have believed it, if not for the testimony of his own two eyes. Geralt had scooped the downy thing up in one massive hand and examined it with such tenderness in his honey-gold eyes that Jaskier wanted to cry. A part of him wished, if only for a moment, that he was the bird, to be cradled in a strong, gentle hand and be the focus of such attentive care. He didn’t wish to be the bird later, when it died. Lost, injured baby birds often do, and Jaskier had played a sad little tune as Geralt buried it carefully. 

A man, a witcher, who buried and mourned a baby bird, was not bad. Not a monster or cruel, although sometimes a bit unkind. 

At the bottom of bottles and pints Jaskier wanted to hate Geralt, wanted to think him a monster, a butcher, he even wrote it into his songs, a garroter. He couldn’t do it. He found plenty of room to hate himself though. 

Every sore point in Geralt’s life, at least those within the last two decades, had indeed been Jaskier’s fault. The banquet? Jaskier had insisted, practically dragged Geralt into a messy political situation, even if it looked like a party on the surface. The djinn? He’d provoked a sleep deprived Geralt and then pouted like a child when his singing was mocked. For Melitele’s sake he’d called Geralt butcher when they’d met. He wondered sometimes why Geralt hadn’t left him to the tender mercies of the djinn. He knew why.

Because Geralt was kind. Not a gentleman, not with the talking to his horse, and the growling, and the (admittedly not that bad) smell. Not a gentleman, but a gentle man. 

Geralt had been kind enough to put up with a troublesome bard. A bard who, young and green as he’d been in Posada, would have had his neck slit by bandits or thieves before his twentieth year. He’d pitied Jaskier and let him stick around, putting up with him as no one else had. Not his parents or his brothers, not Valdo, his first love, who’d subsequently cheated on him and laughed at his tears, not even his various dalliances put up with him. A night of pleasure was all he could offer, out the door (or window, or over the hedge) in the morning, lest he burden them with his presence too long and be stabbed by their rejection. Everyone had their breaking point though, and Geralt had reached his after twenty years, as well as a breakup, a dragon man, and Jaskier asking to run away together all within twenty-four hours. 

That left Jaksier, lost in a forest with no money and only sad songs to sing, which don’t bring much coin in a world that already knows enough sorrow, two months after the dragon hunt.

Things were bad. For Jaskier and everyone else. He had no money for warm clothes or new boots, and winter was fast approaching. Nilfgaard’s soldiers were looking for him, they stormed everywhere, searching for the White Wolf and his charge, or anyone who might know something. Cintra had fallen, and it’s lioness with it, and Jaskier could only hope that the child surprise, whose name day banquets he’d missed not one, had met her destiny at last. 

He hoped his destiny wasn’t skewered on the end of a Nilfgaardian blade.

He couldn’t go to Oxenfurt. They’d look for him there, and he had too many friends whose lives he would endanger as well. Here, on the road, he was anonymous. His fine clothes were dulled with dirt and wear, and his hair was longer, curling at the ends and bout his ears as it was wont to do when he went without a hair cut. He hadn’t shaved in a couple days either. Jaskier hoped he looked dashing, but he suspected he just looked scruffy. 

He certainly didn’t look like the famous bard Jaskier, herald of the White Wolf, though, so perhaps it was all for the better. 

And then, in the middle of a forest, with the first frosts of autumn on the ground, he met the amethyst eyes of a sorceress.

Fuck.